International Christian Writers Report

Stanley Baldwin, Founder and Editor This is a sample of the free monthly email publication sent to members of ICW, ICW NET and ICW Prayer Fellowship. ARCHIVES: previous reports September 2006 1. Brave Souls Writing Clinic-A Change 2. “Identity Crisis” by Samuel Hall 3. Self-Publishing: A Look at BookSurge 4. Writing for The Upper Room 5. Personal Notes

1. Brave Souls Writing Clinic
A Change: Sheila Hagar is a feature writer for the Walla Walla, Washington “Union Bulletin,” an award-winning daily newspaper recognized by the American Society of Newspaper Editors as one of the best small daily newspapers in the United States. Sheila writes:

Can I suggest the Brave Soul manuscripts be published anonymously in ICW? The writer will know that month's selection is theirs and we can all learn from your critique without knowing who sent it in. In fact, I think this may be more beneficial; you will get edgier writing and if we don't know the gender of the writer, we can better absorb the information in the critique.
Giving an option is the best way. (Let the writers be identified or not, writer’s choice.) Nothing wrong, either, with allowing them to give identifying info without actually revealing names.
Also, just a thought, you might want to invite guest critics to throw other voices into the mix and keep it from sounding the same, people you trust, of course. It's always good to make a media piece interactive, and freelancers need that more than most.
I also think it would be fun for ICW to hold its own version of “the worst prose'' contest. We could see who can be the most ineffective, preachy, syrupy and spew out the most ``religiosity'' in one or two paragraphs!
Your longtime fan, Sheila

MEMBERS: THESE are all excellent suggestions, and much appreciated. From now on, when you send in your manuscript for this feature, indicate whether you want it to be anonymous or with your byline. If with byline, include a brief bio, and if anonymous, you can still give a bit of information short of revealing your identity. If any of you “old hands” at critiquing/editing will do a critique, please let me know. As for the “worst prose” contest, let’s hear from you. Would you be willing to submit something? Or be a judge?
Here's how it works:
1. Send an original unpublished work of yours by email, preferably as an attached Word document (or send it pasted into your message) to scbaldwin2@yahoo.com . Any genre, length 800 words or less.
2. Sending a manuscript constitutes your request for a critique AND permission to publish the piece in the ICW Report, in its original version and with critique.
3. This is where the Brave Souls comes in; it's not easy for a writer to have criticism of his work published for others to see. But publishing both the original and the critique provides a valuable learning opportunity for other members. And if it's a humbling experience for you, that may not be so bad either.
How to use this feature as a tool for improving your own writing:
DO:
1. Read the document in its original form. Then take at least a few moments to think how you might improve it if it were yours. You may want to print it out to facilitate your own critique of it.
2. Note spelling, grammar, punctuation, and other such technical errors, but, more important, note substantive weaknesses: unclear meaning, poor organization, omission of vital information, lack of focus, unappealing style.
DON'T:
1. Concern yourself with poor spacing, uneven lines, font type or size. In the process of sending documents by email, proper formatting is often lost.
2. Think you must agree with the critique as if it were infallible. Writing is an art form, not a pure science. Often there are many good ways to write about the same content. Suggested changes don't indicate an article is poorly done; they are more likely an effort to elevate good to better.

2. Identity Crisis:
This month's brave soul: Samuel Hall
Sam served 20+ years as a government architect, which provided him the forum to work with a host of architects while advocating better design in the public sector. Additionally, architecture provided him entrée into realms he might have missed. He has traveled from the tip of Southern Africa to the Arctic Ocean to the foothills of Tibet.

Sam says, “I finally faced the fact that my talents and passion lay outside architecture. Writing was what stirred the fire in my belly, but I had to learn how to get published. I’ve now been published in magazines you’ve never heard of and I have a 103,000-word historical novel in the hands of an agent.”

ORIGINAL VERSION
IDENTITY CRISIS
Sometimes, who you are is not as important as what you are identified with. In the years before 9/11, apartheid-not Al Queda-made travel in Southern Africa uncertain. I knew this, as we’d lived for a year in Lesotho, a small country surrounded by South Africa.
I’d carefully plotted a six-country loop trip for my 75-year-old mother and Sandy, a relative, visiting from the States. We borrowed a van, which was just right for my wife and I and our two small children plus the visitors. Now, we’d just arrived in Swaziland, a remote kingdom wedged between Mozambique and South Africa.
We spent the night in Mbabane, the capitol, but Sandy’s reactions showed she wasn’t the seasoned traveler we’d expected. The drama of traveling in a Third World country still mired in the nineteenth century was lost on her. Rather than explore Mbabane the next day, she wanted to visit a friend with the Peace Corps, near Piggs Peak. I changed our reservations with a surly clerk and we left Mbabane the following morning. As we headed north, brilliant sunlight dappled the emerald hills with patches of gauzy light, promising a bright day.
Sandy’s visit took longer than expected, and shadows darkened the forest before we left Piggs Peak. Once underway, I announced, “Matsamo borderpost is about 30 kilometers farther. From there, we’ll cross into South Africa.”
As we entered Matsamo just after five o'clock, a rumbling string of lorries and carts met us, newly arrived from South Africa. Matsamo was an assortment of thatched roofed rondavels, a Portuguese quick stop, a tin-roofed general store and the squat borderpost building.
I scanned the station platform for uniformed officials, but my wife, Gloria, pointed to a large sign on the high wire mesh fence. Our hearts sank-the border had closed at five o'clock.
In Africa, one doesn’t rush about if he wants something. With forced calm, I asked an old Swazi sitting on the platform steps if another borderpost was open. Motioning to the east, he answered in English, "Yes, at Mananga. It closes at six o'clock, but it is 80 kilometers. You cannot cross today."
Checking my watch, I figured we’d have to travel 50 miles in 55 minutes-nearly 60 miles per hour-to get to Mananga by six. "So how is the road?"
Puffing his corncob pipe, he replied, "It is not tarred-only the last six kilometers. But it is too late to go there today."
Quelling my frustration, I appealed, "Is there anyplace for my family to spend the night in Matsamo?”
I anticipated his answer: "There is no place in our village."
There now remained 52 minutes to go 50 miles. My family waited for my decision. A dash to the Matsamo borderpost was a long shot, but where else could we go? I looked at Gloria and said, "Let's try it. I think we can make it," only half believing myself, as this was Africa. A tree across the road or a stream to ford, wild animals, and the arbitrary military roadblocks-these and more could be just ahead. I imagined what Sandy would say if I mentioned these possibilities.
I accelerated the van south, suppressing an impulse to floorboard it. Two kilometers and a turn off the tarred road took us on the dirt cutoff to Mananga. Occasional straight stretches permitted surges over 100 kilometers per hour. Just past the village of Herefords, the road swooped into a sandy swale and our vehicle fishtailed, spraying a curtain of dust. I glanced in the rear view mirror. Nothing but silence from my passengers. I knew they must be praying we’d reach the border in time-and in one piece.
Careening through wicked curves, we passed Mhlangatane and Sihoya, lonely huddles of unlighted rondavels. I checked the odometer. There was no way. Two minutes past six and we hadn’t even reached the paved section. It seemed pointless to ask God for the impossible but I silently cast a jumble of requests heavenward.
Our headlights illuminated pavement-the last six kilometers! The lights of Mananga borderpost glowed ahead. But it was nine minutes past six.
A rattletrap bus idled beside the platform while two borderpost policemen checked passports. I rehearsed my speech as we pulled to a stop. One of the officers stalked toward our vehicle. “You are too late! You will have to come back tomorrow!”
“Come back from where?” I wanted to shout, “Can’t you see we’re tourists?” But I remained calm.
The second policeman approached and began speaking in a low voice, pointing to the front of our vehicle. The scowling one turned back to us, and with a conciliatory tone, announced, "You may come through. Give me your passports."
Gloria thrust six passports at him. In the time it took him to stamp our passports, I realized that our Lesotho license plates had brought deliverance. We were identified with black Africa, not the South African apartheid system. That had made the difference.
The van picked up speed. My mother laughed, and we all joined in. The half moon silhouetted cumulus clouds stacked over Mozambique. A herd of gazelles, looking like phantoms in the moonlight, drifted into the distance.
I knew God had brought that bus to the Mananga borderpost, delaying its closing. He had given us grace to cross the border-not because of my determination-but in response to prayer. Our license tag was a symbol of identification with Christ-allowing us to leave the old life, crossing the border to a new land of freedom, purpose and “the peace Jesus gives us.”

Critique:
This is a good story in terms of its exotic setting, inherent adventure and the descriptions.
It has two major problems:
1. No clear sense of urgency exists. What does it matter whether you make the crossing or not? So, sleep in the car until morning. Big deal.
2. The narrative is burdened with irrelevant information. Sandy has nothing but an incidental role. Why you were late at the border doesn’t really matter, and this treatment inevitably reflects on her as a person, and perhaps on you as well. Yes, it was her “fault” you were delayed at Piggs Peak, but you, the guide, didn’t even know you had to be there by 5. That was your fault, or at least not hers.
Its minor problems include:
1. The gratuitous mention of Al Queda looks like an ingenuous attempt to be contemporary.
2. My comments inserted in the text below in ALL CAPS

IDENTITY CRISIS
Sometimes, who you are is not as important as what you are identified with. GOOD THEME SENTENCE FOR THIS ARTICLE. A BIT AWKWARD, THOUGH. BETTER: . . . . NOT AS IMPORTANT AS HOW YOU ARE IDENTIFIED, OR . . . HOW YOU ARE PERCEIVED. In the years before 9/11, apartheid-not Al Queda-made travel in Southern Africa uncertain. I knew this, as we’d lived for a year in Lesotho, a small country surrounded by South Africa.
I’d carefully plotted a six-country loop trip for my 75-year-old mother and Sandy, a relative, visiting from the States. We borrowed a van, which was just right for my wife and I ME and our two small children plus the visitors. Now, we’d just arrived in Swaziland, a remote kingdom wedged between Mozambique and South Africa.
We spent the night in Mbabane, the capitol, but Sandy’s reactions showed she wasn’t the seasoned traveler we’d expected. The drama of traveling in a Third World country still mired in the nineteenth century was lost on her. Rather than explore Mbabane the next day, she wanted to visit a friend with the Peace Corps, near Piggs Peak. I changed our reservations with a surly clerk and we left Mbabane the following morning. As we headed north, brilliant sunlight dappled the emerald hills with patches of gauzy light, promising a bright day.
Sandy’s visit took longer than expected, and shadows darkened the forest before we left Piggs Peak. Once underway, I announced, “Matsamo borderpost is about 30 kilometers farther. From there, we’ll cross into South Africa.”
REWRITE THREE PRECEDING PARAGRAPHS TO OMIT SANDY OR AT LEAST ANY REMARKS REFLECTING ON HER.
As we entered Matsamo just after five o'clock, a rumbling string of lorries and carts met us, newly arrived from South Africa. HOW IS THIS RELEVANT? DID THEY DELAY YOU? Matsamo was an assortment of thatched roofed rondavels, a Portuguese quick stop, a tin-roofed general store and the squat borderpost building.
I scanned the station platform for uniformed officials, but my wife, Gloria, pointed to a large sign on the high wire mesh fence. Our hearts sank-the border had closed at five o'clock.
In Africa, one doesn’t rush about if he wants something. With forced calm, I asked an old Swazi sitting on the platform steps if another borderpost was open. Motioning to the east, he answered in English, "Yes, at Mananga. It closes at six o'clock, but it is 80 kilometers. You cannot cross today."
Checking my watch, I figured we’d have to travel 50 miles in 55 minutes-nearly 60 miles per hour-to get to Mananga by six. "So how is the road?"
Puffing his corncob pipe, he replied, "It is not tarred-only the last six kilometers. But it is too late to go there today."
Quelling my frustration, I appealed, "Is there anyplace for my family to spend the night in Matsamo?”
I anticipated his answer: "There is no place in our village."
There now remained 52 minutes to go 50 miles. My family waited for my decision. A dash to the Matsamo borderpost was a long shot, but where else could we go? I looked at Gloria and said, "Let's try it. I think we can make it," only half believing myself, as this was Africa. A tree across the road or a stream to ford, wild animals, and the arbitrary military roadblocks-these and more could be just ahead. DELETE NEXT SENTENCE I imagined what Sandy would say if I mentioned these possibilities.
I accelerated the van south, suppressing an impulse to floorboard it. Two kilometers and a turn off the tarred road took us on the dirt cutoff to Mananga. THIS READS LIKE DIRECTIONS. BETTER TO DESCRIBE THE DIRT ROAD-SWIRLS OF CHOKING DUST? BETTER (FASTER) THAN EXPECTED? WINDING? Occasional straight stretches permitted surges over 100 kilometers per hour. STICK WITH MILES SINCE THAT IS WHAT YOU CHOSE ABOVE. Just past the village of Herefords, the road swooped into a sandy swale and our vehicle fishtailed, spraying a curtain of dust. I glanced in the rear view mirror. Nothing but silence from my passengers. I knew they must be praying we’d reach the border in time-and in one piece.
Careening through wicked curves, we passed Mhlangatane and Sihoya, lonely huddles of unlighted rondavels. I checked the odometer. There was no way. Two minutes past six and we hadn’t even reached the paved section. It seemed pointless to ask God for the impossible but I silently cast a jumble of requests heavenward.
Our headlights illuminated pavement-the last six kilometers! The lights of Mananga borderpost glowed ahead. But it was nine minutes past six.
A rattletrap bus idled beside the platform while two borderpost policemen checked passports. I rehearsed my speech as we pulled to a stop. One of the officers stalked toward our vehicle. “You are too late! You will have to come back tomorrow!”
“Come back from where?” I wanted to shout, “Can’t you see we’re tourists?” But I remained calm.
The second policeman approached and began speaking in a low voice, pointing to the front of our vehicle. BUILD ON THIS A BIT. WHAT DID YOU THINK HE WAS POINTING AT? AND WHY? The scowling one turned back to us, and with a conciliatory tone, announced, "You may come through. Give me your passports."
Gloria thrust six passports at him. In the time it took him to stamp our passports, I realized that our Lesotho license plates had brought deliverance. We were identified with black Africa, not the South African apartheid system. That had made the difference.
The van picked up speed. My mother laughed, and we all joined in. THEY REALIZED OR SOMEONE SAID WHAT HAD OCCURRED? The half moon silhouetted cumulus clouds stacked over Mozambique. A herd of gazelles, looking like phantoms in the moonlight, drifted into the distance.
I knew God had brought that bus to the Mananga borderpost, delaying its closing. He had given us grace to cross the border-not because of my determination-but in response to prayer. Our license tag was a symbol of identification with Christ-allowing us to leave the old life, crossing the border to a new land of freedom, purpose and “the peace Jesus gives us.”
THIS CONCLUDING SENTENCE DOES NOT WORK FOR ME. IT SEEMS TO VEER OFF ON A TANGENT. IT’S JARRING. WITH SOME REFLECTION, I GATHER YOU ARE MAKING AN ANALOGY TO SPIRITUAL LIFE, BUT IT’S TOO UNCLEAR AND UNDEVELOPED TO BE EFFECTIVE. IT ALSO DOES NOT FIT THE THEME.

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