Feed the squirrels.

Shelagh said I would be back. Shelagh, I am a very private man. People are not supposed to know what I will do next…so stop it.
I have been thinking these last few months. Thinking is how I write. I think for months, sometimes even years on one story. When I have it done, I start thinking about it again. If something does not feel right…I know something is wrong, and I drive myself crazy thinking. Thinking, thinking, and more thinking. I come up with nothing. Then I stop thinking. I read the stupid story over, and over. Still nothing.
Naked in West Upton is a great story…but like a good Italian Pasta, if one thing is left out of the sauce, or not the right amount…it’s not great, it’s just okay. I would never feed okay to a guest. I would never write something I felt was just okay. If I had been honest with myself before I started writing anything…I would have said, “Domenic…don’t do this. You know how you are. You will drive yourself nuts.” I did. I drove myself nuts on this book. Of the five books I have done…Naked in West Upton is the one I love. I put the story aside, and stopped thinking about what might be wrong.
I have squirrels come into my back yard looking for corn on the cob. I cut cobs into four pieces, and place one near the water bowl I leave out for them. Their funny. They think I can’t see them because ever few feet they freeze. Yesterday this one had the cob, and was headed back under the fence with it. At that moment a man came by on his bicycle at a great speed, and  the squirrel looked like he was going to have a heart attack. He looked at me, and must have been thinking, “What the hell was that?” Just then…I knew what was wrong with Naked in West Upton. The boy Tommy in my story came to America in 1940 on the program to save the children. I had hit on that briefly. Tommy was one of the characters in the story, but not the main character…matter of fact, all the characters had an equal role in the story. Tommy has to be the main character because at the end of the story when he is an old man, he goes back to West Upton to die. I have a lot of rewriting to do, but now I know what the story is about…it’s about Tommy, the boy from England.
Here is the opening of the section where Tommy is preparing to come to America:

England June 18 1940



“What General Weygand called the Battle of France is over. I expect that the Battle of Britain is about to begin. Upon this battle depends the survival of Christian civilization. Upon it depends our own British life, and the long continuity of our institutions and our Empire. The whole fury and might of the enemy must very soon be turned on us.



Hitler knows that he will have to break us in this Island or lose the war. If we can stand up to him, all Europe may be free and the life of the world may move forward into broad, sunlit uplands. But if we fail, then the whole world, including the United States, including all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the abyss of a new Dark Age made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by the lights of perverted science.



Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves that if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say, 'This was their finest hour."



Winston Churchill

Welcome back, Domenic. What a surprise to see you. Great opening quote from WC.

Welcome back, Dom,

You can't miss when quoting WC.

Thank you Shelagh.
Alice...you can't miss when you ride on the coat tails of the greatest man who won WW2.

This is the start of the new opening; I need it torn apart. It's how I write. I throw ideas together, then I take what is good, and cut the rest.

All comments welcome.


Page 1                                                  Naked in West Upton                 word count 62,000
If it had not been for a poor London boy by the name of Tommy Miller, and his diary, the story of West Upton Massachusetts might have been lost to time. The events recorded in the diary are still debated. Are they true, or just the imagination of a boy remembered in old age?  The people of West Upton take pride in a well thought out tale. Those who add color as it is passed  from mouth to ear are looked upon with envy, and admiration. No good tale is turned aside, even if the truth of it comes into question.

You are never without the feeling that someone is standing very close to you. You search, but there is nothing there. Yet you know there is. You can feel it. Someone, or something has just breathed down the back your neck. To the south of town the land becomes rocky, revealing a brutal birth, a time before the chanting of man.
Following the valley south the tall white elm begin to thin, giving way to crab apple trees, their short tubby roots tightly clinging the rocky soil. It is here the deer fatten up in the fall for the coming winter when the weak will die, and the sound of the wolf is heard.
Further south at Prates Pond frogs burrow deep into the soft slimy bottom. The wind follows deep trails worn by animal, and human. Among the low hills the wind gains power, rustling the golden brown leaves of the valley into ghostly forms.
Stonewalls, and parts of stonewalls surround the graveyard, separating the living from the dead. It is here strange things are whispered about, never spoken aloud. Stories of ghost, and strange sounds at night. Many have claimed to have seen the angel of death racing through the darkness, sparks flying from the hoofs of his powerful black steed, a misty heat snorting from its pulsating nostrils.
New England, once home to the, Wampanoag, and Pocumtuck  peoples, rooted in legends of the past, where a small town could be forgotten by civilization; a place where the bark of a dog, or the sound of an owl at night meant death.
A land of tall tales and lost treasure, where humans and those of the past live side by side. Hidden valleys where fiction is born, and spreads from mouth to ear…to become reality. One has but to choose, which side of reality is real?
 

                                                                      2 
March 1901: The narrow stone corridor echoed with heavy breathing, broken only by the steady sound of metal chipping the ancient stone floor of the cave. Moving shadows swiftly change, and disappear in the torchlight.
The boy cautiously sweeps away ancient sand, dark sand, sand unknown to the valley. His ears throbbing with every heart-beat. The sound of stone scraping against stone, and the piece is free from its primeval setting. The boy clutches the small stone slab tightly to his chest. Voices cry from deep within the cave... strange words from an unknown time. Swiftly he retreats down the corridor. The strange rumbling sounds follow him as he tumbled from the cave entrance into the darkness of the cold night.
“Dexter, where are you?”
“Bobby?”
“Come-on Dex, run for your life.”
The two boys race through the thick woods laughing with fear toward the lights below. West Upton lay silent. They take their shoes of, and silently make their way up the main street avoiding shadows, seeking the safety of lamplights. From the steeple of the old church an owl watches. Somewhere in the darkness of the woods above the red barn, the shrieking howl of a wolf, and the  spirits of the Wampanoag and Pocumtuck people search the night sky.
A dark creature, her wings silent, circled the little town. High above her companion turns to the South East…a slight flick of her wings and she is beside him. It is the autumnal equinox of the seventh year, a time when the Thunderbirds of New England awake.  
                                                                      3
Sleeping Owl points a feather into the night fire. ”The spirits have lifted the sacred stone. They
 have freed the Thunderbirds from the land below. Soon they will come, and eat our people.”
“I will go into the sprit world, and undo the curse,” said  Yellow Wolf.
“You do not know the path into, nor out of the land of the dead,” said Sleeping Owl. “You would be forever lost between life, and death. No. I will talk  to Chief Taka.”
“It has been many years since Taka has walked among the dead,” warned He Who Runs in the night.
“He is feeble minded,” said  Yellow Wolf. “I am young and strong. It is I who should go.”
“I will rest now,” said Sleeping Owl, “the vision has taken my strength. We will talk again when I have rested.”
Yellow wolf  looked to the other Chiefs. “I am the strongest of all the warriors. I have killed a bear, I do not fear the dead.”
“We will talk again when I am rested,” frowned Sleeping Owl.    

 June 4 1940
In the back room of Woody’s drug story, Judge Dexter Stevens shushed the boys to silence, and turned the radio full up.
“This is William Shirer speaking to you from London. France has fallen to Hitler. England stands alone.  Sir Winston Churchill stands before the House of Commons of the Parliament of the United Kingdom. The members of Parliament are taking their seats. The world is listening. Sir Winston, head high is about to speak.
“What General Weygand called the Battle of France is over. I expect that the Battle of Britain is about to begin. Upon this battle depends the survival of Christian civilization. Upon it depends our own British life, and the long continuity of our institutions and our Empire. The whole fury and might of the enemy must very soon be turned on us. Hitler knows that he will have to break us in this Island or lose the war. If we can stand up to him, all Europe may be free and the life of the world may move forward into broad, sunlit uplands. But if we fail, then the whole world, including the United States, including all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the abyss of a new Dark Age made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by the lights of perverted science. Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves that if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say, This was their finest hour.”
“Damn him,” said Judge Stevens .
“You don’t like Churchill,” asked Elmer. “Is he a communist?”
“Not him,” replied Judge Stevens as he left the room. “That little corporal.”
“I think he means Hitler,” said Woody.

Suggested edits for page one: 

"If it had not been for a poor London boy by the name of Tommy Miller, and his diary, the story of West Upton Massachusetts might have been lost to time."

Had it not been for a poor London boy by the name of Tommy Miller and his diary, the story of West Upton Massachusetts might have been lost in time. 

"Are they true, or just the imagination of a boy remembered in old age?"

Are they true, or just a boy's imagination remembered in old age?

"You are never without the feeling that someone is standing very close to you. You search, but there is nothing there. Yet you know there is. You can feel it. Someone, or something has just breathed down the back your neck. To the south of town the land becomes rocky, revealing a brutal birth, a time before the chanting of man.
Following the valley south the tall white elm begin to thin, giving way to crab apple trees, their short tubby roots tightly clinging the rocky soil. It is here the deer fatten up in the fall for the coming winter when the weak will die, and the sound of the wolf is heard."

You are never without the feeling that someone is standing very close to you. You search, but there is nothing there. Yet you know there is. You can feel it. Someone, or something has just breathed down the back your neck. 
To the south of town the land becomes rocky, revealing a brutal birth, a time before the chanting of man. Following the valley south the tall white elms begin to thin, giving way to crab apple trees, their short tubby roots tightly clinging the rocky soil. It is here the deer fatten up in the fall for the coming winter when the weak will die, and the sound of the wolf is heard.

"Further south at Prates Pond frogs burrow deep into the soft slimy bottom. "

Further south at Prates Pond, frogs burrow deep into the soft slimy bottom. 

"Stonewalls, and parts of stonewalls surround the graveyard, separating the living from the dead. Stories of ghost, and strange sounds at night. Many have claimed to have seen the angel of death racing through the darkness, sparks flying from the hoofs of his powerful black steed, a misty heat snorting from its pulsating nostrils."

Stonewalls, and parts of stonewalls, surround the graveyard, separating the living from the dead. Stories of ghost and strange sounds at night. Many have claimed to have seen the angel of death racing through the darkness, sparks flying from the hoofs of his powerful black steed; a misty heat snorting from its pulsating nostrils.

"New England, once home to the, Wampanoag, and Pocumtuck  peoples, rooted in legends of the past, where a small town could be forgotten by civilization; a place where the bark of a dog, or the sound of an owl at night meant death."

New England, once home to the Wampanoag and Pocumtuck  peoples, rooted in legends of the past where a small town could be forgotten by civilization; a place where the bark of a dog, or the sound of an owl at night meant death.

"Hidden valleys where fiction is born, and spreads from mouth to ear…to become reality. One has but to choose, which side of reality is real?" 

Hidden valleys where fiction is born and spreads from mouth to ear…to become reality. One has but to choose which side of reality is real. 

Shalegh,
Thank you for working page one for me. The part I'm not sure about are the ghost, page 3.

There are two worlds living in West Upton... They both think the other is the spirit world. I don't feel this is clear..what do you think?


                                                                      3
"Sleeping Owl points a feather into the night fire. ”The spirits have lifted the sacred stone. They
 have freed the Thunderbirds from the land below. Soon they will come, and eat our people.”
“I will go into the sprit world, and undo the curse,” said  Yellow Wolf.
“You do not know the path into, nor out of the land of the dead,” said Sleeping Owl. “You would be forever lost between life, and death. No. I will talk  to Chief Taka.”
“It has been many years since Taka has walked among the dead,” warned He Who Runs in the night.
“He is feeble minded,” said  Yellow Wolf. “I am young and strong. It is I who should go.”
“I will rest now,” said Sleeping Owl, “the vision has taken my strength. We will talk again when I have rested.”
Yellow wolf  looked to the other Chiefs. “I am the strongest of all the warriors. I have killed a bear, I do not fear the dead.”
“We will talk again when I am rested,” frowned Sleeping Owl.

I had to read the whole thing several times to understand the meaning. It reads as though you have pared it down to the bone. The flow of the story is too swift for readers to comprehend both the time difference and the comparison between the modern world and the old world when the Indians occupied the land. Your dates go back to a time when the judge was a young boy (1901), but the spirits the adventurous boys awaken are from a much earlier period. All this is explained too quickly without giving the reader sufficient time to switch from one scene to another and understand where the story is in time and location (you start page one in London, move swiftly to Massachusetts, go back in time to 1901, further still to a previous century, and by page three the story returns to the forties in London and the war in Europe).

I would suggest that the story begins in West Upton with the disturbances of the spirits (I think it would grab the attention of the reader and provide a hook for the next part of the story):

Page 1                                                  Naked in West Upton                 word count 62,000

You are never without the feeling that someone is standing very close to you. You search, but there is nothing there. Yet you know there is. You can feel it. Someone, or something has just breathed down the back your neck.
To the south of town the land becomes rocky, revealing a brutal birth, a time before the chanting of man. Following the valley south the tall white elm begin to thin, giving way to crab apple trees, their short tubby roots tightly clinging the rocky soil. It is here the deer fatten up in the fall for the coming winter when the weak will die, and the sound of the wolf is heard.
Further south at Prates Pond frogs burrow deep into the soft slimy bottom. The wind follows deep trails worn by animal, and human. Among the low hills the wind gains power, rustling the golden brown leaves of the valley into ghostly forms.
Stonewalls, and parts of stonewalls surround the graveyard, separating the living from the dead. It is here strange things are whispered about, never spoken aloud. Stories of ghost, and strange sounds at night. Many have claimed to have seen the angel of death racing through the darkness, sparks flying from the hoofs of his powerful black steed, a misty heat snorting from its pulsating nostrils.
New England, once home to the, Wampanoag, and Pocumtuck  peoples, rooted in legends of the past, where a small town could be forgotten by civilization; a place where the bark of a dog, or the sound of an owl at night meant death.
A land of tall tales and lost treasure, where humans and those of the past live side by side. Hidden valleys where fiction is born, and spreads from mouth to ear…to become reality. One has but to choose, which side of reality is real?


                                                                     2  
Back in March 1901, the narrow stone corridor echoed with heavy breathing, broken only by the steady sound of metal chipping the ancient stone floor of the cave. Moving shadows swiftly change, and disappear in the torchlight.
The boy cautiously sweeps away ancient sand, dark sand, sand unknown to the valley. His ears throbbing with every heart-beat. The sound of stone scraping against stone, and the piece is free from its primeval setting. The boy clutches the small stone slab tightly to his chest. Voices cry from deep within the cave... strange words from an unknown time. Swiftly he retreats down the corridor. The strange rumbling sounds follow him as he tumbled from the cave entrance into the darkness of the cold night.
“Dexter, where are you?”
“Bobby?”
“Come-on Dex, run for your life.”
The two boys race through the thick woods laughing with fear toward the lights below. West Upton lay silent. They take their shoes of, and silently make their way up the main street avoiding shadows, seeking the safety of lamplights. From the steeple of the old church an owl watches. Somewhere in the darkness of the woods above the red barn, the shrieking howl of a wolf, and the  spirits of the Wampanoag and Pocumtuck people search the night sky.
A dark creature, her wings silent, circled the little town. High above her companion turns to the South East…a slight flick of her wings and she is beside him. It is the autumnal equinox of the seventh year, a time when the Thunderbirds of New England awake.  
                                                                     3
Sleeping Owl points a feather into the night fire. ”The spirits have lifted the sacred stone. They have freed the Thunderbirds from the land below. Soon they will come, and eat our people.”
“I will go into the sprit world, and undo the curse,” said  Yellow Wolf.
“You do not know the path into, nor out of the land of the dead,” said Sleeping Owl. “You would be forever lost between life, and death. No. I will talk  to Chief Taka.”
“It has been many years since Taka has walked among the dead,” warned He Who Runs in the night.
“He is feeble minded,” said  Yellow Wolf. “I am young and strong. It is I who should go.”
“I will rest now,” said Sleeping Owl, “the vision has taken my strength. We will talk again when I have rested.”
Yellow wolf  looked to the other Chiefs. “I am the strongest of all the warriors. I have killed a bear, I do not fear the dead.”
“We will talk again when I am rested,” frowned Sleeping Owl.  
 
If it had not been for a poor London boy by the name of Tommy Miller, and his diary, the story of West Upton Massachusetts might have been lost to time. The events recorded in the diary are still debated. Are they true, or just the imagination of a boy remembered in old age?  The people of West Upton take pride in a well thought out tale. Those who add color as it is passed  from mouth to ear are looked upon with envy, and admiration. No good tale is turned aside, even if the truth of it comes into question.

On June 4th 1940, in the back room of Woody’s drug story, Judge Dexter Stevens shushed the boys to silence, and turned the radio full up.
“This is William Shirer speaking to you from London. France has fallen to Hitler. England stands alone.  Sir Winston Churchill stands before the House of Commons of the Parliament of the United Kingdom. The members of Parliament are taking their seats. The world is listening. Sir Winston, head high is about to speak.
“What General Weygand called the Battle of France is over. I expect that the Battle of Britain is about to begin. Upon this battle depends the survival of Christian civilization. Upon it depends our own British life, and the long continuity of our institutions and our Empire. The whole fury and might of the enemy must very soon be turned on us. Hitler knows that he will have to break us in this Island or lose the war. If we can stand up to him, all Europe may be free and the life of the world may move forward into broad, sunlit uplands. But if we fail, then the whole world, including the United States, including all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the abyss of a new Dark Age made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by the lights of perverted science. Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves that if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say, This was their finest hour.”
“Damn him,” said Judge Stevens .
“You don’t like Churchill,” asked Elmer. “Is he a communist?”
“Not him,” replied Judge Stevens as he left the room. “That little corporal.”
“I think he means Hitler,” said Woody.

Thank you Shelagh,

The Indians I started adding in after the story was done. The boy Tommy is the only one who can see, and talk to Yellow Wolf. The way you have it laid out is much better, but is it clear on just a first read? If a reader has to read it twice, that won't work.  Do you think I need to write a full new page between 2 and 3 to make the time move? Should I just leave 3 out, and spread it over the first 20 or so pages?

8/17/2014

                          Dominic..

                                     Bravo ! Very good story....

                                         Cheers..Joe

joefrank wrote:

8/17/2014

                          Dominic..

                                     Bravo ! Very good story....

                                         Cheers..Joe

Hi Joe,
Thank you for the comment.

Domenic Pappalardo wrote:

Thank you Shelagh,

The Indians I started adding in after the story was done. The boy Tommy is the only one who can see, and talk to Yellow Wolf. The way you have it laid out is much better, but is it clear on just a first read? If a reader has to read it twice, that won't work.  Do you think I need to write a full new page between 2 and 3 to make the time move? Should I just leave 3 out, and spread it over the first 20 or so pages?

In the rearranged order, the story flows from the beginning without having to step back in time. In the new opening paragraph, the reader feels the spiritual presence that is about to be explained. The terrain you describe in the second paragraph has not changed in thousands of years; it is timeless. 

Next, the reader is told to expect apparitions or ghostly forms, and the story that is about to unfold may be as much based on fiction as fact. Then you take the reader back to 1901 when Judge Stevens was a boy, adding to the sense of ghostliness with the removal of a stone in a sacred place. Frightened, the boys run off and the reader learns the full implication of what they have done through the dialogue between a small tribe of Indians, who might be dead or alive at the time. Who knows? You leave the scene without fully explaining, but pick up the thread in the same town at a different time, 1940. Now you introduce the reader to the London connection and continue the theme of how this story might be fictional, or only a version of the actual truth. By now, the reader wants to read on to find out what happened between 1901 and 1940 ... and what happens next?

Shelagh,
Are you saying in the order you suggested, it is clear?

Yes.

Shelagh,
Thank you.
You may never be the Queen of England, but you will always be the English Queen of writing. Plus; you are still a fox.
I figure I have one more month of work on this book. (rewrite.)

I was going to buy a grammar program. To test it I put in Sir W.C.'s speech. I think that was the greatest speech ever made. The results show the program is useless. Here are their results.



Grammarly found 9 critical writing issues in your text.

Start the free trial to correct your writing errors
and enhance your text.
Score: 64 of 100 (weak, needs revision)
Plagiarism     !    

    Unoriginal text detected

Grammar     3 issues    

    Modal verbs (1)
    Incorrect use of prepositions (2)
    Use of articles

Spelling Correction        

    Spelling
    Commonly confused words
    Accidentally confused words

Sentence Structure        

    Sentence fragment
    Faulty parallelism
    Word order

Punctuation     3 issues    

    Punctuation between clauses (1)
    Punctuation within a clause (2)
    Closing punctuation

Style Check     1 issue    

    Wordiness (1)
    Usage of colloquial speech
    Improper formatting

Don't buy a grammar program. Save your money to pay for a good editor. Self-published writers in popular genres are quite literally making thousands of dollars from their writing. They do put their money where their mouth is. They hire top notch editors and pay for cover design. A good editor may cost them a couple of thousand dollars and a cover artist may charge from a few hundred dollars to more than a thousand. The self-published authors making a living out of their writing see it as money well spent. 

Before they invested in themselves, some of these successful authors started off writing short stories that they uploaded to Amazon's KDP. The feedback from their readers gave them the confidence to write novels and pay for professional help from editors and cover designers.

Shelagh wrote:

Don't buy a grammar program. Save your money to pay for a good editor. Self-published writers in popular genres are quite literally making thousands of dollars from their writing. They do put their money where their mouth is. They hire top notch editors and pay for cover design. A good editor may cost them a couple of thousand dollars and a cover artist may charge from a few hundred dollars to more than a thousand. The self-published authors making a living out of their writing see it as money well spent. 

Before they invested in themselves, some of these successful authors started off writing short stories that they uploaded to Amazon's KDP. The feedback from their readers gave them the confidence to write novels and pay for professional help from editors and cover designers.

I agree, I would never put any of my work out before having a good editor go through it. What is Amazon's KDP?

Domenic Pappalardo wrote:

What is Amazon's KDP?

https://kdp.amazon.com/help?ref_=kdp_KDPS_TN_help

Shelagh,
Does Tommy sound like he's an East Ender?

                                                                    5  
 Tommy sat on the steps of Woody’s drug store, avoiding the, “Hi Sonny’s” from those passing by.

Woody came out like nothing was going on, and sat down beside him. “Pretty nice day.”

Tommy slid down to the next step, and turned away.

“I’ll bet you’d like…a double scooper.”

“You a nonce ?” asked Tommy…moving farther down the steps.

“I don’t know what you mean by, ‘nonce,’ replied Woody, “but I have ten flavors of ice cream just

waiting to make some kid happy.”

“Ice cream? Ace, but I haven’t had a penny in yonks.”

“You talk different than folks around here. Where you from?”

“London.”

Ace wouldn't be used in the 1940s.

"I'm skint. I've got no dosh ... not a penny."

Shelagh wrote:

Ace wouldn't be used in the 1940s.

"I'm skint. I've got no dosh ... not a penny."

LMAO....here I'm thinking I'm so damn smart. LOL. I have a list of slang used in England from A to Z. Now I have to find slang you people used in the 1940's...LOL.

You won't find much on the 'net. If you check out this play (set just before the outbreak of war in 1939) and scroll down to the audition pieces, you can click on a number of links to examples of dialogue in the play, "Vackees":

http://www.gardensuburbtheatre.org.uk/shows/2014/Vackees/audition.htm

With English dialect, it is often the phrasing that pinpoints the region rather than the use of slang words. To be authentic it has to sound right, just inserting slang words won't turn an American phrase into a British one, e.g.:

Welsh: There's lovely.
English: How nice.

The more I look, the deeper the hole gets. Hemingway had a problem with the use of English words that were against the law to put into print…one was the F word, so he made up his own, “Muck.”  I don’t think I’ll have Tommy use that much slang.
Most of the English slang I found was used by the military.
I think I understand what you are saying, “The slang has to go along with the district.” I was reading the people from London don’t say they are from London, but give the district.
I can see most of the English slang won’t be understood by American readers. If I use the wrong slang for the wrong district, the English will put the book down as badly written.
The piece of slang you gave me ("I'm skint. I've got no dosh ... not a penny.") is easy for Americans to understand. This is the type I will seek out, and it will have to be from the same district. Any suggestions?

You should see the difference between the boy's east London accent and the standard English used by the other characters here:

Vackees audition

Shelagh,
I think how Tommy speaks is more important than the slang. Over time in the story I’ll have Tommy start talking more like the other kids in New England, with a few saying he retains.
I want to thank you for your the help on this. When I’m done, I’ll post the talk stuff I’m in doubt on.
Do you know of words not allowed to have in print in England beside the F word?