For yet another explanation of why this might matter, here’s Deborah Copaken Kogan talking about her experiences as a female writer. And for those confused about why talking about what a woman does is more important than what she looks, here’s this.
I’ve blogged elsewhere about the Night Shade Books convulsions. I wait to see what happens, as do a number of people with a lot more at stake.
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"(On the writing F&SF workshop) Wanted to crow and say thanks: the first story I wrote after taking your class was my very first sale. Coincidence? nah….thanks so much."
Flash fiction, short-short stories under 1000 words, present stories in microcosm, slices of life that illuminate and change us. In this writing class, students will use writing prompts and word games to create 3-4 pieces of flash fiction, as well as learning what magazines specialize in flash fiction and how to submit their efforts to them.
I’ll be drawing on the experience of a workshop I taught for Johns Hopkins Continuing Studies a while back. That class ran six sessions, if I’m remembering correctly, and we had an amazing time.
I’ll also be teaching the Blogging and Social Networking 101 class. It runs two classes, the first of which is used to talk about setting up a blog, establishing your online presence, personal branding and the second of which is devoted to social networks, Google Analytics, and other Internet tools.
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Another teaser from a steampunk short story I’ve been working. My codename for this world is Altered America, and this is the fifth short story I’ve placed in it.
Each time they stepped on the swaying platform between the cars, Laurel paused. Jemina couldn’t blame her. There was an exhilaration to the travel when you could feel the buffet of the passing air that was lacking when you were inside the actual cars.
They stopped outright on the last one. Laurel clenched the railing, shoulder-height for her, with both hands and looked out. Her hair lashed in the wind like an uncontrollable Medusa’s tangle.“Will we see Indians?” she said.
“Quite probably,” Jemina said.
“And buffalo?”
“Undoubtedly.” Jemina had, as was her way, researched the trip well before embarking on it. She knew the distances between cities, and had the route plotted out on the map of the United States that hung in her head, colored with elementary school dyes, unfaded over the years.
Laurel took a deep breath of the wild air, sweet grass mingled with coal smoke, before reluctantly moving to the door.
Jemina stepped after her. They both nearly collided with the passenger coming out, who scowled at both of them, dividing the look between both and them and pronouncing them equally unsatisfactory. He was dressed in the Western style, with high-heeled boots, but with a tuft of lace at his untanned neck, a dandy’s puff that somehow set Jemina instantly against him.
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