Our group gathered at the usual place and time on a day delayed by the New Year holiday. We were delighted to have Christa Rice as a guest at our table. She tells us she is working on a suspense novel - now we're all in suspense to hear it.

And we were much dismayed to learn that another of our suspense writers, Faye Tollison, had to undergo back surgery. Our prayers and best wishes are with you, Faye. Hope you are soon feeling right and back in the write place with us.

And I can't say "Thank you" enough to all of our readers who dare to share those intimate slices of their soul each month, and to our reviewers who gladly contribute their diverse talents and faithfully turn in timely texts that make Printed Matters come together.

Be looking for pictures and news of the Greenville Chapter in the upcoming Quill. It might not be quite as exciting as being on American Idol, but it doesn't require being "Simonized" either. Quill Editor, Peggy Cwiakala, also plans to include a reprint of "A Time for Every Purpose" from our January Printed Matters.

Before you endeavor to dazzle your sweetheart with that Valentine poem or love story, better give it a read before our distinguished panel of peers at The Open Book, Thursday, February 5th at 6:00 p.m.

John Helfrich / "I Wait (A tribute to Gypsy)"

There was hardly a dry eye in the room after John read his tribute to his Scottish sheep dog Gypsy. This emotional piece of refrain poetry covered Gypsy's life and passing from the dog's point of view as he spends his life waiting - for food, affection, and finally, for his owner to put an end to the pain. Everyone who has ever owned a dog felt that John hit the nail on the head.

There were no major suggestions for improvements on this piece. Some felt that the use of punctuation should be consistent - either all or nothing at all. Folks had a number of ideas about alternative wording and there was a little confusion about a couple of lines. But overall, John's piece provided an excellent insight into the lives of a pet and his owner.

After delving into short stories and essays for a while, John Migacz returned to writing novels. His latest, entitled A Second Chance, is far removed from his previous science fiction/fantasy work. He calls it "speculative fiction," in which one detail of the world is changed. His first excerpt did not discuss the particular change at issue, so I guess we'll just have to wait and see what it is.

This reviewer is big into titles, particularly because the perfect title for a book-length piece of fiction (or any other type of writing, for that matter) is often quite difficult to find. I feel that A Second Chance is just too generic and bland of a title. Maybe a better title will become more apparent as the story progresses.

The group's hot topic of discussion revolved around the repeated assertion by the narrator that Jolly, the main character, "just didn't care." It seemed that this description of Jolly contradicted what his actions revealed about his character. In the space of five pages, Jolly lost his temper twice, threatening an obnoxious co-worker and an unreasonable foreman. For someone who "just didn't care," this didn't seem appropriate. Moreover, Jolly smiled too much for someone who is either apathetic or chronically angry. It might be a good idea to get a firm grasp of Jolly's motivations and show them through action rather than narration so as to reduce the possibility of inconsistencies.

By the cryptic mention of "Cheryl" in the last paragraph, we can assume that the next installment will contain a lot of backstory. The telling of this backstory should give us insight into why "Jolly" is such an ironic nickname for the main character.

No bugs... no bats... not even a belfry! Wait a minute now... let's make absolutely sure of what we have here: Whimsical? Check. Gentle? Check. Makes you notice something often overlooked? Check. Shows a different viewpoint from the usual humdrum everyday ones? Check. Leaves you feeling a little better than when you arrived? Check.

OK, this is definitely Kami Kinard's writing. No doubt about it. Her essay "South Speak" is brim-full of her unique style and trademark humor, but it's for grown-ups this time. While we always enjoy her poems for youngsters, we were plumb tickled to find her talent expanding to a new audience.

With all the scads of essays and books instructing the rest of the world about how to speak properly (i.e.: like a born and bred southerner), Kami gently explains how to properly interpret the southern tongue and how to graciously interact with the natives of our region. The key to being a true southern lady or gentleman lies not so much in mastering words which flow so smoothly, but rather in the attitude which responds to those words. "It is the listener's responsibility then, to allow the speaker a gracious appearance.... In other words, you must permit the speaker to be generous with you, without taking them up on their offers."

As a fellow southerner, by birth and by breeding, I can say that Kami has certainly given us a most accurate, and ever gracious, reminder of what made southern hospitality so famous once upon a time. Her reminder is a timely one in this day and age of "in yo' face" and "me, me, me" attitudes.

You know, I do believe I have some pound cake out in the kitchen ... won't y'all have some?

In Chapter 18 of John Kingsbury's Trailer Trash Jake talks trash with his self-absorbed therapist, Marsha Meyers. The group liked this characterization of her, as most of us know the type. We also are allowed a glimpse of Dr. King, who is less than truthful about the reaction of alcohol to Jake's medication. Over the past few months John has given us interesting descriptions of several medical professionals, which is a fascinating aspect of the Jake's journey through the mental health system.

Chapter 18 reads smoothly, and gives details of Jake's childhood, dysfunctional for generations. We begin to see why Jake is having difficulties in his own relationship with Paige. John received a lot of positive feedback for his writing on this chapter. The group liked the flow of the piece, and some commented that they liked it even better than previous chapters. We hope to see more chapters like 18 in the coming months.

Having earlier escaped the wrath of road rage, Chris and his late lady love, Selena, find themselves lost in the labyrinth of Long Island in Kevin Coyle's latest installment of A Cool Dry Place. The hulking proximity of Shea Stadium, now a high security prison "surrounded by razor wire and watchtowers topped with sniper posts" fills the opening scene with dark forboding, and possibly hints at the cause of her demise. But Selena has more tender intentions. She suggests they park and enjoy the view, which Chris clearly does: "you had managed to slip off your silk tunic. Reclining there in the passenger seat, a coy smile on your lips.... I still see you that way. Every time I close my eyes."

But love has to take a back seat in this tale, punctuated with the erratic rhythms of the judge's gavel. Chris is replaying their brief sweet life together in his mind as he watches the trial of Selena's murderer. Though the trial does not surface in the scope of these pages, it is nevertheless the stage upon which these players fret and strut. Like Chris, we are anxious to learn the outcome.

I stepped into my study and almost stumbled over a pair of tanned legs propped on a stack of books surmounted by a cushion. The young woman, wrapped in my blue terry robe and laid back in my easy chair, one arm across her eyes, appeared to be asleep. She stirred, stretching the fingers of her extended hand.

"Comfy?" I inquired.

"Not now," she said. "I've got a headache."

"Could I get you some aspirin? An ice pack? Your name?"

She raised her arm and peered from beneath its shade. "Deal. Get me an ice pack and I'll give you my name."

In absence of the real thing, a baggie of ice wrapped in a dish towel had to suffice. "How elegant," she said and applied it gently to her forehead. "Ahhhhhh...."

"Long night, Miss...?"

She fixed an eye on me. "Now don't get carried away, okay? I'm Erato."

"The Muse of Love!?"

"Easy, boy! The Muse of Love Poetry." She laughed cynically. "Who am I kidding. The poetry went out of it with Cyranose de Bergerac. Now everybody just wants to hook up. The less linguistic falderal, the better."

"And that's getting you down?"

"You don't know the half of it, kid." Her arms disappeared within the robe; it looked for a moment like two cats fighting in a sack. Her hands popped back out the sleeves, one clutching her bra. She hung it from the back of the chair. "Do you have any idea how tough it is to keep up in a world obsessed with youth and beauty."

"I thought you immortals were immune to the ravages of your Uncle Chronus."

"Shows what you know; he was my grandfather." Wisps of her auburn hair fell across her face. She examined them. "Are my roots showing?"

"Looks fine to me," I said. "But what do I know."

She offered a wan smile. "Sorry. I don't mean to be so hard on you. It's just that you guys have been running me ragged since Viagra became the recreational drug of choice. I used to count on the gray heads ensconcing themselves at the city gate to dispense philosophy and justice. Now they're out there picking up girls."

"Business is good, then."

"Too good! Between Christmas, New Year's Day and, thanks to Time magazine, all the resolutions to better living through loving, I'm beat."

"And now Valentine's Day is coming up."

"Ooooh, don't remind me," she moaned. "Calgon, take me away!"

"I'm afraid we're all out of Mr. Bubble, but I have another cure to offer." She cast pleading eyes at me. "To borrow from the Bard, 'Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care.'"

She stretched and sighed. "Ummmm.... Nice thought, even if it is from one of his tragedies."

"Seriously, you can sack out in the guest room. I'll hang a 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the door."

"It's tempting," she said through a wistful smile.

"Go ahead. If anyone comes looking for you, I'll say you're off working on one of those 'reality TV' shows where they lock strangers up together like lab rats and gaze at them like voyeurs."

"My concierge, how sweet." She dropped her feet to the floor, gathered the robe around her and stepped out. She looked over her shoulder, a wicked gleam in her eye. "Once I get my nap out, it might be nice to have something warm and wild to snuggle with."

"I'll, uh... send in our cat, LucyFur."

Printed Matters is the newsletter of the Greenville Chapter, SCWW, which meets on the first Thursday of each month at 6:00 p.m. at The Open Book, 110 S Pleasantburg Drive, Greenville, SC.

Thanks to our contributing writers and news reporters: Marcia Migacz, Kevin Coyle, Carolyn Beaudrot and Kami Kinard.

Copyright 2004 by Leland Beaudrot, Editor. Contributing writers retain all rights to their work.