Member of the Month - November
Spend some time with this month's featured writer.
Luglenda McClain
Luglenda McClain has been writing off and on for 30 years. Her primary interest is in romantic fiction and short stories. She has had three articles published, both in "The Lighted Pathway," a Christian magazine. In addition, she has several novels in progress which I, for one, hope she hurries up and finishes.
I have been impressed with Luglenda's talent since she joined the list. Of course, as far as MOTM goes, talent isn't as important as participation. She makes an effort to respond to everyone and to be supportive in addition to contributing to the weekly exercises and discussion topics.
The goal of this list is to offer an encouraging and supportive atmosphere for writers. Sure, I want everyone to have fun and to learn but most importantly, I want people to gain enough confidence in themselves to accomplish their goals. It's scary submitting your work and it's depressing to get rejection letters. I want this list to be sort of a "shield" against that. When list members are looking at a rejection letter and doubting themselves, I want them to come back here and know that somebody likes their work and somebody understands what they are going through. Luglenda helps me achieve that goal. That's what makes her MOTM material.
Enough of me, on with the show....
Index
Q & A With Luglenda McClain
Luglenda's Tips for Writers
Selected Works
Luglenda's Favorite Links
Home
Current MOTM
Q & A With Luglenda McClain
How long have you been writing?
I guess I have been writing for my own pleasure since I was about age twelve. Other girls had diaries. I had a journal. It included all of the diary-like secrets, but it also contained word lists, partial plots, stories and poetry. I remember being about fourteen and finding a list of symbols and common phrases used by proofreaders and editors to mark mistakes in manuscripts. I painstakingly copied every one, along with their meanings, just in case I someday got a manuscript back that needed correction.
What was the first thing you completed and who inspired you?
Mr. Kisling, my seventh grade English instructor. I don’t even know his first name. Yet, he touched my life in ways that not he, or I could comprehend at the time. He assigned an essay to be titled, WHY I BELIEVE THERE IS/ISN’T A GOD. I remember the words flowing from me as I attempted to prove the existence of God. I turned my paper in and waited, expecting nothing more than a letter grade, and just maybe a ‘good job’ at the end in red ink. I was the only kid in the class who did not get their paper back. Instead, Mr. Kisling typed my paper in bold, large font and posted it
on the bulletin board where it stayed for well over a month.
This was the first time I received praise for my work as a writer. It was the first time I dared to believe my writing could someday be something more than a dream. Mr. Kisling, a seventh grade English instructor in a rural junior high school, gave me so much more than just a good grade. He showed me possibilities and gave me real hope that I could someday be an author.
What/who are some of your favorite books and authors? Please include those you enjoy as a reader and those which inspired you to write.
This question is really difficult for me. I tend to go through periods when I will read one type of fiction, and then switch to another type for a while. My mother is a ‘reader’ and I grew up believing that reading fiction is a life necessity. She liked John Stienback’s work and introduced me to it at an early age. I have probably read everything that Grace Livingston Hill has ever written. I’ve enjoyed the works of V. C. Andrews, Janet Dailey, John Grisham, Jude Deveraux, Stephen King, Danielle Steel, and Tom Clancy.
I enjoy taking an author’s works, arranging the novels in order as they were published and reading them to discover their individual growth as an artist. I’m doing that now with several works of Danielle Steel.
Have you had any specific writing training?
None, other than the general college level English classes and one creative writing class.
Do you have any sort of routine that you follow when writing or weird rituals that help you get started?
I use earplugs as a signal to myself, and others that it is now time for serious writing. I generally have a lot of company in my home during weekends and evenings, which is also the only time I have to write since I work outside the home through the week. Even when I do not have guests, there seems to always be a TV going or music playing somewhere in my home. These sounds tend to distract me especially when I’m working on a difficult scene. The earplugs, although not blocking out all sounds, muffle them enough to where I can concentrate. They also serve as great props when you have to remove one to listen to someone ask you if your are busy!
I realize this sounds rude. Maybe it is, a little. You may need to know that I’m the eldest of six siblings who all have children of their own. I also have two grown daughters with children. My husband has eleven siblings, all with children and now grandchildren. My home somehow became the family meeting place. Family and friends are running in and out all the time. I spend time with each of them, offer them coffee, eventually pointing them in the direction of the current gathering spot. Then I search frantically for my earplugs so I can get back to whatever I’m working on at the time.
What do you most enjoy writing?
I most enjoy writing fiction. At the moment I seem to be writing romance material. I expect that I will later branch out into other areas of fiction writing, just as I tend to do in my reading habits.
What at are your strengths and weaknesses in writing?
I’m inclined to ‘tell’ more than I ‘show’ in my work. I also get ‘wordy’. I understand that this is a typical mistake of beginning writers.
Grammar and punctuation are weak areas for me. I hate commas. I either have too few or too many.
I tend to ‘become’ my characters on a certain level once I really get into a piece. This can sometimes be a strength--sometimes a weakness. I have difficulty hiding ‘my people’ away when I’m not at my keyboard. I create them, then they float in and out of my waking and sleeping hours.
What's the one thing you've written that you are most proud of and why?
I’M A CHRISTIAN AIN’T I? is the work I’m most proud of, so far. I wrote it twenty-two years ago. I look at it now, and see it as amateurish, yet it was the first piece I ever had published. The magazine also printed a picture of my daughter who is featured in the article. We were both proud of that piece.
What do you consider the worst thing you've written and why?
In the creative writing class I mentioned earlier, I wrote a piece about the long-term incestuous relationship between siblings. I wrote how the relationship came to be, the issues of control in the relationship, and the continued manipulation of each other between the siblings in adulthood.
The instructor said it sounded like it had been written by a social worker. Since social work was my field of study, I wasn’t too insulted. Now, I have to take the idea and make it sound like a fiction author wrote it.
Tell us a little about your publication history.
I’ve had three articles published in ‘Lighted Pathway’, a national youth/young adult church magazine circulated primarily within my denomination at the time. I received several copies of the magazine, but no pay for these articles.
I’ve written fictional child abuse stories for an awareness campaign, published in the local paper and program newsletters. I have also written several articles on child abuse issues, statistics, etc., for local papers during April, National Child Abuse Prevention Month. These pieces were all done in relation to my work activities.
Describe any current writing projects.
Currently I am working on a romance novel, a portion of which is below. I also attempt to do as many of the Write List exercises as I can. I am at a very basic, beginning writing level. I feel that much of what I’m doing now is done for the purpose of exploring my talents and learning to apply the substantial information which is provided by the list.
What are your future writing goals?
My goal is to someday walk into a bookstore and see copies of my book on the shelf. I want to stand behind a person at the counter who is buying one of my books. I want to hold that book in my hands, confident that it is a piece of work of which I’m proud to have my name on the cover. Then, I want to go home and start another, and another, and...
Luglenda's Tips for Writers
The most frequent piece of advice given to an aspiring writer is that they must write from what they know, and write every day. Sounds simple enough. But, for me it was not as easy as it sounds. I found that I either did not know what to write, or I’d write pages of fragmented scenes and not know how to pull them together to make them into something readable, let alone marketable. Convinced I had no talent, I got discouraged and hid my work away, until again overtaken by the urge to try just one more time.
The ‘tip’ I’d give a beginning writer is to seek support for your writing outside your immediate family and friends. True, in the best of worlds these people are behind you 100%, believing in every dream you pursue. In the real world, they are not always the ones who can keep you motivated to write. They’re not always the best at critiquing your work, at pushing you to write ‘something’, nor at understanding why you search for hours for ‘just that right word’, or why you get so upset because you can’t come up with the ‘perfect’ closing for your piece.
Enroll in a community writing class or critique group if available. Anyone with access to a computer and the Internet can subscribe to writing news groups or join writing e-mail lists like this one. Through this list I have found support, encouragement, and motivation to keep writing. I have received good honest critiques of my work and learned by critiquing others. I have corresponded with and learned from professionals and amateurs alike.
Selected Works
Untitled
This piece is based on a Weekly Writing Exercise. List members were given several "First Lines" to choose from and were asked to write a story, poem, or vignette using that line.
The full moon cast an eerie glow upon the human form that rose from the sea.
He was perfect in every way. Droplets slid from his long blond hair over
the sinewy muscles of his bronzed shoulders. The water, like my eyes, glided
over his body from head to toe caressing every nuance of his physique.
His eyes, the color of the midnight sea itself, held mine tenderly, knowingly. Without word or conscious thought I knew why he had come. His smile confirmed that knowledge and the certainty of his intent.
The air about us, though still and silent charged with mystical brilliancy, shrouded what until that moment had been my reality. He approached slowly, purposefully, giving me time to run, time to hide. I could not. I would not. There was no longer any need to deny the destiny I had always known awaited me.
I took his hand as he reached down to help me to my feet. With a touch his warmth surged throughout my body, releasing me for his will alone. My mind, my emotions, my physical self were no longer my own. They were now his and he belonged to the sea.
I stood still, staring into the depths of his soul, as he freed me from the encumbrance of my clothing. Hand in hand we walked toward golden reflections dancing upon the water. The moon’s eerie glow bathed our bodies as together we descended into the sea.
I'm a Christian, Ain't I?
Something had deeply impressed my little four-year-old daughter during Sunday school. It had lingered with her all through the day.
Just before preparing for bed we gathered for our family devotional period. We usually start with the reading of God’s Word; but this time, before even having a chance to open the Bible, Mellissa looked at us with an expression of shy sincerity upon her baby face and said, “I want to be a Christian. Christians go to Heaven with Jesus."
Not knowing quite how to express my joy and concern about her interest in spiritual things, I hugged her close to me.
That evening her father and I carefully explained that Christ loved her and wanted to save her. We were proud parents as she prayed the prayer of repentance.
All through the week Mellissa would turn to me for assurance that she was indeed a Christian. When we picked her up at the baby-sitter’s she would climb into the back seat and, hugging my neck, would ask, “I’m a Christian, ain’t I Mama?” As I washed dishes she would wander in beside me and say, “I’m a Christian, ain’t I Mama?”
After she was given a reassuring smile and an encouraging word she seemed well satisfied and content to go on with her playing and living in the world of a four- year-old Christian.
Once, during that first week she was trying to learn her Golden Text for the next Sunday’s lesson. She stumbled around with the words, mixing them up until she became discouraged. She threw the paper down indignantly and exclaimed, ”I can’t say the verse. I don’t want to be a Christian.”
My heart went out to the little pouty girl with defeat written across her face. “Missy, God still loves you. He’ll help you to learn your Bible verse.” All was quiet for a moment, then Mellissa looked up at me, tears filling her brown eyes and slowly sliding down one cheek. “I do want to be a Christian, Mama. I’m-I’m sorry.”
Sunday morning Mellissa said her Bible verse. There’s a little gold star beside her name on the chart as evidence of God’s helping power in a four-year-old’s life.
As I look back on Mellissa’s first few weeks as a Christian, I can’t help thinking of my own first few Christian experiences. There were many times when I needed someone around to reassure me that I was indeed a Christian. And yes, there were times when I was all mixed- up and defeated. I, too, stuck out my lip pouting, as I pondered the difficulties of following Christ.
That was when a kindly old saint would say to me, “Luglenda, God still loves you. God will help you.” And somehow God always did. He cleared a path for me to walk right through without stumbling and falling. But, would I have known this if it had not been for that older sister in the Lord telling me of God’s merciful love for me, even though I had failed Him?
Perhaps you met a new convert at your church service last Sunday. Will you be around when he asks; “I’m a Christian, ain’t I?” Or will he be left to face the rough spots alone? Will you be there if he should stumble or fall and declare, “I don’t want to be a Christian”? Will you tell him that God still loves him and that He will help him through the mixed up circumstances of life? Or, will he be left alone to endure the heavy burden of defeat?
“Bear ye one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ”(Galatians 6:2).
Bethany - Chapter One
Bethany slowly pulled the brush through her long, dark hair. She
paid no attention to the softness or the sheen reflecting the candle’s
glow throughout the silky strands. She stared unseeingly ahead;
ignoring her reflection in the gold gilded dressing table mirror, her
head slightly cocked as if listening for something far away.
Her hand stopped in mid air, the brush releasing her hair and
letting it tumble forward over her shoulder. There it was again. A low
chant like murmuring drifted on the slight breeze that stirred the
curtain and teased the lamp’s flame to a delicate dance. She placed the
tortoise shell brush on the dressing table and turned to stare at the
open window.
She wasn’t sure if the barely audible sounds were those of prayer
or pain. She just knew she couldn’t stand it anymore. Her conscience
told her there was no sense in anyone suffering like the man locked in
the store shed. Even an animal deserved better treatment. God only knows
the last time he had eaten. Judging from his weakened condition when
they brought him in, she doubted seriously if the men who made the
capture bothered to feed him on the trail. Besides, she wasn’t so sure
he was guilty. There was something about the way Emily Taylor accused
the man that just didn’t fit right with Bethany.
Her gaze returned to the mirror. Instead of her own reflection,
she saw again the red swollen eyes filled with fear as Emily revealed
the identity of the beast who had ravaged her.
A little over a week ago Wilkes, the ranch’s foreman, found Emily
and brought her to the house. He heard the struggle in the barn, but
did not get there in time to capture the molester. He found Emily lying
in the straw, her hands trying in vain to hold together a torn dress.
She was crying uncontrollably, unable to answer questions about her
attacker until the next morning. She would have been raped if Wilkes
had not shown up when he did. She at first insisted she did not
recognize her attacker. Pressure from Martin and Benjamin Grover
convinced her that her attacker was the half-breed. Since there was a
misting rain and the hour was late when she was found, plans were made
for a hunting party to be ready to leave at daybreak.
By dawn there was no need to look for tracks and signs along the
trail. They knew whom they would be looking for, and where to find him.
And they brought him back.
Unconsciously flinching, Bethany recalled the sight of his bruised face
and beaten body when Wilkes and Bradley shoved their prisoner toward her
guardian this afternoon.
He was a half-breed – neither Indian nor white. Cursed while yet in his
mother’s womb, not to belong to either world of which he was born.
She knew that had he anything of value, or been caught out in
polite society, being a half-breed itself would have been excuse enough
for the beating he received from the men who had brought him in. Since
the land on which his cabin stood was isolated and mountainous, not good
for grazing, he avoided trouble in the past by staying to himself. He
went into town only between paydays when ranch hands like Wilkes and
Bradley weren’t likely to be looking for entertainment. Her guardian
and other ranch owners knew he was living in the mountains. A time or
two, while boasting over their after dinner cigars and brandy, she heard
them talk about burning him out. But the upstanding citizens of
Groverton, when sober, figured it best to leave him be, as long as they
didn’t have to see him.
Now, he had been accused of attacking one of the women folk.
Normally this would be an outright hanging offense, but the woman, Emily
Taylor, the school’s teacher, was new to the area. She had no family to
avenge her honor, to dispute Benjamin Grover’s order that the man be
brought back alive, and insist upon immediate hanging. Benjamin Grover
proclaimed to be a God fearing man, and considered himself the towns
most responsible and honorable citizen. As such, he took it upon
himself to see that justice was administered in his own fashion. It was
his duty to see to the punishment of the criminal that he now held
prisoner in his store shed. Bethany knew from personal experience just
how seriously her guardian took anything he considered his duty.
He ordered the half-breed brought back to the ranch alive. He
wanted to make an example of the Indian. He would hold the man prisoner
and torture him. A week later, he would invite his neighbors to the
hanging.
And he was brought back alive – barely. Bethany ran outside, like
all the rest to see the prisoner when he was brought in. What she saw
sickened her. The man was tied to Wilkes' horse, and had apparently
been dragged as much as forced to walk behind the animal. Blood mingled
with the dirt on his body, making it difficult to see just how badly he
was hurt. Even though Wilkes and his men laughed and jeered at him, the
prisoner stood straight, head bent, not saying a word. He only looked
up once, when Emily was brought forth to identify him.
Martin Grover, Benjamin’s son and Bethany’s fiancé, must have heard
the ranch hands returning and gone for Emily, for when Bethany ran
outside, Martin was standing with his arm around the sobbing woman. He
spoke softly to her as she nodded her head against his chest in response
to his words.
A smile flickered across Bethany’s face as she recalled the
tenderness with which Martin comforted Emily. She knew little about her
fiancé’, but she was filled with a sense of pride that he was one who
could understand and comfort someone who was so emotionally distraught
as Emily Taylor had been today. Martin, when he had caught sight of her
on the porch, frowned momentarily, but then motioned for her to stand
beside him. With apparent relief he handed Emily over to Bethany’s care.
The small crowd, some whispering to each other, some jeering at the
prisoner, quieted when Benjamin Grover walked up from the stables, his
face more grim than usual. Slowly they parted, providing Benjamin a
path which he took leading him directly in front of the prisoner.
Still, the man did not look up.
"Well Ms. Taylor, is this him?" Benjamin Grover's voice, though
quiet was ominously clear.
Bethany, her arm still around Emily, felt the woman stiffen before
she replied. "I'm not sure. It could be."
"What do you mean you're not sure? A man does what you’ve accused
this one of, you’d better be sure." He spat at the half-breed’s feet,
not bothering to look behind him, where Bethany and Emily stood above
the crowd on the porch.
"No. I...I...” Emily stuttered, and began crying anew.
"It's him." Martin, who had not said a word since releasing Emily
to Bethany’s care, spoke up. "Put your head up Injun. Let the lady see
your face."
With Martin’s command, the prisoner obediently lifted his eyes.
Bethany unconsciously pulled in a ragged breath when the man lifted his
chin. His coloring and dark hair, which hung about his shoulders showed
him to be half Cherokee. The eyes that stared unflinchingly at them
through the dirt and grime of his beaten face were the dark gray color
of storm clouds, and just as angry, threatening to erupt and cause havoc
to all within his reach.
Emily, refusing to look at the man she accused, jerked away from
Bethany’s comforting arm, turning her back on the prisoner and the
crowd.
"All right. It was him. He did it." She nearly screamed, then
ran toward the safety of the house, appearing to slow only a second when
she glanced at Martin who leaned against the door frame, sneering with
contempt at the scene before him.
Bethany shook her head at the memory, thinking how complacent
Martin appeared with the situation. She knew that he, like all the
ranchers, wanted the half-breed caught. She guessed it was only right
that a man, who had done what he was accused of, should be punished,
possibly even put to death. Still, unlike Martin, she was not entirely
convinced by Emily’s accusations.
With Emily’s declaration, Benjamin Grover raised his hand and
brought it down across the prisoner’s face. Still tied at the wrists,
he fell to the ground, unable to protect himself in the fall.
"Wilkes, take this scum and put him in the store shed." Grover
ordered, adding with a look of contempt, "Make sure he is comfortable
until we get around to the hanging."
The barely audible sound of the prisoner coming through the open
window again was enough to break through Bethany’s recollection of the
day’s events and bring her back to the present. She felt she must do
something. She wasn’t sure why she should care about a man accused of
molesting another woman, and a half-breed, at that. She only knew she
could not ignore the pain that another was suffering.
Without further hesitation, she pulled open a drawer in her
dressing table and withdrew a small pearl handled dagger sheathed in an
intricately designed leather pouch. It was a gift from Martin who had
told her to keep it close at hand as one never knew when it would come
in handy. She had never carried it before, but felt that she may need
it tonight.
After tucking the knife in the sash at her waist she extinguished
the light. Fortunately, she had not yet donned her nightdress, so she
only had to reach for her cloak, throwing it about her shoulders as she
stepped from her room into the hall. Taking pains to be quiet, she
moved to the landing at the head of the stairs, stopping briefly to
listen for anyone whom might witness and prevent her leaving the house.
Swiftly, noiselessly, Bethany glided down the stairs, and into the
kitchen where she placed some cold biscuits in a napkin. She went into
the pantry where she found a canteen and a light blanket in the linen
closet. After filling the canteen, she gently placed the biscuits in her
large pockets. The blanket, folded into a roll, was stuffed under her
arm, beneath her cape. She went out the back door, closing it softly
behind her.
Bethany hesitated just long enough to let her eyes adjust to the
night before daring to move down the steps, off the porch. Good, no one
was about. She did notice a small light in the bunkhouse. She wasn’t too
concerned as she surmised that some of the men at least, were probably
gaming away their next month’s wages. Those that were wise enough not
to do so were probably either asleep, or would soon be. Certainly,
those who had formed the posse, which captured the prisoner, would be
sleeping by now.
Earlier today she heard them talking, when they did not think
anyone was listening, about the difficulties they had on the trail.
Apparently the easiest part of their venture was not the trek up and
down the rugged mountain to the man’s home, but his actual capture in
the middle of the night, once he was overcome with smoke from the posse
setting his home afire. No doubt about it, those in the posse would be
long into a slumber by now.
Feeling nearly like a hunter herself, Bethany moved cautiously in
the darkness around the house toward the east side where her room faced
the store shed. Odd, she didn’t hear any thing like a moan or chant as
she neared the shed. In fact, she heard nothing at all coming from the
rough lean-to, as she approached. No one stood guard over the shed’s
entrance. She didn’t really expect anyone would be posted at the door,
as no doubt the prisoner was tied to one of the structure’s center
posts. She had been told of other prisoners, in the past, tethered in
that manner. They surely weren’t murderers or rapists, of course,
mostly just ranch hands that had gotten into some of the local home brew
and, after filling up on the liquid courage, had thought to cause
trouble.
She moved cautiously toward the store shed, staying in the shadows,
away from those places lit by the moon’s gentle radiance. Placing an
ear against the door, she heard nothing inside the makeshift jail.
Perhaps he was sleeping finally and would not appreciate her efforts.
She should go back to her comfortable room and dry bed, and forget him.
If he were asleep, he wouldn’t want to be awakened for a few cold
biscuits.
Bethany smiled at herself. Here she was about to lose her nerve,
after stealing a blanket and food from the kitchen then sneaking out of
the house. With a resolve she didn’t feel, she checked to see that the
knife was still secure in her sash, lifted the latch on the door and
stepped into the even greater darkness of the store shed.
After closing the door behind her, it took several seconds for
Bethany’s eyes to adjust to her surroundings. Automatically she reached
for the lantern she knew hung on the wall to the right of the door, and
then decided against it. She certainly didn’t want someone seeing the
light from outside and deciding to investigate. No, she would have to
make do with the long fingers of moonlight shining through cracks in the
wall.
At first she didn’t see him. Then she directed her focus toward
the sound of shuffling in the straw spread about the floor. The
prisoner appeared to be awake, propped against the center post. She
felt a pang of guilt at the relief washing over her to see that his
hands were still tied in front of him and a moccasined foot was held in
a metal ankle band connected by chain to a post.
Until that instant, she wasn’t really concerned about the possible
danger she was exposing herself to. Now, she recognized her uneven
breathing, her shaking limbs, the metallic taste in her mouth as fear.
She wished desperately she hadn’t come, that she had ignored her
conscience, just this once. She would have turned and ran that moment
out of the shed and back to the safety of the house and her room had the
prisoner spoken to her, or so much as moved. But he did neither, he
just stared at her warily. Warily, she inched toward him, ready for
flight should the need arise.
"I've brought you some water and something to eat." Her voice
sounded weak and small, betraying the illusion of strength she tried to
portray.
He continued to stare at her, giving no indication he understood or
even heard her words.
"I..I’ll leave them here for you." She placed the canteen and
napkin wrapped biscuits within reach of the prisoner and stepped back.
"You may need this, too," she said as she pulled the blanket from under
her cape and tossed it onto the floor near where he was half reclining.
She left him, locking the door behind her, just as she had found
it. She made her way back across the yard and into the house.
Silently, she climbed the stairs to her room and prepared for bed in
darkness for fear she had awakened someone who would be curious should
they see her light still burning.
She lifted her dark hair off her neck so she wouldn’t lie on it,
and pulling the covers up around her chin, she snuggled into the warmth
of her bed. Her last thoughts, before she slept, were of a smile that
she thought she had seen as she turned to run away from the man in the
store shed. A smile beneath eyes the color of a summer storm.
Of course, my favorite piece by Luglenda (and one of my all time favorites) is the exercise submission that was selected for the Exercise page. I encourage everyone to check it out!
Luglenda's Favorite Links
Authorlink!
Crawford Kilian’s Personal Page
My Virtual Reference Desk
For Writers Only
Useful Links for Romance Writers
Author's Attic
National CASA Association
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