Flogging the Quill

Toiling in the lands of the blind and tone-deaf

Let's face it, many first-time novelists (and I, most assuredly, once bore that label) live in the Land of the Blind. We work our way to a completed manuscript by feel. And it feels good.

To us, being blind is the way things are. We have no clue about what vision can reveal because we have no concept of vision. We had a story in our heads and, as nearly as we can see, it's right there on the paper. But, you see, we can't see.

We might give our manuscript to another group of fellow land-of-the-blind denizens, readers. They might be family, friends, fellow first-timers, or even more qualified people. But they're still blind. They can only give us input on how our manuscript feels.

One of my clients said this:

"I was using friends as editors, all of them people with some knowledge of storytelling-an actress, a business magazine editor, an amateur writer and an English teacher. I thought that would cover the spectrum of problems I might create in my story.

"I did get good comments, but the criticism was not very constructive. All my friends felt there was 'something missing,' or 'something is not working.' While I knew they were right, I didn't know exactly what was bothering us."

Cliché alert: the blind leading the blind. Have you been there?

With work (lots of studying, writing, critiques…), some of us get one eye open and become the One-Eyed Writer in the Land of the Blind. Our vision isn't perfect, being monocular, but at least we have a shot at seeing some of the flaws in our stories and in those of others. Our one-eyedness comes from being subjective creatures, unable to know all and see all because our other eye is covered up by personal filters and lack of perfect knowledge.

One-eyed writers sometimes also turn into editors. And they learn ways to help their blind compatriots to see shortcomings in storytelling and craft that chain their stories to the page and prevent them from springing to life in the minds of readers. I can tell you that it's very satisfying work. My client again, about my editing:

". . .pinpointed difficulties in the story, but the best part was specific proposals of how to remedy the problems, suggestions that allowed me to move from where I was stuck and take the story to a higher level."

But vision isn't the only ability writers need to succeed: in the land of music it's called "pitch." Writers need good, if not perfect, "pitch" for the rendering of written narrative. I've seen reports that linguistic ability can be genetically influenced, and I know that all my life I've been helped by an innate sense of pitch for the sound and rhythm of both spoken and written narrative. Where to put the commas, for example, and how to arrange verbs and nouns to achieve both clarity and impact.

Unfortunately, as I'm sure agents and other editors will tell you, many first-time novelists are not only blind but tone-deaf, too. Right now I'm struggling with what to say to a couple of writers who have sent sample chapters because they're interested in an edit.

I see pages of comma faults, for example, where words just string out, with no modulation for pace or meaning. Here's a sample (modified for content but structure maintained):

A gate opened and a cop came out peering in their direction continuing on to the street.

My basic fee for editing this novel would be about $1,400, a sum my bank account would be delighted to see. And this is clearly a writer in need -- I'd have to charge more if I took it on. But here's what I won't say: "Sure. I'll edit your manuscript." I hope to find a gentle way to decline the opportunity and still help this writer.

I don't want to take on the job because I don't know how to cure linguistic tone-deafness. Oh, there are rules that could be cited, but this reaches deeper than rules or craft. It's a matter of talent. Like pitch. You have it or you don't.

I can help a writer to "see" on storytelling and craft issues. As my clients know, my edits are filled with comments that not only spell out the nature of shortcomings, but also suggest ways to deal with them. But how do you teach a singer to sing on key if the biological/mental ability to do it just isn't there?

I respect ALL writers who have the gumption to complete a manuscript. It's huge. But first-timers can't stop there and plunge into submitting their stories. I feel sorry for those who never seek out a one-eyed person to show them the way to a living story, those who don't know that they're blind. Those people, though, can still control their writerly destinies by changing their ways and finding an expert, fresh eye to open theirs.

The ones I despair for are writers who, blindness and all, have created manuscripts that fail on the even more basic level of language. What can I say to them? "I'm sorry?" That's no help. "You've spent countless hours creating something that, at the professional level, is fundamentally unreadable?" No. What's the kindest thing to do, go easy on their feelings and soft-pedal the message? Or, like a good doctor, tell them the bitter truth about their incurable disease?

To complicate matters, I still have to deal with the fact that I'm subjective. Who am I to pronounce a death sentence? Maybe there's another surgeon down the hall with a cure for tone-deafness. Maybe it's a combination…I'm sorry, I can't help you because I think…etc. Maybe, baby…

I'm wondering, why this post? I guess it's just my way of wrestling with this issue out loud. But maybe it's also a way of letting you know about the reality of what agents and freelance editors and slush-pile readers who receive manuscripts unscreened by any criteria of professionalism have to deal with, day after day. Maybe those form-letter, "it's not for me" rejections are the only way empathetic agents and editors can deal with it. But it's a quandary -- can I leave a disabled writer to continue wandering, searching, alone, blind? Maybe this post is my way of saying to writers, walk in the shoes of agents and editors before decrying the way they must, necessarily, decline your work.

For what it's worth.

Ray

Free edit in exchange for posting permission. You send a sample that you have questions about and of which you'd like an edit. I won't post it without your permission.

© 2005 Ray Rhamey

Avoiding firstpersonitis

Justin asked:

"What are the tactics for keeping a first person present account interesting? In the past and in third person I feel it's much easier.

"I recall Chuck Palahniuk warning writers not to get too deep into the 'I' 'Me' '"I's because they bore a reader... how do you feel?"

Hmmm. As I said earlier, I've never considered tactics or techniques for keeping first-person interesting. Maybe that's because all the published first-person stuff I've seen is professional. I write in the first person a lot and, of course, think that it's interesting.

The first, obvious answer is to tell such a riveting tale that no one cares. Or that the narrator has such a vivid voice that it doesn't matter. But those are not tactics or techniques. So let's tackle craft issues. How do you avoid I, me, etc.? Just as I've noticed in third-person narratives that the "he" or "she" pronouns can become repetitive and annoying, so can the first-person versions. Third-person, however, offers an out that first person can't: the use of the character's name instead of the pronoun.

But there is a useful tactic for reducing the number of first-person pronouns in a narrative. Describe the action of others without references to "I." A narrator doesn't have to say:

I see him lift the hammer.

It can be:

He lifts the hammer.

Or turn subjects and verbs around. Instead of:

My arm is pierced by a dagger.

How about:

A dagger pierces my arm.

Here's an example first-person narrative from a work in progress. The characters are a dad (Gabe), his son (Mike), and the narrator, who is new to them. The boy is breaking out of an autistic shell. The action is toasting marshmallows in a wood stove. Note: when the narrator says another character hopes and fears, this is not a point-of-view violation: she can see emotional auras in people and can therefore know what some is feeling.

Mike takes a marshmallow, skewers it on a roaster made from a wire hanger, and goes to the stove. Gabe does the same and joins him

Mike holds his hanger with both hands. The tip of his tongue poking between his lips in concentration, he gingerly inserts the marshmallow into the fire. He rotates it as it browns. Just as it begins to sag, he pulls the marshmallow out.

He comes to me, holding the marshmallow out.  "Please?"

Gabe watches us. He hopes, he fears.

Inside, a part of me goes as soft as the toasted marshmallow. I blow on the treat to cool it, then slide it from the hanger's tip. "Thank you, Mike. This looks delicious." I take a bite and, of course, it is delicious, the warm taste of caramelized sugar combined with pure sweetness.

Gabe and Mike smile identically.

Gabe's marshmallow flames. "Whoa!" He jerks it from the fire, blowing out his mini-inferno. Even though his marshmallow is blackened, he cools it and pops it into his mouth. I remember that, even scorched, they taste good.

Is this interesting? Well, if you knew the whole story, I'm pretty sure it would be because this innocent-seeming activity is a huge breakthrough in the child's illness. But even without that, I don't think the first-person voice is so intrusive that it becomes tiresome.

Here's an example from a new blog, "Death Sucks: On being a vampire kitty-cat," that's written in the first person. While not present tense, the same issues apply. These are the opening paragraphs.

Just after dark, Death grabbed me by the ass. Literally. The moon was out, September breezes were cool and full of hints that fall was coming, and I was trotting over a mound of fresh earth, not an uncommon thing in a graveyard, my mind on a hot little Siamese over on 15th Street who was coming into heat. A hand shot up out of the dirt and grabbed my hind legs.

I twisted and started for the hand with my claws out, but they never got there. Another hand burst out and grabbed me by the neck, and the two snapped my body straight. A woman's face poked out of the ground. She sat up, holding me in front of her. I figured I was about to kiss my furry butt goodbye, and I was right. Sort of.

Description such as "A hand shot up out of the dirt and grabbed my hind legs." And "A woman's face poked out of the ground." pretty much avoid the I-me syndrome. Also, since it's strong action, the narrative voice doesn't seem to be a problem.

That's what I have to offer today, anyway. Look for ways to take the "I" out of the narrative by turning sentences around and by not putting everything in the "I experience. . ." category of narration. I agree that too many uses of "I" can be intrusive, but I think "me" and "my" are less troublesome.

If you have any tactics that you've found useful in dealing with firstpersonitis, drop me a note.

For what it's worth.

Ray

Free edit in exchange for posting permission. You send a sample that you have questions about and of which you'd like an edit. I won't post it without your permission.

© 2005 Ray Rhamey

Teachers for the self-taught

Let's say you are talented. You have:

• an imagination that can dream up fascinating characters and stories to put them in.
• the language ability to create sentences and imagery that flow and evoke.
• ability to spin a tale, to string together events that compel interest.

So far so good. Now you've got to pull all that together and put it on the page. So you just write, right? Follow your instincts. You're an artist, after all.

I don't think so.

From what I've seen, the craft of compelling storytelling does not come naturally to many, many people. I receive submissions all the time from first-time novelists who have had the gumption and will and drive to write a novel. That's a helluva feat. Since I'm in the midst of writing my fourth novel, I think I have a feeling for that.

But then many of those samples show virtually no grasp of the craft side of storytelling. Of how to handle point of view. The need for transitions and how to create them. The need for setting a scene. How to set a scene in ways that characterize and keep the story moving. The hows and whys of description and exposition. And on and on.

I'm currently editing a novel that's calling for hundreds and hundreds of comments and notes on basics such as point of view, scene-setting, and much more. The sum of the comments will amount to a personalized course in writing. The writer is going to have a big job rewriting. To help him along, I suggested some "homework," to read several books on craft, while he waits for the edit to be finished.

He has begun to do so, and writes this:

"I'm reading the books that you recommended. I see things drastically different now. Amazing. Wish I would have read these books before I submitted the MS to you."

This writer is like the others I see whose work doesn't work. Their effort does not achieve their goal -- a publishable novel. Why, I ask myself again and again, do these dedicated, hard-working people fail to learn what they desperately need to know about the craft of storytelling before they spend all those hours writing?

So where do you go to learn the techniques, the craft, of storytelling in ways that realize your talents for imagination, language, and story in book form? I'm "self-taught," but only in the sense that I haven't gone to an MFA program or taken writing courses (well, I've taken one, but that was recently, after I was far along the path). I've gone to school with books on the craft of writing, both for novels and screenplays.

Maybe the books that have helped me most will help you, so this post is about several that I've found particularly instructional.

Self-Editing for Fiction Writers, Renni Browne and Dave King

Amazon.com says, "There's not much of the old-style editing going on at publishing houses today. Renni Browne, veteran of William Morrow and other publishers, founded the Editorial Department in 1980 to teach fiction writers the techniques professional editors (many of whom have gone independent) use to prepare a manuscript for publication. In this book, she and senior editor Dave King share their accumulated expertise in a series of brilliantly compact lessons. One page from their simply and markedly improved version of a scene from The Great Gatsby alone would make a compelling advertisement for their techniques."

Lessons is the key word here -- there's solid, easy-to-assimilate instruction in fundamental craft techniques. Every novelist, beginner or pro, needs to read this book and then again…and again. I refer back to it for a refresher frequently.

Stein on Writing, Sol Stein

Sol Stein is amazing -- a publisher, editor, novelist, and playwright. This guy knows our business, and he's terrific at getting to the nitty-gritty in a helpful way.

Amazon.com says, "The best reading experiences," says Sol Stein, "defy interruption." With Stein's assistance, you can grab your reader on page 1 and not let go until "The End." Stein -- author of nine novels (including the bestselling The Magician) and editor to James Baldwin, W.H. Auden, and Lionel Trilling -- offers "usable solutions" for any writing problem you may encounter. He is authoritative and commanding -- neither cheerleader nor naysayer. Instead, he rails against mediocrity and demands that you expunge it from your work. Perhaps the concept of scrutinizing every modifier, every metaphor, every character trait sounds like drudgery. But with Stein's lively guidance, it is a pleasure. Stein recommends that you brew conflict in your prose by giving your characters different "scripts." He challenges you, in an exercise concerning voice, to write the sentence you want the world to remember you by. He uses an excerpt from E.L. Doctorow to demonstrate poorly written monologue and a series of Taster's Choice commercials as an example of dialogue that works. Stein's bottom line is that good writing must be suspenseful. Your job, says Stein, "is to give readers stress, strain, and pressure. The fact is that readers who hate those things in life love them in fiction."

You'll take giant strides with those two alone. But wait, there's more.

Story: Substance, Structure, Style and The Principles of Screenwriting, Robert McKee

Ignore the word "screenwriting" in the title, although McKee is the screenwriter's screenwriter. I attended one of his seminars in the 90s, and this guy is good. He analyzes what makes story work in this book, and it applies novels as well as film. McKee writes, "No one needs yet another recipe book… We need a rediscovery of the underlying tenets of our art, the guiding principles that liberate talent."

On Writing, Stephen King

Whether you're a fan or not, this man is a master storyteller. There are helpful insights throughout this book -- his take on description is worth the price alone; as short and simple as it is, he nails it.

The Art & Craft of Novel Writing, Oakley Hall

I haven't gotten all the way through this one, but everything I've seen so far is excellent. A great lesson on dramatization, the difference between "tell" and "show."

Lastly, agent Donald Maass analyzes 100 bestsellers and comes up with some edifying insights in Writing the Breakout Novel. Well worth a read.

After seeing this post, Linda wrote:

"Although I love Don Maass's Writing the Breakout Novel, it wasn't until I combined it with the exercises in his sequel, Writing the Breakout Novel Workbook, that I started to understand it in a way that's useful to my writing. And it's done more for me than any other writing book. So I recommend both books to any writer, with the caveat that his work isn't for rank beginners."

Thanks, Linda. I agree; it's not for beginners.

If you don't have these in your writerly library, I strongly recommend them. Check them out of the library for a test drive, if you must, but check them out, one way or another.

If you have books that you've found particularly helpful, please let me know.

For what it's worth,

Ray

Free edit in exchange for posting permission. You send a sample that you have questions about and of which you'd like an edit. I won't post it without your permission.

© 2005 Ray Rhamey

POVs—mixing first- and third-person points of view

This from Justin:

I'm intrigued more by your shift in POV... does your work utilize first AND third present? That's an interesting tactic.

Right now I'm editing a novel written in a shifting first person POV (very similar in style to Poisonwood Bible, or Hornby's newest work).

I guess my question for you is "What are the tactics for keeping a first person present account interesting?" In the past and in third person I feel it's much easier.

I recall Chuck Palahniuk warning writers not to get too deep into the "I" "Me" "I"s because they bore a reader... how do you feel?

And from Bernita:

How do you feel about using "* * *" to separate points of view?

In my current work in progress, I use the points of view of four characters: two protagonists and two antagonists. And yes, Justin, I am mixing a first-person narrative with third-person narratives. My primary protagonist, the person whose story I feel I'm telling, is first-person, and the rest are third-person.

Why? I "heard" her voice, and liked it very much. I also wanted to experience what happens to her as intimately as possible, from a psychological point of view. In addition, the story is told in present tense, which compounds the immediacy and intimacy.

Combining first-person narratives with third-person isn't new. One best-seller, James Patterson, uses first person for his detective hero, Alex Cross, and third person for the killer. In the books of his that I've read (I stopped a while back), Patterson was careful to keep his points of view in separate chapters.

I've done something different. In a single chapter I will sometimes shift from the first-person narrator to a third-person narration and back again. Or from one third-person pov to another. Does this work? I think so. In my critique groups there has been a person or two who was bothered by the first-third shifts at first, but then became accustomed to them. The final arbiter of whether it works or not is, of course, an acquisitions editor somewhere down the road.

Here's an excerpt from the work that illustrates the technique. Note, Bernita, that I use the "* * *" convention to separate the points of view and give the reader a clear signal that there's a change. I use the asterisks whenever I shift points of view, whether from first to third or from one third to another. For time lapses, I simply add an extra line break. This excerpt was used in a previous post, by the way.

So, here's the end of narration from one viewpoint and a shift into a second. This is from a scene in the second chapter. We are in the Chicago Art Institute. Some things you need to know: the first character wields a kind of magic to disguise herself with an illusion she refers to as a "glamére" because she and her race fear being discovered … and she's received unsettling attention from a man with what looked like a video camera when she entered the Art Institute. She can also "see" aura colors that reveal the nature of a person's thoughts, in this case, deception. Oh, and the protagonist is severely depressed and contemplating suicide (the reader knows all of this at this point).

Hurrying footsteps sound behind me and I turn and see a thick-bodied female museum guard hurtle up from the lower-level stairs. She stops abruptly, then sends her gaze on a hunt through the Art Institute lobby. I've never seen an Institute guard hurry -- they are usually older people who meander, wearing bemused half-smiles, lucky to be paid to spend their days surrounded by treasure.

This guard is far younger. Broad-shouldered. Short black hair. Pale skin. Now that I focus on her, I see that she radiates threads of deception. And she, too, carries a video camera. A guard with a video camera?

Does she seek me? Perhaps my leper glamére is too grotesque and the cashier alerted the guard. Maybe I went too far, letting the ugliness inside me show so malignantly.

The guard's attention unnerves me, so I hurry on, considering what countenance to adopt next. Something innocuous. I just want to be left alone.

* * *

KB sees a tall, hooded figure in a long coat heading away from her, down the hall with the knights in it. The person glances back, and then increases speed.

KB glimpses a brown-skinned face and swallows hard. Where a nose should be is a gaping wound, surrounded by angry lesions on cheeks and forehead. Nausea rises in her throat; she fights it off. The face is inhuman. Now fear prickles her skin. What if the Others aren't human? Nobody'd thought about running into ET.

She aims her thermal imaging camera down the corridor. A bright glow flares in the viewfinder. Gotcha!

Reflex sends her hand inside her coat; the Walther 9mm automatic is there, snug in its holster. She can handle whatever the Other is. She steps out in strong strides and hustles after her quarry. She'd like to run, but doesn't want to alarm her. It.

Here's what I feel this technique does for me…and the reader. To use an audio analogy, the shift gives the reader a "surround sound" experience of what's going on. And it provides two points of tension for the reader -- the pursued and the pursuer. It expands the reader's perceptions of the scene and deepens them in the way that she gets to "see" the pursuer and the pursued through two points of view, and understand the subjective impact of what is seen and what happens. The story becomes, in my view, richer, and the pace, tension, and suspense are enhanced.

This can be done whether the two points of view are both third person or a mix. However, I don't think going from one first-person narrative to another in this way would work very well -- too much potential confusion in going from one "I" to another. I think that's better left to chapter or section breaks.

You have to be darned careful with the transition when using this technique. I was careful to use action to take me from one pov to another smoothly. The first character hurries away from the second, and then the second sees the first character heading away. My notion is that the reader will see this with little or no sense of disruption, as if their mental camera is viewing the scene from one direction (the first character's) and then cuts to a reverse shot (the second's pov), a common technique in film. No reason, I think, it won't work here.

As for tactics to keep a first person present account interesting… Hmm. Frankly, I've never thought of this in an analytical way. My first response to the question is to avoid internal "navel gazing" by the character. By focusing on what is happening, including the character's reactions to what is happening in terms of both response and internal monologue, it seems to me that an interesting story will be interesting. I'll come back to this in another post because it's very much worth discussing.

I, too, am in the process of editing a novel told in the first person. One of the things I'm finding is that, in my view, the narrative is flawed by frequent philosophical side trips that take me away from a potentially riveting story. Another problem the author is going to have to deal with in rewrite is how to deliver exposition, especially necessary background information about the world the character is in, without the narrative reading like an excerpt from a travelogue. Exposition in a first-person narrative, I feel, MUST be delivered in tiny tidbits interwoven within a lively scene via action, description, dialogue, internal monologue, etc.

This post is getting sorta long, so I'll stop for now. But I'll come back to this subject some more, especially if you send me a question or two. On my editor side, I'm highly sensitive to point-of-view "violations" -- although, keep in mind, there are no rules. But there are techniques that work better than others in terms of making a story an experience versus an information dump, and that's what I strive for.

For what it's worth.

Ray

Free edit in exchange for posting permission. You send a sample that you have questions about and of which you'd like an edit. I won't post it without your permission.

© 2005 Ray Rhamey

Jump cuts: how to collapse time for powerful pacing

In film, "jump cuts" are often used to collapse time. The moniker is literal -- in the midst of a scene the action jumps ahead from one moment to one further down the timeline rather than following all of the action as it happens. The technique accelerates pace and can enhance the impact of the action.

Jump cuts work in fiction, too, but care has to be taken with setting the scene. In a film, the moviegoer has a complete picture given to him at all times. In fiction, we have to supply it. And that's where I see writers missing the mark.

Chapters are a great opportunity for jump cuts. You can end a chapter or scene in one place, wrapping up an action and setting up a future course, and then jump to a completely different scene…as long as you fill the reader in on what that new scene is.

Here's an example from my work in progress. The heroine, Ailia, has been arrested by Homeland Security and a rogue agent has used torture tactics that could take her life. The action takes place in Chicago in the midst of January winter time, and the reader has been freezing along with the character in this chapter.

Ailia escapes, and the chapter ends as follows…Note: I've eliminated some details that would take too much space here to set up.

I hurry down the long hall and find the slender man lying across a desk. I don't need to get close to see that he is dead. More of Drago's work. I go to the man and close his staring eyes -- he wouldn't want to be seen this way. "Sorry."

The old-fashioned floor indicator above the elevator comes to life, the pointer like the hand of a clock moving from the number one and rising steadily, floor by floor. I dash to the doorway marked Exit and hurtle down the stairs.

Okay. In order to get to where I need the character to be next, far from here, in real time she will need to leave the building, go to O'Hare Airport, buy a ticket, get on a plane, land elsewhere, rent a vehicle, and travel. Ho hum. Instead, here's the jump cut to the opening of a new chapter:

Unexpected eagerness builds in me as I guide my airboat through saw-grass marsh deep within the three million acres of the Everglades. The warm air coddles me, such a relief from the drain of having to fight the cold. After traveling all night and most of the day, my strength wanes, and I relish the idea of coming to rest. I gaze to the west, where the sunset colors the sky with bands of pink and mauve. A flock of herons wings across the sky, silhouetted, grace in motion.

The first sentence, a mere 22 words, quickly transports the character to a place a thousand miles away. Note that it does so from within her point of view, giving the reader a sense of character through her reactions about where she is and at the same time enabling the reader to "see" the character's surroundings.

Ailia is not the only character in this trouble; the other primary protagonist, Gabe, was also captured and tortured by the agent. He was broken out from his cell by the Drago character referenced above. Gabe and Ailia are destined to travel very different paths before they are reunited. Here's Gabe's escape scene -- Note: Ailia is, at this point in the story, still in her cell and Gabe has been told that she's all right.

Gabe follows Drago down the hall to find the skinny agent slumped over a desk. He seems too still. "Is he all right?"

Drago glances at the body, then opens a door to a stairwell and says, "This way. Quickly, others may come."

Gabe follows him up stairs toward the roof. What has Drago got up there, a helicopter? A magic broom? It doesn't matter to Gabe, anything to get away from people determined to torture and kill him.

So they go into the night. I need for Gabe to go with Drago to his home place, which would involve climbing the stairs, getting onto the vehicle Drago has on the roof, and traveling across Chicagoland in the dark to a forest preserve. But that's not action that will move the plot along. So, at the beginning of Gabe's new chapter, we jump:

A moan breaks Gabe free from a nightmare and he bolts upright. It was his voice, a teeth-clenched cry forced out by a vision of himself frozen upright, white with frost, blind eyes open and staring, arms reaching for his son but doomed to never embrace him.

A quilt falls from him and cold air strikes his skin. The bed isn't his; it's a bunk fastened to a wooden wall. The rest of the small room is paneled. His shirt and jeans are draped over a single chair. Reddish sunlight glows through a porthole.

A porthole?

So we're off and running in a new place that is clearly very strange to Gabe. We know it is because we're experiencing it from within his point of view, and the description derives from that. I don't tell the reader information, I work to create a sense of being one with the character and what is happening to him.

So, when you jump cut, make sure you give the reader solid footing when he lands so that he knows where he is. If you do it from within the character's experience, then description becomes part of the action, not simple exposition.

For what it's worth.

Ray

Free edit in exchange for posting permission. You send a sample that you have questions about and of which you'd like an edit. I won't post it without your permission.

© 2005 Ray Rhamey