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Message from Luglenda From the day Charles Langley joined the New Writers' List he has become dear to my heart. I know that sounds like an emotional statement, and not at all objective--but it is becoming increasingly difficult for me to think of Charles in any way other than a man who is sensitive, empathetic, positive, a giving person anxious to share his many talents indiscriminately to all members of the New Writers' List. How can one remain objective when thinking of such a great person? Charles' talents amaze me. He writes thought-provoking stories that bring laughter and tears to his readers. His talents seem to have no bounds, his subject matter no limits. He is my mentor. If our list had one person who acts as the primary 'motivator' and 'encourager' to achieve our dreams to be a regularly published author, it is Charles Langley. He is what I hope to become, as a writer and author--successful, gracious, and giving. Read his interview and some of his works, and you will get a small idea of the man, himself. You can best come to appreciate his dedication by joining the New Writers' List and benefiting from his shared wisdom. This page is for you, Charles. It is meant to show in a very small way, how much we have all come to appreciate and rely upon you--and yes, grown to love you. Luglenda S. McClain
How do you find time to write? Finding the time to write is no problem with me, because I live alone and am long retired. Also, my type of fluff takes little time. I usually come up with a title or a character, and roll it around in my mind. When I sit down to write the story I run straight through it in an hour or so and seldom go back to refine it or polish it. (I fear this often shows in the final product.) I have no idea when I start how it will end. Often the final kicker is a delightful surprise to me. Then I have to hope someone elso will like it too. When did you first start writing? I started serious writing while in elementary school by contributing to the high school paper. By the time I reached Junior High I was Issue Editor of the paper on and off and was writing for local newspapers. I probably decided I wanted to write when I read my first book. Then I began writing as often as I could and reading everythingin sight. Everyone around inspired me to write. They accepted me and I loved doing something other people thought worth-while. Who are some of your favorite authors and why? In my earlier days my favorite authors were Shakespeare, Dickens, DeMauppasant, Faulkner, Thomas Wolfe, and O. Henry. Today I read Ed McBain, John MacDonald, Robert Parker and Elmore Leonard. These are all excellent writers, although their subject matter is on the light side. Why do I read them? Because they are master craftsmen. Tell us a little about your writing experience. In my early days of crusading journalist I wrote for newspapers and labor magazines. I wrote a column for four years in a weekly newspaper and had a brief run as radio columnist. I had poetry published in a book assembled by a popular radio poet. Since starting again, I have been published in half a dozen E-zines and have had poetry in Poetfest "Origins" anthology on the net. What are your goals as a writer? My goals as a writer are simple. To enjoy myself. I hope I can bring a little enjoyment to others, as well. What do you most enjoy writing? What do I most like to write? Humorous dialect or tear jerker stories. What does your family and friends think of you being a writer? My son and his wife read everything I write. My nine year old grand-daughter reads what is suitable. My five year old twin granddaughters have to listen to my oral stories. What other "passions" do you have besides your writing? What are my passions? My granddaughters!
Write because you love to write. If fame and fortune should intervene, they are a bonus. If not, you are still a success because you are doing something you love to do. Although there is much advice to the contrary, I still think you should write about things you know. If you are writing science fiction, or fantasy, or alternate world stories, write about things you know, fitting your facts into these alian settings. I feel that all writing should have a rhythm and flow. That a hook should reach out and pull you in and then the story itself should propel you along with little or no effort on your part. Like floating on a leaf in a gentle stream. Sometimes I pick up a book that is beautifully written, keeping in mind all the rules and regulations of the art, but which makes me feel as if I'm walking through a river of molasses in hip boots. I quickly put it down. That type of writing is for people who read because they should read. Not for those who read because they love it. Now that you've written it, what do you do? You begin the job that is harder than the creation of the work. You look for a place to publish it. Make certain before you submit your work that the publisher uses material such as yours. You get this information from Submission Guidelines furnished by the publication. If you send for them be sure to enclose a stamped self-addressed envelope. Or look for them in Writer's Digest magazine or in the latest Writer's Market at the local library. Follow the guidelines to a 'T'. If they tell you to query first, don't send a manuscript before they tell you to. Some editors want a cover letter. Some feel it is a waste of time. Respect their wishes. Be certain to address your submission to the attention of the editor handling your type writing. And, please, spell his or her name right. Samples of cover letters or query letters should be available at the library. If you can't find them and need a sample, e-mail me.
Author's Note
Tombstone by Charles Langley The stranger wore a brand-new ten-gallon hat that had never held water and still had that store-boughten smell. His chambray shirt was starched and ironed and had fancy little stitches around the pocket. His belt, wide and hand-carved, had obviously never supported a six-shooter and his polished high-heeled boots were sported no spurs. He was a dude, that’s what he was, an out and out dude. "I hear tell this town of Tombstone has some real tough hombres," he said, lookin’ right at me. "Know any of ‘em?" "If they’re here and they’re tough, I know ‘em," I told him. "Even if they ain’t tough, I still know ‘em. Ain’t enough hombres around for me not to know ‘em." "Who’s the fastest man with a gun in these parts?" "That’s probably Two-Toe Thompson. He’s so fast he can shoot hisself in the foot twice before the other gun-slinger clears leather." "He’s real dangerous, then?" "Only to boots and toes. They call that high spot over yonder ‘Boot Hill’ cause that’s where he buries his shot-up footwear." "How come the other guy, after he finally gets his six-gun outta the holster, doesn’t gun him down?" "Man hoppin’ around on one foot and howling like a turpentined dog kin be very distracting and hard to hit. Fella usually empties his gun and then rolls around laughing so much he cain’t reload." "Guess what I want to know is who’s the best shot of the lot?" "That’d be Dead Eye Dickson. They call him that cause one eye ain’t no good for seeing. But usin’ the other eye he kin shoot the horn offen a horned-toad. Only he wouldn’t shoot at a toad. Only wastes his lead on pop bottles and tin cans. Says they’s so few hombres around that men are more important than reputations. Won’t even shoot a prairie dog. Says they got a place in nature’s plan. People never mess with him ‘cause with idees like that they know he’s plumb loco. Besides, if he ever got it into his mind to start shooting people, wouldn’t be nothin’ left but prairie dogs and horned toads." "Who would you say has the most notches on his gun?" "Ole Jess Willard. He never does any shooting, but when the gunfire gits too loud he’s liable to walk up and whomp one of the gunmen aside the head with the butt of his gun. Hates loud noises. They ain’t so much notches as they are nicks where the headbone cracks into the gunbutt." "I hear tell Wyatt Earp used to hole up here. Tell me about him." "Not much to tell. Always set in a corner so’s nobody could git behind him. Stood with his back to the wall. I always thought his pants wuz split up the back, or something, but I walked in behind him once and he warn’t showing any more behind than anybody else." "What do they call you?" "Depends on whether they’re bigger than me. Iffen they are, they call me anything they want.. Otherwise, I’m known as Doc Holliday. I pull teeth in that room in back of the barber shop. While back some writer feller come to town and wrote a piece about how dangerous I wuz. Didn’t nobody come in with a tooth-ache for months after that." "Didn’t Billy the Kid stop here for a while?" "Yes siree. Used to deliver groceries for Ron Teller down at the general store. Had to git rid of him though because of his gun-play. Everbody shoots at tin cans once in a while, but he shot at the one’s he was delivering. People don’t cotton to gittin’ their canned peaches with all the juice drained out through bullet holes. Some say he put a hole in twenty-one cans afore he was sixteen years old and they run him outta town." "By the way, if anybody want’s to know who you been talking to, I’m Bat Masterson. Used to be Sheriff of Abilene. Real rootin’ tootin’ shootin’ son-of-a-gun. I’ll be a legend in my own time if I can just git someone to write my story the way I tell them to. Until then, I write for the sports page of the New York Telegram. Real tough town. Take your life in your hands every day just riding those trolley cars. Lend me your gun, I’ll show you some fancy shooting." I handed him my Colt revolver. He twirled it around his finger, made "bang, bang" noises and then accidentally pulled the trigger and shot off his big toe. Like he said, rootin’ tootin’ shootin’ son of a gun. Legend in his own time. (c) 1999 Charles Langley
by Charles Langley PG: Adult content, Language Women handle the loss of the man they love in various ways. With Melanie it was in silent, private grief that would last through the days of her life. "We were high school sweethearts," she told me. "When he went off to college, it nearly broke my heart. All that distance between us, and the fear that some prettier and brighter girl would steal him away. But he came back the same loving person that he was when he went away, and as soon as he got a job to support us, we got married." She sat straight backed in the brown leather chair. The single lamp placed a soft glow on a face that any man could have loved and on the auburn tresses that cascaded to her shoulders. Dark lashed hazel eyes looked with love at the silver-framed picture that she held in well-groomed hands. A plain gold band graced her finger. She continued, "He was the gentlest, most caring person I’ve ever known. So many times through the years a messenger would show up with roses or candy for no reason at all. The card would read ‘Just because you’re you’. We would watch television together and he would hold my hand, like a newly-wed. He worked hard, sometimes on two jobs at the same time. It cut into our time together, but he wanted to be sure that I would be taken care of when he was gone. I fully think that he stopped fighting to live, because he was afraid he would be a burden on me. That was the way he was. Always protective, always loving." She dabbed at her eyes with a scented, lacy handkerchief. I knew how severe the loss was to her, but I also knew that she was still holding their love in her heart and that it would sustain her. Cybil was in sharp contrast to Melanie. She was dressed in a severely cut dark business suit that would have made most women look unfeminine. On her it brought out the softness and sexual side that was apparent even on this sad occasion. She was a woman who had learned to stand up to adversity and to turn it to her advantage and she had no intention of letting this loss ruin her life or even her lunch. She was starting her third glass of Cordon Bleu champagne when she told me about the man who had left her life. "I don’t think he really loved me, and I’m not certain that I loved him. I doubt if he was capable of real love. But he was the sexiest hunk that ever came down the pike, and our time in the sack was the best of all worlds. He was honest with me and told me right off the bat that he loved his wife and had no intention of leaving her. That understood, we hit it off great. I didn’t need marriage to prove that I was desirable, and my salary topped his so I certainly didn’t need support. He was pleasant, literate, and fun to be with. I’ll miss him. But I’ll cope." She reached for the champagne bottle. Martha didn’t fit the mold for a grieving lover. Bitterness was her stock in trade. She lit one cigarette from the butt of another and let the ashes drop on her flowered house-dress. Her hair was having a bad day and her lipstick was smeared. The room could have used the attention of a pair of hourly "on demand" maids and her mood could have done with an uplifting. "He was a selfish, self-serving son of a bitch," she said. "For the best years of my life he kept me hanging, knowing that I wanted a home and children. Each time we talked about marriage, there was something that had to be resolved before we could take the step. Now, at my age, what chance do I have of finding a husband? I sacrificed everything for him. My family, my career, my self respect. I hope he rots in hell." I had heard enough, so I excused myself and found my own way out. Three women. Three ways of facing loss. But they did have something in common. Each clutched a picture of the same man. Melanie would live with her deep love. Cybil would cope, with the help of alcohol. Martha would climb into the bathtub and slash her wrists. Three women. Three ways of facing loss. (c) 1999 Charles Langley
by Charles Langley We continually strive to take the worst features out of war. Nerve gas and bacterial warfare are banned. Land mines are limited. Air strikes are concentrated on pinpoint bombing of strategic targets. Safety of prisoners of war is protected. As a long-time military man, I should approve of these measures. I am not sure I do. Perhaps the best way would be to make war so horrendous, so horrible, that even a crazed zealot couldn’t stomach it. The machinist who shaped and assembled the bomb sight was a good man. He worked long hours and seldom if ever complained about the war bureau control of his pay. Of course, he did make many times the pay of those in combat, but what did that have to do with the scarcity of butter? He was behind on the production schedule the rate setting engineers had specified and he saw little chance of catching up. So when the unit he was working on was slightly out of limits, he passed it anyway, feeling that if the variation made a difference the inspector would throw it out. The inspector was a good man. But in statistical quality control he was more interested in sigmas, deltas and other statistical variations than in bombsights. Besides, the difference could be attributed to build up of tolerances and certainly wouldn’t be felt. The bomber pilot was a good man. He accepted the workings of his job and had gradually become inured to the worst facets of it. When a sudden tailwind drove him slightly off target, he hit the release anyway. With thousands of pounds of high explosive falling from his plane and those around him, what difference would a slight error make? The pastor of the small church certainly was a good man. He served his flock faithfully. When circulars fell from the sky warning of a bombing attack on the defense sight he went along with the authorities who felt that moving all civilians from the area increased the chances of such a strike. The congregation of the church was good; all of the men, women and children. Having just completed mass and confession, they were in a state of grace in the eyes of God when the bomb hit them. The enemy press harshly criticized this barbarous on purpose bombing of women and children. Our papers concentrated on the number of lives that would eventually be saved by this highly successful attack on the enemy war materials factory. The common people on both sides hardly found time in their stressed lives to give much thought to the situation. After all, they thought, things were bound to turn out right in a world made up mostly of good men.
(c) 1999 Charles Langley
by Charles Langley PG: Violence He showed up at the back door in the heat of the July day. Even with a three day growth of beard and hair that concealed his ears it was obvious that if cleaned up he would be a copy of the all American boy. Despite the sweltering heat his army field jacket was fully buttoned, and there was not a trace of sweat on his face. "Could I get a glass of water, please," he asked. His voice confident and his diction good. "Wouldn't you rather have cold lemonade?" Emily asked. She was looking at the son she used to have. When she looked at any handsome young man, she was looking at the son she used to have. Before reefers, before angel dust, before needle tracks up the arm took their toll. "Thank you Ma'am. I sure would" he said, and gave her a smile like the one she almost remembered. With the young man sitting across from her at the kitchen table she seemed to be at peace with the world. But the mood was fleeting. Memories kept coming back to haunt her. "My husband (she almost said 'Dad') will be home soon. We're having an early supper. Wouldn't you like to stay and take pot-luck with us? "I wouldn't want to be any bother," he told her. But the thought of a home-cooked meal lured him in. After eating, he helped clear the table and then sat with Dave on the porch and drank more lemonade. "I'm on vacation from Duke. Bumming around the country to see what I'll be up against when I graduate," he said. The older man didn't answer. He was thinking about the look on Emily's face when she was serving the meal. It was almost like the good old days. Before their world fell apart. The pleasant thought came to an end, and the deep pain was back. Emily finished in the kitchen and joined them. "Maybe you'd like to stay around here a while," she suggested. "We could give you enough work to take care of your board, and maybe a little pocket money to tide you over." "Like I said, Ma'am, I wouldn't want to be any bother." Dave knew it was a bad idea. Maybe it would ease the pain for a little while, but when it came to an end she would be hurt again. But he couldn't deny her any wish. "I could use some help," he offered, "and you could set your own hours." That's how it started. And it got better as it went along. Hal, for that was his name, helped out around the farm. He dried dishes while Emily washed. His manner was pleasant and he seem to feel at home. Emily's manner changed. Her color was better. Occasionally she was heard to sing a few lines of a song. Dave knew it was just a brief respite, but he felt better, knowing that Emily felt better. They gave Hal some of the clothes that had been packed away for a time, and he took over the bedroom that had been closed off for so long. Dave gave him the keys to the car, and he occasionally used it for a night out. As the end of summer approached, Emily felt a sense of dread. She wondered if Hal could be induced to come back for the holidays. Maybe even to spend time here again next summer. It was like the times before--but she daren't think about that. Best to enjoy the while without reliving the past. Dave and Hal had grown to be good friends. They fished together when farm chores allowed, and shot at clay pigeons with Dave's over and under shotgun. Hal grew to be more and more like one of the family. Then the idyll came to a close. Dave was in the den with the safe open. A stack of money, results of a paid up mortgage, lay on the desk while Dave rearranged the contents of the safe to make room for it. He didn't know he had company until he heard the safety being taken off the shotgun. That was the last thing he ever heard. Emily heard the shot and came running. The gun boomed a second time. When the police got there, Hal and the car were gone. The admissions officer at Duke had no record of anyone with his name. Since he had worn an army field-jacket, military records were searched to no avail. He came from nowhere and retreated back into that void. *********** The farm wife heard a knock at the door and looked out through the screen. A young man, looking a little the worst for wear, gave her an all American smile. "Could I bother you for a glass of water?" he asked. "No bother at all," she answered. He looked like such a nice boy. "Won't you come in?"
(c) 1999 Charles Langley
To View of More of Charles' Work Visit: Once at the Women's World site you will need to look for these titles by Charles Langly: Charles Langley has Recently Joined the Quill Writing Magazine as a Contributing Editor, Writing a Monthly Column!
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