Promotions From Vendors Attending The 2019 Summer
Young Adult, ﬂash ﬁction, memoir
Clay Cormany is the author of two YA novels. Fast-Pitch Love (Astraea Press, 2014) combines the angst and thrill of teenage romance with softball competition. The Bullybuster (KDP, 2019) also involves a teenage romance as well as robots and revenge.
Before writing his novels, Clay spent over 25 years as a writer and editor for Ohio's State Board of Education. His creative work has appeared in numerous central Ohio publications, including the Columbus Dispatch and Spring Street, Columbus State Community College's literary magazine. He has also edited numerous books, including a three-volume biography of Christopher Columbus and A Death Prolonged by Dr. Jeff Gordon, which received coverage in the New York Times and on PBS.
Clay is involved in several writers group, including Writers' Ink and the GEM-C Writers of Columbus State Community College. In 2018, the latter group published Lost and Found: An Anthology of Poems, Memoirs, and Stories. Two of Clay's shorter works -- "Man vs, Squirrel" and "Losing Brian" -- appear in this volume.
When he is not writing, Clay enjoys reading and bicycling. He loves his wife Becky, and his children, stepchildren, and grandchildren. He is a tutor at Columbus State Community College and a committee member for the 1Girl Project, an initiative that seeks to develop the leadership potential of middle school and high school girls. He also supports literacy and arts programs, especially in his home community of Worthington. Clay tries to live by the Golden Rule and hopes to leave the world a better place than he found it.
MY “SMALL” ROAD TO PUBLICATION
But someday never seemed to come. Since my job with the Ohio Department of Education kept me writing speeches and reports throughout the workday, I often didn’t feel like writing when I got home. Even when I could muster the energy to do creative writing, something always pushed the book onto the “back burner.” Then came the cancer scare, the surgery, and the convalescence, which removed any excuses for delay.
In the following months, Fast-Pitch Love slowly took shape. Realizing girls read more than boys, I added a romance and changed the focus from boys’ baseball to girls’ softball. When my efforts finally produced a draft that seemed worthy of publication, I tried to find an agent. With hope and confidence, I queried 23 agents—and received 23 rejections. Indeed, out of the 23, only five or six even read the excerpt I sent with the query letter.
Discouraged, I considered self-publishing; however, I first wanted to try another route: publication through a small press. A speaker at a writers’ conference I attended suggested that as an alternative to aspiring authors. Small presses, he noted, didn’t require an author to have an agent, and they gave the author a stronger voice in managing his or her book.
After some research, I queried eight small presses that accepted unsolicited submissions from authors with YA books. Three never responded, three others rejected it, one liked the book but wanted changes unacceptable to me. Then came this response from Astraea Press:
Hi Clay! We happen to love Fast-Pitch Love. I’ve attached a contract for your review and signature. Let me know if you have any questions. Stephanie
The rest, as they say, is history. To date, Fast-Pitch Love has sold about 230 copies. So it didn’t take the literary world by storm or, as far as I know, change anyone’s life. But it was a story that had to be told, and no one but me could tell it. I’m glad I did.
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Promotions From Vendors Attending The 2019 Summer
Springfield OH Book Fair
About Kris Barringer
Since my first of many to come books is my autobiography title "Behind Every Smile" as well as my second book title "Walking Testimony" that'll be released Jan. 2018 I don't need to describe myself. For I'm now an open book to those who shall read my books. Thank you.
Behind Every Smile
Genre: Non-fiction, autobiography
"When it comes to an individual some can be defined as a statistics while others are made to stand out backing up the definition of unique. Statistics says I should have died, statistics said I was supposed to had suffered from down syndrome. Statistics also said I wouldn't be able to walk nor talk as well as having my mom mentally prepared to bury a child by the age of 5 however our GOD said otherwise. Every statistics that was thrown at me never prospered instead, the exact opposite happened and what the doctor's didn't expect to happen fortunately actually happened. However I did struggled with my disability but not how others assumed I'd struggle for it was more of a mental struggle than a physical struggle. Although I'm labeled as a disabled person my appearance may, will and shall fool you and throughout this book (and more to come) it will tell you why you should never judge a book by its cover regardless of who or what that person may appear to be for looks can and will be deceiving."
After explaining the situation to the judge and letting her know that I needed to take my chemistry test in two days, she let me go that Friday after I was processed in. Before I could leave, I was put on home detention. Probation required me to go home every day after school. I was not allowed to go anywhere with anyone, besides my mother, my probation officer, or grandfather, Papa Toby. Since I was scheduled to take the test that next morning, the school’s probation officer took me and other students, including her son, to take the test at Central Catholic High School. After the test, the probation officer took me home, but Mom was not there. So, she dropped me off at Papa Toby’s house where I spent the night. I went home Sunday night.
Less than 12 days later, I was back in the same place after coming from Meka’s house where I got my hair done. Mom called the police again. The only reason I was at Meka’s house was to avoid getting hit again. After my hair was done, I went back home. To my surprise, Mom offered me some ramen noodles. As I ate them on the steps, I was greeted with more police officers who escorted me back to the detention center where I finished my noodles before being processed in again.
I thought I would be released, but I had another think coming. Going to court the next day, not only did my mom not come, but I was sent back upstairs where I watched a movie called Precious. After the movie, I was in my feelings. During recreation time, I stayed to myself until a staff member started talking to me. Like an overflowing cup, I poured out everything that was going on at home, from beatings to starvation, to having to steal food just to survive. She let me talk to a social worker. I cried telling her the same story. Since Christmas Eve was the next day, I knew I would be spending the holidays in jail.
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First, let's get this out of the way: I hate gardening, but I love gardens.
When I was a kid, my mother kept large vegetable gardens (yes, plural) and several large flowerbeds. She loved gardening. Only arthritis stops her from doing it now. I grew up eating produce from Mom's garden, whether fresh, canned, frozen, pickled, or jellied. With a large family, a vegetable garden made good sense, being a frugal use of limited funds to serve voracious appetites. What I remember about the vegetable garden was absolutely hating being told to weed (and, frankly, I did little weeding at all). I didn't like digging, picking vegetables, or anything about the garden except what it produced to suit my finicky taste. The garden represented a lot of hot, sweaty, backbreaking work for what I childishly perceived as grossly inadequate reward.
Mom must have felt much the same, because after she and Dad moved south, she focused on flowers instead of vegetables. She took a lot of pride in her vegetables and flowers, entering open competitions at the county fair and doing quite well. She established a tradition among the equestrian 4-H groups using hanging plants to decorate the portions of the horse barns the clubs occupy. Truly, no one thought to do that until she brought basket after basket of flowering plants and hung them from the rafters above the aisle between the rows of stalls. Thirty-five years later, 4-H clubs are still doing that.
I grew up with flowers everywhere: snapdragons, daisies, roses, baby's breath, petunias, salvia, irises, lilies, tulips, crocuses, daffodils, jonquils, and a whole host of others I can't remember or name. (Strangely enough, I can't remember Mom ever planting columbine, which is one of my favorites.) However, I still loathe weeding and regard gardening as hot, dirty, sweaty, backbreaking work.
I'd rather muck stalls. (Which, yes, is hot, dirty, sweaty, backbreaking work.)
I enjoy strolling among public gardens, not that I actually do that much at all. But on the rare occasion that I do go, I enjoy it. I like the smell of verdant growth and damp soil, the fragrance of flowers. That reminds me that I need to spend a lot less time hunched over my computer and more time outside.
Excerpt from Daughter of the Twin Moons by Holly Bargo
Cancer. The terminal diagnosis paralyzes Catriona. Both saved and imperiled, she must navigate a new, immortal life as mate to the Captain of the Seelie Palace Guard.
In obedience to the oracle’s command, Thelan abducts a human woman and takes her to the Deepwood where she is unmade and remade by ancient magic. Thus given his mate, he quickly finds himself enamored of her spirit, intelligence, and uncommon beauty. She arouses his passion and challenges both his control and authority at every turn.
Thelan needs to win the heart and trust of this untraditional female whom he’s determined to keep and protect from those who covet control over the moon-born’s legendary influence.
Catriona sat in her car, head bowed and white-knuckled hands clenched on the steering wheel. She leaned her head back against the headrest and tried to absorb the test results. It couldn’t be worse.
Stage IV ovarian cancer.
Intensive chemotherapy might--might--give her a few more months, but would those months be worth living? Should she call hospice care now or wait, because she was fairly sure she did not want to endure the misery of chemotherapy. She sighed and let the tears fall unheeded as she wrapped her mind around the dismal prognosis.
She was going to die, sooner rather than later.
How would she tell her husband? Her children? Her granchildren? Her elderly parents? Should she quit her job now and enjoy what time was left to her? What about insurance? She sighed again, sniffled, not knowing the answers and too stunned by the diagnosis to fully accept it yet. It didn’t seem quite real.
She drove home, went about her usual routine, claimed to be tired, and went to bed early. Her husband glanced after her retreating figure, questions and concerns unspoken. Catriona would tell him what was bothering her when she was ready and not a minute before.
The next day she got up and went to work as usual, letting her subconscious mull over her situation until she could figure out what to do. Her coworkers never suspected anything.
You've heard of method actors, right? Dustin Hoffman, Daniel Day-Lewis, Robert DeNiro, Nicholas Cage, and Jim Carrey are method actors. According to Dictionary.com, method acting is "a technique of acting in which an actor aspires to complete emotional identification with a part." When I ghostwrite stories for other people, I internalize the characters in order to bring them to life on the page. Their voices become my voice when writing. I hear them and feel them in my mind. I imagine being possessed might feel like that.
Now tell me how that doesn't play into one's emotions. No wonder writers have a reputation for mental instability.
Method writing means living with the characters and stories one writes about because they occupy one's mind. That extends into the interaction between ghostwriter and client, because--even though I can't read minds--I have to attempt to channel the author's intentions, thoughts, and attitudes. It's a deeply personal and intimate relationship that takes its toll on the writer's mind and emotions when the project does not go well. When it does go well, it's wonderful and validating.
If you want a ghostwriter who invests her heart and mind into a client's project, then I'm your gal.
Of course, not all the emotional investment and trauma comes from writing. Sometimes it comes from a mismatch between ghostwriter and client. I recently ended a project that suffered from just such a mismatch. It was ugly.
I am lucky to have signed on another client and hope that this ghostwriting project goes well, that the relationship remains amicable. I have to allow hope to spring eternal, or I'll retreat even further into introversion and avoid people even more than I do now. (When the younger son came home to visit, he spent a good portion of the time hiding in his old bedroom. "He's even more antisocial than I," I remarked to a friend. "Not possible," she replied.)
The fast slide into depression beckons. I can see it. I can feel it. I need to protect myself from it and rise above it to some semblance of emotional and mental equilibrium.
I wonder how method actors cope.
Hard boiled, scrambled, over easy, and sunny side up: eggs are the musings of Holly Bargo, the pseudonym for the author.
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