Posts tagged ‘writing’
WALT TRIZNA: THE DAY KENNEDY DIED
THE DAY KENNEDY DIED
November is the month of thanksgiving, when the weather no longer bounces between summer and winter, when the chill of fall sets in with a vengeance preparing us for the hard cold of winter. It is also the month Kennedy died.
During November 1963 I was a junior at East Side High School. I already had a deep interest in science and forfeited my study hall to work in the school biology lab. I designed an experiment to study Mendelian heredity. The experiment required two black and two white mice, which I purchased, and began mating the mice in all the various combinations possible, trying to predict the color of the littermates. I soon ran out of space in the cellar where I was keeping my mouse colony and asked permission to move my many mice to school. During the experiment, I took meticulous notes, recording much more than I really needed to. One quirk of the mice, which totally threw off my experimental results, was the fact that they sometimes eat their young. When nervous or upset, they would chew off the chord and wouldn’t know when to stop, leaving only the head and a small piece of protruding backbone. I pressed on, until I began seeing litters of mice with brown siblings, something I had not anticipated. This brought an end to my experiment and an introduction to the unpredictability of science.
It was while I was working in the school lab one November Friday afternoon that someone came in and said that the president had been shot. I recall reacting to the news with horror and disbelief. The emotions of that moment will always stay with me, the sense of experiencing a moment that defied all logic, the vitality of our president in jeopardy. I had the sense that the world had changed; this quiet November afternoon would become a milestone in history. All I knew was that the president had been shot; there was still hope of survival as I headed home from school that day. But as I walked the mile and a half home from school, I saw something I shall never forget, something that dimmed my hope. On my way I saw clusters of people standing on corners and most were crying. The residents of Newark are not known for their emotional displays, so this sight was disturbing. It was the first signal I had that the worst had occurred, that the country, the world had changed forever.
When I reached home, my father was already there, not unusual for he began work early in the morning and was home before me most of the time. I would find him sitting in the kitchen with his beer and paper, but today he was in the parlor watching the TV and he was crying too, something I recalled seeing only once before. The last time I saw my father cry was when my mother lost a baby girl shortly after birth. Ironically, my sister died almost the same time the Kennedy’s lost their child and also for the same reason, underdeveloped lungs. As my father sat weeping before the TV, he told me that the president had died.
The days that followed seemed unreal. Long before the age of cable and satellite dishes, there were just three major networks and a few independent New York stations broadcasting to Newark. All normal broadcasting ceased; TV carried nothing but news and insight into the assassination. On the radio, all normal programming ceased. The radio played nothing but somber music and news of the assassination. Everyone watched the news all weekend, watching history unfold before our eyes. Shortly after Kennedy died, Oswald was captured. The nation viewed live, the instrument of their sorrow. We watched Oswald’s murder at the hands of Jack Ruby, adding confusion on top of the misery. Everyone’s thoughts were in turmoil as these historic events concluded with JFK Jr. saluting his father’s casket.
The day Kennedy died, I learned something of the unpredictability of life.
WALT TRIZNA: COMIC BOOKS
COMIC BOOKS
When perhaps the age of nine or ten, I recall making trips with my father to used bookstores to buy comic books.
The stores are now long gone, torn down and replaced by skyscrapers, but once there was a series of used bookstores, the only ones in the area, huddled together on Market Street, located where the uptown section of Newark began, just beyond Penn Station, the train station and accompanying railroad that bisected Newark. Once you left my area of Newark and made your way to Penn Station and under the elevated railroad you were uptown, walking toward Broad and Market, the heart of Newark, but more on that intersection later.
Off I would go with my Dad to buy comic books. The stores were old musty-smelling rooms filled with piles upon piles of books from creaky hardwood floor to the grimy ceiling. I love bookstores to this day, both old and new, and the smells of the used bookstores take me back to Market Street. The bookstores of Market Street had huge front windows crammed with books, and the store overflowed with books. And somewhere in this maze of books were bags and bags of used comic books. The comics had their covers removed (which might have indicated something illegal) and sold for a nickel each or six for a quarter and we would buy them by the stack.
There would be romance comics for my mother, science fiction and action heroes for me and for the younger kids there would be Nancy, Donald Duck, Archie and more. We would bring home a bundle of comics, along with the musty smell of the store, sit around the kitchen table and divide them up.
Taking part of my stack of comics and hiding some in the bathroom for nature’s calls did not endear me to my family. There was a water pipe running from floor to ceiling on the outer wall and I would hide my comics rolled up and wedged between the pipe and the wall near the ceiling. Of course, they were in plain sight. I just assumed no one would ever look up.
At the age of nine or ten comics were my entertainment; they were my entry to the world of reading and imagination. To this day I lose patience with computer games, get bored with TV and other electronic means of filling your day. But given a good book, I get lost for hours always needing to know what the next page holds.
THOUGHTS ON SELF-PUBLISHING
Self-publishing is very popular these days. A way to stroke your ego, and in most cases, involves little effort in producing a work which deserves publication.
One definition of an author is of a writer whose work has been published. With that meaning in mind, is a writer who pays someone to publish their work an author?
THOUGHTS ON SELF-PUBLISHING
In the past presses involved in self-publishing were known as vanity presses. For that is what they were. Getting a book published was a way to stroke your ego even if the only people who would see it were your mother, siblings, kids and close friends. The fact that there is no standard of quality centered on publication or gatekeepers makes it possible of getting a book connected to your name rather easy, if you have the money.
Not long ago I was looking for a publisher for my science fiction/horror novel. In the past Tor was one of the few, or perhaps only, major publisher where you could submit a manuscript without an agent with the qualifier that it needed to be at least 80,000 words long. Being a well-known publisher of science fiction and fantasy I began an internet search, something for which I do not have a great deal of skill. I was unable to obtain the information I wanted but somehow stumbled upon the publisher Dorrance.
Dorrance was the primary vanity press publisher in the past. Now they are a self-publishing press. From that stumble, and apparently for the next six months, every time I began to use the internet I was treated to an ad by Dorance saying that they wanted to read my book. What did they know about the book such as genre or length or whether it was fiction or nonfiction – nothing. What did they know about me as a writer – nothing. But they wanted to read my book.
I wonder how many books they ask to read they actually read; my guess is none. I wonder how many manuscripts they are sent and decide not to publish, my guess is none. With the advent of self-publishing this company does not stand alone. A later article will discuss why I think self-publishing has greatly expanded.
There are now a host of publishers who will publish your book. One ad which I have seen has a man lying on the floor in front of his laptop. There is a toddler sitting on his back and another sitting on the floor on his left. In this condition he is writing ‘for a higher purpose’. The ad is for a Christian publisher. If this works I need to hire a couple of toddlers and with a higher purpose in mind get my novel published. My purpose in the past must not have been high enough. My purpose was not high enough to get the job done.
Now, it is possible to have a book self-published and be extremely successful. Andy Weir, the author of The Martian, a bestseller and later made into a movie, is a prime example. Since publishing that book he has published two more. His latest book, Project Hail Mary, made it to the combined hardcover and paperback bestseller list in The New York Times.
To reach this level there are a few requirements. First, you must be one hell of a writer. Sad to say, there are a good number, maybe most, of self-published books where the author is not a very good writer. You must also be willing to be able to work your ass off peddling your book by any means possible. That means making a major investment by buying large amounts of books and keeping them around, in the trunk of your car, and try to sell them whenever an opportunity presents itself. Being a capable salesman probably also doesn’t hurt.
I have heard of another method in the past where writers have had publishers show interest in their books. But that was sometime ago and carries with it a certain amount of risk.
A blog is a great way to tell the world who you are and what you do, such as writing books. However, a blog has the same amount of gatekeeping as self-publishing has. In the past writers have posted chapters of their books on their blogs. These chapters stimulated interest in their readers and that interest gained the attention of a publisher. For this to be successful it does not hurt to have a large readership for your blog.
But here is the danger. Many publishers consider something having been published if you have posted on your blog. They will not touch something that has already been published, and they would consider those chapters as having been published. So, you are taking major chance going down that road.
Another thing you must consider is that your self-published book is going to have a hell of a lot of competition. Because self-published books have no gatekeepers, I feel that any book submitted to a publisher publishing those books will publish it. And the competition could be in the hundreds of thousands of books published every year. So, your book must really be able to stand out in a crowd. But it is possible for a self-published book to be a success. Look what Andy Weir was able to accomplish with a self-published book.
WALT TRIZNA: THE NEWARK DRIVE IN
THE NEWARK DRIVE IN
On the far eastern edge of Newark, tucked between the Jersey City and New York City bound bridges, stood the Newark Drive In. The drive in was directly under the flight path of nearby Newark Airport, which tended to make listening to the movie something of a challenge. When approaching the drive in, you were greeted by the swampy, musty smell of Newark Bay. A resident of ‘The Dumps’ (what the locals called the area surrounding the theater) added to the odors of its refineries and sewage treatment plants to the ambiance of the area.
The drive in was surrounded by a tall wooden fence marking its boundaries with a total lack of landscaping of any kind, being true to the Newark life style – bare essentials is all that you get.
On warm summer nights my family would pack into the old Chevy with food and pillows and head to the drive in. The smaller kids would already be in their pajamas in anticipation of not making it to the second movie of the double feature. Being the oldest, I was given the opportunity to sit up front and in those days of front seats being bench seats, providing plenty of room.
Arriving at the drive in just before dusk, my dad paid and was given the PIC and off we would go. PIC was an insect repellent product. It was a flat spiral affair. You lit the end and it would give off a pungent aroma daring mosquitoes to venture near. I really don’t know if it worked because we would also douse ourselves with insect repellent to ward off the visitors from the nearby swamps.
During this period, mosquito-borne encephalitis (sleeping sickness) was a constant threat. On summer nights in Newark, trucks would go through the city streets emitting clouds of insect repellent.
On these same summer nights in our flat, ineffective screens would keep all but the largest and dumbest insects out of our house. When all were in bed, my mother would walk the length of our flat spraying insect repellent while telling all of us to close our eyes. As we lay in bed, you could feel the particles of spray falling on your body.
Once in the theater, we’d find our spot and park the car at just the right angle on the mound that ran the length of the theater to get a perfect view of the screen for everyone. The smaller kids, in their pajamas, would head for the playground and run around till they couldn’t see what they were doing which also indicated that it was time for the movie to begin.
One movie I recall seeing was entitled Macabre. The movie was supposed to be so scary that you were issued a life insurance policy when you entered the drive in. It was good for the length of the movie and if you should be unlucky enough to die of a fright-induced heart attack during the movie you collected, or you next of kin anyway. The movie was a real bomb; the cartoon was scarier. I wondered though what would have happened if someone would have dropped dead of your usual run-of-the-mill heart attacks.
There was always an intermission between movies, time to advertise the goodies available at the snack bar. The screen would be full of dancing hot dogs and talking cups of soda all counting down the fifteen minutes till the next show. The audience was your typical Newark crowd, the women in their smocks and the dads in their handlebar tee shirts. They thrived on meat and potatoes, with hot dogs and sodas would be your typical snack. But one snack that was advertised every time I went to the drive in was Flavo Shrimp Rolls. The only place you could buy a Flavo Shrimp Roll was at the drive in, they did not exist outside their gates. I’m sure you could get other shrimp rolls someplace else in Newark, maybe in the small China Town on Mulberry Street, but I don’t think your typical Newark crowd ate many shrimp rolls. But up there on the screen, after the hot dogs had danced off you could see the cartoon characters lining up for their Flavo Shrimp Rolls. I think we actually bought one once, only once. It was a deep-fried affair running in grease. I would wonder who looked at the crowd coming into the drive in and said to himself, “These people will buy up Flavo Shrimp Rolls like there’s no tomorrow.”
The Newark Drive In is gone now, long gone. Last I heard, a movie theater stands where the drive in once existed. And I’m sure with the demise of the drive in went the opportunity for anyone to buy a Flavo Shrimp Roll.
THE PROLIFERATION OF SELF-PUBLISHING
THE PROLIFERATION OF SELF-PUBLISHING
I have been writing prose for 25 years now, and before that poetry beginning when I was in high school. So, my time spent writing has been approximately 60 years. And having begun writing long before the computer and internet come on the scene I have seen massive changes in that pursuit.
Back when I began I used a typewriter, along with carbon paper to make copies and white-out to correct mistakes. To approach publishers my work went by mail along with the required SASE, self-addressed stamped envelope.
Then came along the computer and later the internet and radical change occurred in the writing experience. Another recent ‘advancement’ AI is reading my mind and supplying suggestions of words and phrased and it is usually right.
In conjunction with the above advances writing programs were developed making the writing experience much easier than it was in the past. I use Microsoft Word which provides a relatively worry-free writing experience when it comes to spelling and punctuation. There are other writing programs out there which may be better or worse than what I am used to but I advantages I discuss will be the results of using Microsoft Word.
I feel that replacing the typewriter with the computer has opened the floodgates increasing the number of writers now in existence for better or, in my opinion, worse.
No more white-out needed to correct mistakes. The mistakes are easily corrected with a couple of keystrokes. The ability to cut and paste or delete entire sections of unwanted work is a great benefit making the process of editing so much easier than in the past.
With the printer you can produce as many copies of your work as you need relegating the SASE a thing of the past and something many current writers have never needed to use or even know of its existence. You now also bypass the expense of postage. Another advantage of the ability to make multiple copies with ease is that many publishers allow simultaneous submissions – submissions, at the same time, to more than one publisher. But I don’t know if this advantage exists in the self-publishing industry. But the above advances have been a boom to the self-publishing industry in the volume of work which can easily be produced. Of course, the one thing all these technical advances can not provide is skill which comes in handy when you want to get your work published.
In my personal writing major benefits of the word process program is spellcheck and the automatic correction suggested in my punctuation. My knowledge of the correct use of punctuation is nearly nonexistent so the vast amount of the correct punctuation the use is in the hands of the writing program. When it comes to spelling my ability has rapidly gone downhill, not that it was ever great. To give you an idea of how deficient my spelling ability is there have been times when I have been trying to spell a word and the program has no idea what the word I am trying to spell is.
So, there you have the advances in writing which have made the ability to produce a work so much easier than it was in the past. And these advances have resulted in a huge increase in work being produced and submitted to self-publishing presses which results in an incredible number of books being published every year. Books, if feel, would never see the light of day if the typewriter was the only means available to produce the work.
WALT TRIZNA: DOWNNECK NEWARK
DOWNNECK
I began my life on August 1947 in Newark, New Jersey, the Down Neck section, and lived in that city, in the same house, the same cold water flat for nearly twenty years. This section of Newark is still known by this name for a few years ago, on a train to New York with my wife and two daughters, we passed a sign for a pizza place that stated, ‘ A DOWN NECK TRADITION’. My hometown is along the eastern edge of the city, not far from Newark Bay and the bridges leading into Jersey City. It is also referred to, as the Ironbound Section, gaining its name from the railroad tracks that ring the area and known for the light and heavy industry. Small factories existed amongst the two and four family homes and tenements that predominated the area. The mingling of homes and factories was a mixture ready for disaster. Even the Passaic River, flowing through the area was known to catch fire.
One Good Friday afternoon, during my teenage years, while getting ready for church I noticed the sky turning black. At first I thought a storm was approaching but soon realized that somewhere a huge fire was burning. I went outside to see what was going up in flames. Immediately, I was being joined by scores of people seeking the same exciting rush of a fire. Walking up Ferry Street, one of the major streets of the area, I could see that the coke trestle was on fire. As I approached to within a couple of blocks of the source of all the smoke, fifty-five-gallon drums full of God knows what began to explode. The situation went from the usual spectacle of a fire to people running for their lives as the drums shot flames into the air and rained debris – smoking pieces of trestle – down around the scattering people who had moments before been spectators. Needless to say, everyone got out of there fast. Some had to go home and wet down their roofs because some of the debris and embers were falling and starting other houses on fire. This made for a memorable afternoon; ten to fifteen houses along with the trestle were lost.
Our house was lucky, because we stood literally in the shadows of Balentine Brewery. Across the street from our house was a four-story building, which was part office building, part garage and truck wash located on the lower level. This structure, along with many others on the surrounding city blocks, owned by Balentine, created Newark’s life’s blood, Balentine beer and ale. This building stood between the fire and us, so it bore the brunt of the embers and debris raining down on the houses on my block.
The reason I mention this event is to lend a flavor to what life was like back then, and what life was like in Newark. Life happened and the consequences accepted – right or wrong – that’s how it was and when life went less than perfectly, you just moved on. Life did not always treat people well, but they endured, didn’t whine about their state in life. They took responsibility for their actions. They all didn’t prosper, yet people didn’t step on one another to get ahead.
Things were not always politically correct either. In fact, I cannot recall anything about my time as a youth in Newark that was politically correct. For example, I once had a math teacher toward the end of my high school career with a bit of a temper. One day during class, there were a few guys talking in the rear of the classroom. My teacher blew up. He yelled at the class, “Do you know what is wrong with you guys? Not enough of you drop out of school. If you don’t want to learn, you’re wasting everyone’s time by staying in school. You’re just holding people who want to learn back.” I do not think there exists the honesty today to say that before a class of unruly students.
People were once able to observe the world, analyze their surroundings, draw on their common sense and speak their mind. That age is long gone, but it still echoes Down Neck’s past. The talking heads of today say we all have the same potential if only given the right circumstances or drug therapy. Nonsense! Twelve years or more of education are given free to each member of our society. Granted, the conditions under which the education is applied varies along a wide spectrum. And when there is a breakdown in the educational goals meant to be accomplished, as happens all to often, it is always the fault of the system and never the individual. The usual solution is to throw more money at the problem, but until the real problem is addressed, this will never help. The individual student along with their parents carries the burden of responsibility and the older the student the more directly responsible for their education. These seem to be times of a total lack of responsibility of the individual. Whenever someone makes a really boneheaded move, there is always something that happened to him either done by his family or society that was the cause of that action. We live in a time of not guilty because of whatever reason other than my own actions. Of course, in some cases a person’s life gets completely out of control, but the excuses people create these days for their actions is sometimes unbelievable.
The theory that we all have the same potential also totally negates that one thing that has, in my eyes, an influence equal to education in persons potential, the influence of personality. Those who succeed are those who realize they must seize the opportunity, the knowledge and go forward. It takes personal drive, ambition and purpose along with a strong education. This is the combination that makes a successful individual.
And what is success? This can mean so many different quantities, depending on an individual. Does success mean money, fame, family, a life free of conflict or a life full of conflict and challenge? The levels, the goals we attain, depend to a large extent on education. But what we do when we arrive at our goals and the life we mold around those accomplishments depends on personality.
I know I digress, but the purpose of this effort is to point out my view of the mindset of today and how my upbringing, my environment has formed my mindset. So we’ll return now to my past, to Newark’s past, and see this mindset take form.
Balentine brewery ruled the Down Neck section of Newark, with a major factory and office complex that stretched for blocks. Across from our house was the office and garage. Next to that building was a parking lot that stretched to the next parallel street, and taking up the last third of the block was the catholic school, which was part of Saint Aloysius parish. The brewery’s lot was a remarkable sight when a storm was approaching, with workers just standing there waiting, leaning on their snow shovels looking toward the sky. God help the first snowflake that fell and all its partners for they were gone in an instant. Our street was never clogged with snow; the beer trucks had to roll out of the parking lot unhampered. They did not move the snow they removed the snow, taking and dumping it in the Passaic River. At times, long after the parking lot was cleared of snow, the city streets were opened. The beer was delivered but the city government took a while to get going.
As I mentioned earlier, the building across from our house housed the truck wash for cleaning the beer trucks and the tractor trailer cabs, an endless procession of dark blue trucks sporting three golden rings. Our street was a narrow street with parking on both sides, and the locals knew not to park their cars directly across from the truck wash exit. Now the reason lies in the fact that they knew that instead of coffee breaks some of the drivers took beer breaks. Once the truck was washed, they would have to exit the building and make a sharp left, and sometimes the left was not quite sharp enough, as the unsuspecting person who found a good parking spot and could not figure out why it was vacant found out when they returned to their slightly bent automobiles.
Some of the trucks used for the brewery were themselves interesting. They were old trucks with hard rubber tires and driven by a chain drive connected to the rear axle. But somehow these trucks did not look out of place going down my street because for much of my early youth my street was paved with cobblestone. So, these trucks would rattle down my street carrying their loads of used grain from the brewery, stubbornly resisting progress.
Change seemed to come slowly to Newark in its vehicles and its people. We lived just four blocks from Hawkins Street School. Hawkins Street was a typical ‘Down Neck’ street with parking on both sides and just enough room for two-way traffic. It was the same elementary school my mother attended. In fact, her family once lived across the street from the school. While I was attending elementary school, two of her sisters and a brother, all of whom were unmarried, continued to live in the same two-family house rented by their parents.
While attending Hawkins Street School, I had the same first grade teacher my mother had and after that another two or three teachers that taught her. When we had an open house, and my mother would walk with me through the corridors of the school she once attended, she would point out changes in the school that had been made since she attended. The gym in use while I was there was new, however, the faded markings of the basketball court from the old gym were still on the floor of some of the nearby classrooms.
I have not returned to my grammar school since I graduated, with the exception of one of my sister’s graduations, but I have heard reports of the changes that have taken place from my nieces who also attended Hawking Street School. The changes were not for the best, gone is the library – classrooms, the cafeteria – is being used for classrooms. Changes happen to old cities and schools, and they are not always for the better. But people endure. People who want to learn, who want to succeed, seem to be able to do so in spite of the circumstances, in spite of what life has dealt with them. That is why, to this day, and it seems to increase with age, I have little sympathy for those who complain that everything is not going as it should for them to reach their full potential. I honestly feel that there is something inside us all – call it a spark – call it will or destiny – call it a road we start at birth and end at death, but we must be more than just a traveler, we must take control. Too many times, we look around and see what the world seems to offer and settle for the inevitable. Our future is in our hands if we only have the courage to grasp our potential and pursue our goals.
My mother’s fate was tied to Newark and so was that of some of her friends. I became friends with two boys who were the sons of friends my mother had in school. With one of these friends, I completed twelve years of school. I chanced to meet this friend after I had attended an out-of-state college and spent four years in the military, he had not left home. We no longer had anything in common. It was not the fact that I had left, and he had stayed, people just change.
The old neighborhood seemed to resist change. It was small, compact, and is to some extent to this day. You walked to church, you walked to school, and even downtown Newark was a short bus ride or a healthy walk away from my home. Nowadays, my kids have to be driven everywhere. They make no decision about whether or not to attend mass; I the driver have that power. When I was a kid, you looked out the parlor window and saw the church steeple two blocks away and heaven help you – literally – if you missed church. When you could walk, you were in control.
These are some of the memories, the feelings that remain with me of ‘Down Neck’ Newark, New Jersey. Time tends to erase the harsh memories; time and distance tend to smooth the rough edges. What I wanted to show here was that my hometown was not perfect, it was real. I know that there were better neighborhoods than mine, many not too far away, but I look at where I have come from and what I am and see the mark my youth has left. The past I carry within me, for better or worse, has made me the person that I am. And sometimes, in the situations that life presents, I am glad I carry within me a small part of ‘Down Neck’ Newark, and approach life not to grieve for what I don’t have but rejoicing for what I possess.
WALT TRIZNA: GROWING UP IN NEWARK
GROWING UP IN NEWARK
My youth and early childhood were spent in Newark, New Jersey. Since then, I have traveled the country, lived in either coast or in the Midwest, yet never left Newark totally behind. There is always a hint of Newark in my attitude, my approach to life.
Life changes, but the experiences that mold us come early instilling values we carry within us. It is with these values that we set out on this great adventure called life. My values were born on the gritty streets of Newark, New Jersey during the fifties and sixties. Life has molded me since then, but in my memories, there is still that young boy wandering down Newark’s city streets wondering what the future will bring.
This is a remembrance of my life as a young boy growing into manhood and of my hometown from 1947, the year of my birth, until I was nearly twenty-one. The story is of a family of six living in a two-bedroom cold water flat and just getting by.
I grew up in the ‘Down Neck” section of Newark, although I have no idea how the area got its name, but it may have something to do with the shape of the Passaic River as it passes by my area of Newark. As in any city, there are associated with sections of the town names whose meaning or significance has been long lost. My mother was born in a section of Newark that was called ‘The Island” although there was no water nearby.
Newark never seemed like such a bad place to me. When you have experienced nothing else, you have no means of comparison. I have returned to the area of Newark I once called home and walked the gritty streets of my old neighborhood with its brick storefronts and multiple family dwellings and the feelings of despair, surrounding me, were blocked out. The feeling of home dispelled, from my eyes, the visage of a poor and troubled city. No matter how destitute Newark becomes, it is the place where my young hopes were many and my dreams unlimited. Shortly after we were married, I took my wife Joni on a walk through the ‘Down Neck’ area of my youth, showing her the house where I once lived, where the tree used to stand under which I read as a child on hot lazy summer afternoons. And all she could see was filth and decay. She could not imagine the little boy sitting on a stump, under a tree lost in the world of Treasure Island or Moby Dick, books that brought promise and adventure to a young ‘Down Neck’ boy, but his ghost was there for me.
I still think of that small boy there sitting beneath a tree. Because, for better or for worse, what and who I am today was, in part, formed by what I learned beneath that tree, in that house and that Newark neighborhood. Where we begin life is beyond our control. What we do with that start is up to us, using the lessons our surroundings provide to improve the life we have been given.
I hope to explore three levels with this writing. First, remember what Newark was physically like and the memories that go hand in hand with growing up in a city that has had a constant black eye, a city whose reputation is known and not envied. I will recall the streets, the people and the events that make memories of what they are. The second is the emotions, hopes and dreams that were fostered by my youth, by the conditions under which I lived. The third and most important reason for this text is what I see in the world that surrounds me today. I am a quiet person, an observer of the world around me. It is these observations of today with the memories of yesterday that will fill these pages. I hope they kindle some memories you may carry, memories neglected but not forgotten.
WRITER’S WEBSITE: WRITER BEWARE BLOG
WEBSITES FOR WRITERS
Every year WRITER’S DIGEST published 100 best websites for writers. I took the list published in 2025 and selected what I thought were some of the best for this year and not repeated from last year. Here is one of them.
Before I post the next website for writers, which I feel is extremely important, I want to mention two other websites, one which no longer exists and one which does.
The one which no longer exists was Editors & Predators. This was an excellent website to check on publishers and agents to see what their reputation looks like. The reason I mention it is that I check it every so often since it ceased posting but every time I check I get a message that they are coming back.
The other website that still does exist which is of great importance is Absolute Water Cooler. This is a site for authors by authors. If you are going to deal with a publisher or agent you can go to this site and see what experience other authors have had with them. I will post a more extensive discussion of this site in the future.
Writer Beware Blog
WriterBeware.org
Covers scams and suspicious businesses that prey on writers.
Supported by Science Fiction & Fantasy Association, the Writer Beware Blog and WriterBeware.com aides writers in recognition frauds. Also helps writers stay current on publishing news.
WRITER’S WEBSITE: AUTHORS GUILD
WEBSITES FOR WRITERS
Every year WRITER’S DIGEST published 100 best websites for writers. I took the list published in 2025 and selected what I thought were some of the best for this year and not repeated from last year. Here is one of them.
The Authors Guild
AuthorsGuild.org
Oldest and largest organization for published authors.
Supports free speech and advocates for fair contracts. Also protects against AI.
Has five membership levels of varying price points.
WRITER’S WEBSITE: EQUITY DIRECTORY
WEBSITES FOR WRITERS
Every year WRITER’S DIGEST published 100 best websites for writers. I took the list published in 2025 and selected what I thought were some of the best for this year and not repeated from last year. Here is one of them.
Equity Directory
EquityDirectory.org
Created by Literary Agents of Change and it’s free. Helps querying authors find BIPOC (Black, Indigenous and People of Color) agents.
Gives information on agents participating in various communities such as the Association of American Literary Agents as to what queries they are seeking and offers connections to their websites.
Walttriznastories's Blog 