Hitler’s contribution is “The Big Lie”. He declared that everyone makes LITTLE lies, so they expect other people’s lies to be similarly small. This leads them to accept the whopper, the grandiose, and  improbable more readily than a simple fib. Con artists are very familiar with this principle. Often they will start with a grain of truth–something that CAN be verified,  and then inflate the claim beyond all reason. Perversely it works — “Because who would lie about something so big.”

So a grassroots campaign worker might claim to be a senior advisor or speechwriter to a recently elected official, the more prominent the better. Whatever the field the person is targeting, they can pick some well known accomplishment and claim to have been the originator. In the movie “Romy and Michelle’s High School Reunion”, the girls claim to have invented post-its. Unfortunately, the story of that invention is rather well known, so they get caught out.  A better choice would have been to claim invention of the adhesive for  press-on nails. But even Romy and Michelle were smart enough not to claim invention of something that happened before any possible involvement by them.  But if they claimed to have improved the glue and boosted sales…? It might just fly. Until someone checked their story.

Too often these days, people don’t check claims or credentials of those they do business with.  A simple Google search is better than nothing, but that often doesn’t provide quality information.  You have to look carefully at the source of the results. A dot gov site is more reliable than a dot com, especially when the dot com is a social media site with no screening. Anonymous posts can’t be verified. Liars will often create fake posts supporting their own claims–like making up names and posting reviews of their own books. Check to see if the reviewer has reviewed any other books (there’s a “read my other reviews” link on Amazon).  Another warning sign is over the top comments. In “Singing in the Rain,”  Lina Lamont (Jean Hagen) writes a press release labeling herself “a shining, shimmering star in the cinema firmament.” and seems to believe her own lie, because, after all, it’s printed in the paper. I’ve see book reviews that say “[Author] is a shining star on the literary horizon.”  Wonder if that reviewer saw the movie? (And it occurs to me that a star is just a flaming ball of gas!)

Back to searches. A more reliable source is to go to a newspaper site and search the archives for stories using a particular name.  You can find stuff that way that won’t show up in a normal Google search. The same is true of records about lawsuits. The best (free) way is to go to the county court site for a given city and do an online records search. Access varies widely from county to county.  In some counties, you can pull up scanned copies of actual signed court documents, giving details of a case and the disposition (the judge’s ruling).      

If you are using Google, check the actual links, not just the summary. Sometimes a person can get their name to show up with a publication just by posting a comment on someone else’s article.

It’s a jungle out there, so be careful. Even experts can get fooled. Just a few years back a leading law firm belatedly discovered that one of their associates had faked her resume and didn’t even have a law degree. But don’t let the possibility of deception ruin your networking experience . One of Reagan’s favorite expressions was a Russian proverb: “Trust, but verify”–it’s still a good policy. Watch your back, and check out references before getting involved with people you meet on the internet.

Fantasy Rejections

Like so many of my fellow authors I have a stack of rejection letters. Well, actually, since they are emails, they don’t really stack–but you know what I mean. Reading through them, I see a lot of repetition of certain phrases, enough to make me wonder if there is a book of rejection letter templates. (Hmm, scratch that–maybe I’ll write one!)

The Disabled Editor
I’ve seen four variations of the inability reason recently:

“…we are unable to use…”
“…we are unable to offer to publish…”
“…We won’t be able to include…”
“…we will not be able to use…”

It was refreshing to see the ones that said “…we will not be using…” or “…we’re going to pass…”. Simple statements of fact, without feigning some obstacle preventing use of my story. What could it be?

“Dear author, while we have never seen a more brilliant piece of fiction, we will not be able to use your story because we have been taken hostage by a rival author. He has duct taped us to our chair, having first forced us to sign print orders for all his submissions. Since they number more than the expected production of the magazine for the entire upcoming year, that leaves no room for your mesmerizing story to be included. We hope you will understand. We wish you luck submitting it to other markets. One more thing–as a special favor, could you please call 911 for us?”

The Vague Editor
Then there are the “blind date” editors who are looking for a perfect match, without specifying just what makes perfect.

“…is not for us…”
“…not right for us at this time…”
“…isn’t quite what we’re looking for right now…”

While it might be unpleasant, it would be more helpful if they actually told us the real reason, so we would know whether we need to rewrite or just choose another market (or another career). Maybe reasons like these?

Your story is too short; we were looking for a tall tale.
My father’s name was Howard, how dare you use that name for your villain.
Your story is too heavy; we just want light fiction.
Your poetry rhymes–how quaint. Unfortunately, we are not Mother Goose.
You call that a poem? It doesn’t even rhyme.
How could you kill off Katie so cruelly–my sister’s name is Katie.
Your story has too much sex and violence.
Your story needs more sex and violence.

When I got divorced the first time, I encountered a hunk of a man who embodied my ideal date. I was in a country-western  dance bar, and drinking plain coca-cola. As a joke, the bartender put three cherries in my glass.  The hunk gestured to the cherries and asked if I was celebrating something. I said, “Yes, my divorce has been final for a month now.” He said, “I know how you feel, it’s been four months for me.”

That was LIE number one. He was not divorced, hadn’t even filed for divorce. But as he would point out when I finally caught on–he never actually SAID he was divorced. He implied it, through judicious use of a pronoun with no antecedent, and I jumped to a conclusion.

Fast forward a few months (months full of hot dates), and I discovered that he was  living in the same house as his wife (who I still thought was an ex-wife).  So now I was presented with LIE number two: “papers are on file at the courthouse.” The new story was that his divorce was not yet final, and they were in a dispute over the house, with possession potentially affecting the outcome of the property settlement. So, he claimed, she was living upstairs and he was living downstairs in a battle of wills.

When I finally discovered the full truth, I realized he had skated on another technicality. Sure, there are lots of papers on file at the courthouse, but none of them were divorce papers with his name on them.

Years later, he was apparently going through a 12-step program and he sought me out to apologize for the lies, which he finally admitted were deliberate. He started trying to flirt with me again, but I had learned, “You’re still married, aren’t you?” And since I had asked him point blank, he sheepishly admitted the truth.

At least I finally learned to spot that type of lie, and learned that sometimes you need to demand confirmation. When the next guy that asked me out claimed his divorce had just become final, I asked for proof. So he brought a notarized copy of his decree to our first date. My female friends were shocked, but my male friends thought it made total sense. I had established that I deserved respect and that my trust had to be earned.

My Uncle Bud worked for the government. At least that’s what he claimed. The grownups would all roll their eyes when he’d say, “If I tell ya, I’d hafta kill ya kid.” But they never could explain all his travels or the cool stuff he brought me.
 
When I was ten, it was a moon rock. Oh, he told the adults it was from a crater in Hawaii (cool enough in itself), but he explained the REAL story to me. See, there’s a law that no private citizen can have a moon rock, so he had to PRETEND it was from Hawaii. He showed me an autographed photo of Neil Armstrong that read, “To Bud, who knows how to keep a secret.” He gave me a sly wink when the grownups wanted to examine the rock.
 
After that, whenever he gave me a present with a wink, I knew a swell story was coming later. A lot of his presents were small rocks. They might look ordinary, but his tales of how he got them were exotic and magical. Like the piece of sandstone that was from the hidden treasure chamber of King Tut’s tomb—the chamber that National Geographic said was never found. Uncle Bud described all the treasures it had contained, and how he barely escaped when the chamber collapsed, dynamited by a splinter group that didn’t want the Egyptian government to get the treasure.
 
Then there was that small piece of crockery that was from the cheek of one of the Terra Cotta Warriors unearthed in China. Bud was on a spy mission that time, so all he could tell me was the details of the chase as he dodged bullets among the statues. I was honored that he took the time to pick up a fragment to bring home to me.
 
But the best present he ever brought me was the little silver flashlight from the UFO. That was the only adventure he didn’t even mention to the adults. He was sunburned all down one side of his face and just let them tease him about falling asleep at the beach. But when he got me aside, he told me he had seen a UFO, “up close”. He described the blinding light that burned his face, and the strange creatures that beamed thoughts into his head, telling him not to be afraid. He said they let him come aboard their craft and showed him lots of wonderful things.
 
He looked me in the eye, “I did a bad thing, Jem,” he held out his closed hand, “I stole something from the ship.” He opened his hand and I saw a small silvery object, about the size and shape of a stack of 3 quarters. It had a tiny clear bulge on one side of the rim. “Go ahead, take it,” Uncle Bud said, “I got two of them, and I want you to have this one.”
 
“What is it?” I asked, holding the shiny disk in the palm of my hand.

“It’s a flashlight, just point it at something and squeeze.”

I tried it and was amazed at the tiny beam of light that sprang out.

That was the last time I saw my Uncle Bud. He swore me to secrecy and said he was going into hiding to try and discover how the flashlight worked. “If I can figure this out, I’ll make a fortune,” he swore.
                                                                 ***
The flashlight is still magical to me. The beam has never faltered, and I’ve used it for fifteen years. My husband laughed when I showed him my rock collection, saying it sounded like my uncle made up tall tales because he couldn’t afford presents for his favorite niece. I was insulted, so I never told him about the flashlight.
 
When the story came on the evening news about an inventor who claimed to have gotten his idea from a UFO, the announcer made jokes, but admitted it was patented and stacking up pre-orders like crazy. The product was a quarter-sized flashlight with a ‘lifetime’ battery. The company was ‘Budco’ and the product, the ‘little Jem’.
 
When I pulled out mine and explained its origin, my husband’s jaw dropped. Then he asked, “Could I have another look at that moon rock, honey?”

The Green Monster (711 words) 

“I can’t believe this house is all ours,” Kate sang out as she danced the length of the old-fashioned porch. “I know it will take more upkeep than those cookie cutter suburban boxes, but we’re in the country!  No pollution, no crime, and just look at all this nature.” She skipped away while Alan carried in the three suitcases and four boxes that had been deemed sufficient to sustain them until the movers arrived in the morning. He had to admit, this place was a heck of a deal. It came with several acres–all the land between the road and the river. Their nearest neighbors would be across the highway.  

The door slammed as Kate scurried in to warm her hands at the fire, “Brrr, it’s like an icebox out there. But just think how beautiful it will be in a few weeks, when everything turns green.” Alan gave his usual ‘yes, dear’ grunt and continued pumping the air mattress. “The first thing that has to go is that UGLY painting. It’s not even hung at the right height.”

“That’s because it covers the wall safe. Didn’t you pay any attention when the realtor walked us through?” 

“What do I care about a stupid wall safe? Can we just get rid of it?”

Alan examined the safe, using the combination provided. It was too small to be of much use, best to yank it out. Maybe an antiques dealer would buy it, it was ugly enough. The only thing inside was an envelope, addressed “to the new owners”–curious. There was a note inside, written in crabbed Spenserian script. The ink had turned brown and spread in small purple blotches. He had to take it to the fluorescent lights in the kitchen to be able to read it.

“K. returns every Spring–cannot be killed. Creeps from woods. Keep windows closed, or be strangled in your sleep. Keep guard!”

“What does that mean?” Kate said, “It sounds like a warning. Who is K.?”

“I’m sure it’s just some practical joke on the city folk—that’s us.”

“You said we got a real deal because the owner had died…how did he die?”

“How should I know? Ask the neighbors if you’re that curious.” Alan took her by the hand and led her to where he had spread sleeping bags over the air mattress. “Let’s hit the sack, the movers will be here early and I have a longer commute from here.”

                                                            ***

Kate was unpacking wardrobe boxes when the voices of two movers carried up the vents.

            “Say, this is the old Kinsler place–you know the ‘Green Monster’ guy,” said the first voice.

            “Him? My ma always said he was crazy. Didn’t he die of a heart attack?”

            “Some say . . . , I heard Doc said Kinsler died fighting the Monster.”

            “Ya think these new folks know?”

            “Naw, they’re city folk. They’d never believe it. They’ll have to see it for themselves—won’t be long now.”

            “Hope they got a good price, doesn’t seem fair to hide something like that.”

            Too embarrassed to ask the movers about what she had overheard, Kate was standing on the porch when a station wagon pulled up.

            “Hey there,” the driver called, rolling down the passenger window, “I’m your neighbor, Mary Lou. We’re the blue rancher down to your right. Gotta run, but wanted to drop off some cookies and wish you luck with the Green Monster. I’m sure glad it can’t cross the road or we’d have to deal with it too.”  Kate was left holding a plate of cookies as the woman sped off.

She was afraid. What kind of creature was living in their woods? Had it murdered the previous owner? “Strangled in your sleep” the note had said. So much for no crime in the country. Kate shivered, but not from the cold. She called Alan, but got his voicemail. She left a long, teary message about what she feared. Maybe they could still reverse the sale.   

Alan arrived home and waved away Kate’s tumble of words. “I found out who ‘K.’  is,” he said, “according to the Farm Agent, K. refers to Kudzu–It’s a vine that grows really fast. Folks hereabouts call it the Green Monster.”

The mandatory parts of the Front Matter are the Title/Copyright pages. This can be the first page in your book.  The title page should be on the right side when you view the open book. Right-hand pages are referred to as “odd” pages and left-hand pages are “even”.

On the Title page you should have 1) The title of your book , 2) Author name, 3)Imprint name and state. The text should all be centered, title biggest and boldest. The imprint name and state can be a different font from the title and author, and should be aligned at the bottom of the page. The title page should NOT be numbered and should not have a header or footer.

The  Copyright page is the flip side of the title page, so it will be an even page. The text on the copyright page should be bottom aligned. If you’ve created your own imprint, start with your logo, above a line that says “Published by [imprint name]“. If you have a website, it would be good to put that on the next line. Skip a few blank lines and then put “Copyright [symbol][year] [author]“.  If you are doing an anthology with multiple authors, then you will have several lines of the format: “[story title], copyright [symbol][year] by [author]“.  Remember to include credit lines for any illustrations or photos used. Then a line that says “All rights reserved.” It is also an option to put the copyright listing above the imprint logo. The last thing at the bottom of this page is the ISBN.

Like the title page, the copyright page should have no page number and no header or footer material. If you have other front matter pages (like Dedication, Acknowledgements, or Prologue),  they should all start on an odd page.  In Word, you do this by inserting a section break from the top menu bar (instead of doing carriage returns or control carriage returns). One of the options for section breaks is to force the next page to odd or even–use odd for these pages, and for each new story in an anthology.  I like to also start new chapters on an odd page. Depending on how many pages you have in the front matter, you may want to number the pages. If you do, you should use small roman numerals (i, ii, iii, iv …).

I encourage you to always include a dedication (family and friends will be honored to be mentioned. Think about whether there is anyone you need to acknowledge (e.g., editor, illustrator, beta reader, critique group, etc.).

What are the PARTS of a book?

There’s the cover—it includes front, back, and spine, all in one file. There’s a formula to calculate the spine thickness once you know the page count.

There’s the interior—which is everything inside the cover. The interior is usually broken down into 3 main parts: front matter, text or body, and appendices.

Front Matter is the stuff in front of your story (duh). It should include a title page, copyright page, and table of contents. It may also include a dedication, acknowledgement, and prologue or author’s note.

The text or body section is your story. This is the stuff that goes from “Once upon a time” to “The End”.

Anything that appears after “The End” will be referred to as appendices (even if not labeled an Appendix). The most common is an “About the Author” page.

Who are the PEOPLE associated with your book?

The Author is YOU, the person who wrote the book. The copyright notice should be in the name of the author.

The Publisher can be the person/company handling preparing your book for print, or it can be an Imprint name you pick yourself. The ISBN should be in the name of the Imprint or Publisher (if you don’t have an imprint).  My imprint is Blue Dragon Press. I have a logo and a website under that name.

A Contributor is someone else who helped with the book that you want to acknowledge. It may be an Editor, a Cover Designer, a Photographer, etc.

Next we will go into differences in formatting between the parts, and anatomies of particular pages. For example, you don’t start the page numbering with the front matter. The front matter is numbered with small Roman numerals: I, ii, iii, iv.  Then the Arabic numbers start with the body: 1,2,3.

X-file #227: Last Words

“Mulder, what are you doing? We’re going to miss our flight.”

“Aw, come on Scully,” the FBI agent said over his shoulder, while pointing out his selection to the clerk, “are you telling me you can walk through this cloud of cinnamon aroma and not buy at least one bun to eat on the plane?”

“It’s called self-control, Mulder,” the redhead snapped, before stalking off to the gate.

She was still fuming when he dropped down in the seat next to her on the plane. She sat, with tight lips, while he savored the coiled bun, licking his fingers to get the last traces of the warm icing.

“Can we discuss the case now?” she asked, “Starting with the reason we are flying to Salt Lake City.”

“Okay, it’s a case of communication with the dearly departed.”

“Talking to the dead? You’ve got to be kidding,” Scully said, “Why is that a case for the FBI?”

“Two reasons,” Mulder said, “the messages are recommending actions that are affecting a big real estate deal that is important to the local economy. So the mayor called his senator, who called in a favor from the director.” Scully rolled her eyes. “The communication is coming as text messages, received in an area that has no cell coverage.”

“That’s it? That’s why we’re flying to Utah? What a waste of time.”

Scully was still complaining as Mulder drove their rental car up the mountain. They were to meet someone from the mayor’s office at the abandoned ski lodge. The black town car was there waiting for them, a man emerged as they parked.

“John Osmond,” he said, offering his hand, “no relation”.

“Special Agent Fox Mulder, and this is Special Agent Dana Scully,” Mulder replied, “can we get out of this wind while you fill us in?”

Osmond produced keys and led them inside the lobby. “This is where it happened. Merilee Osmond–no relation–claims she got text messages from her dead father right in this lobby. Merilee is the daughter and heir of Winchester Osmond, who built this lodge. It was the first one up here, and really launched Salt Lake City’s winter tourism business.  As you can see, it’s now pretty run down, and the city had plans to tear it down. We planned a winter sports complex to help our bid for the Olympics. Winchester was reluctant at first, because of his sentimental attachment to the old lodge, but he finally agreed.”

“So, what’s the problem?” Scully asked.

“Winchester died before signing the contract. In his will, he requested that Merilee scatter his ashes atop the mountain on his birthday, June 22. He requested that she carry his old cell phone with her and bring it here in the lobby afterwards. When she got back from the tram ride to the mountaintop and came here, the phone started vibrating. There was a text message saying ‘Don’t sell my home–Daddy’–Merilee freaked, and now she won’t sign the papers.”

“Couldn’t this have been some sort of prank?” Scully asked, “Anyone could send that type of message.”

“Ah, that’s where it gets interesting,” Mulder said, “the message came from an account that was created by Winchester Osmond, and the account has not been compromised.”

“One more thing,” Osmond said, “there is no cell signal up here, never has been.” He pulled out his own cell, “check for yourself.” Mulder and Scully pulled out their own cells and verified that there were zero bars.

“Here’s the phone itself,” Osmond handed them a sealed plastic bag. “No one has touched it since Merilee got the message. Please find an explanation for this, so we can get Merilee to approve the sale.”

Back at the hotel, Scully did some research online, while Mulder examined the phone.

“I’ve got it!” Scully said triumphantly, “There’s a company called Last Words that will contract to send emails or texts after your death. Winchester’s accounts show a payment to them. That’s got to be the source of the text.”

“What about the lack of signal?” Mulder asked.

“On June 22, magnetic waves from a solar flare reached earth and boosted signals for that one day. No mystery, case solved.”

“Except for one thing,” Mulder said, “there’s no battery in this phone.”

Natalie was glad to finally be actually on the job. She’d had almost two days of site orientation, safety training, security training, and computer security training, before being allowed to go to her new office. She still had to wait for her security clearance to come through, but the company had fast-tracked her accounts, so a sealed envelope containing her username and temporary password was waiting on her desk. 

Her computer was already booted up and waiting for her to enter her username and password. Once she did, Outlook launched automatically. There was a stream of routine emails waiting, from the cafeteria, the library, and other departments. One message was titled “Need your approval ASAP”.  Probably the Savings Plan or United Way Natalie thought, clicking on the message.

“Ned, we need to move two kilograms of plutonium from the basement lab in building 25-J to the testing facility in the northwest corner, first floor, of building 3-L. Please advise, soonest. –Bob.” 

That was definitely not routine. Those buildings were not inside the classified area. What on earth were they doing with plutonium, much less with it outside the fence? That email message was a clear security violation. The  systems geeks were going to have a time purging the unclassified system..She wondered who Ned was. In the company directory she found Ned James Dunne.  Her own username was NJD, for Natalie Jasmine Donner. Ned was in X division — which meant his work was classified.  

The training she had just received labeled this as both a security incident and a computer security incident, to be reported to her division’s security and computer security officers ASAP. Natalie wondered which one she should call first, but looking at the little orange card of emergency numbers, found that both positions were filled by the same person, Kevin Centrella. She dialed his number. 

“Hello, Kevin?” she said timidly, “My name is Natalie Donner, I’m a new hire and I just got an email that looks like a computer security violation and, um, a security violation too.”

“Really?” a man’s voice said, sounding bored, “why don’t you tell me what it says, WITHOUT mentioning any of the words that you think make it a violation.”

“Okay,” she said, “It was sent to me by mistake, from somebody named Bob, asking permission of someone named Ned,  to move a specific quantity of a particular material from one location to another”

“This material,” the man asked, not sounding as bored now, “would it be a controlled substance? Don’t say the name!” 

“Yes, it is definitely a controlled substance,” she replied, “and one that is not supposed to be in either of the locations mentioned.”

 ”Okay,” he said, all business now, “You did the right thing. Stay where you are until I get there. Turn your monitor off, but leave the computer on. Close your blinds and your office door, and don’t let anyone in.”

She did what he said, then sat down to wait. She had a feeling “Bob” was going to be in big trouble.  Checking her watch, she saw it was after eleven. She was supposed to join Suzanne at noon for a meet-and-greet with the rest of the group, but that wasn’t looking likely.

Kevin knocked, displaying his badge before entering. He turned her monitor back on and did a flurry of typing, while making cryptic comments over the phone. Finally, he hung up and grinned at Natalie, “Welcome aboard, you passed the final test.”

“Test? This was a test?”

“Of course,” Kevin said firmly, “it was the final test of your training. You don’t think we actually have plutonium wandering around the facility, do you?”

Natalie didn’t know what to say. Kevin headed for the door, “You’re on the network for real now. If you hurry, you can still make that lunch.”

The group was just getting their food when she arrived. “Hey, Nat,” Suzanne said, “you missed all the excitement!”

“Yeah,” a dark-haired young man chimed in, “the guards came in and dragged some guy right out of the food line.”

“That was Bob,” said a new voice from behind her. “Nice to meet you, Natalie. I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m Ned Dunne. As soon as your clearance comes through, you’ll be working for me.”