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About Literature / Professional Official Beta Tester doughboycafeSpain Group :iconthewrittenrevolution: theWrittenRevolution
The words are the spark.
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Becoming BrianThe soldier coming up on him was swaying, limping, climbing wearily up the stony street towards the terrace. He walked like an old man, thought Brian Strong, though he was scarcely older than Brian himself. He dragged himself along, tripping over the cracks in the cobblestones, hauling behind him a filthy rucksack all covered in gray trench clay. Pausing by the café, the old boy took off his garrison cap and worried it between his black-tipped fingers.
"Well, hey," said Brian Strong. "Sit down and have a drink on me."
Regarding him for a moment, the soldier conceded and sat.
Brian Strong ran his hands over a perfectly polished uniform and propped his shiny-shoed feet up on the trumpet case under his table. The fellow soldier opposite him rested his head on his hand and, though his eyes seemed hollow, Brian thought with a good night's sleep and a shave he'd be right as rain. He looked like a man who had seen things, thought Brian, and done things. A worldly man. He saw now that t
Analise April, 1921
Kaysersberg, Alsace

"And we could get a little house," she continued. "Somewhere near the coast. I hear it's still nice by the coast."
"Sure," he said.
"You don't think so?"
"No, it is."
She snuggled close to him, putting her head against his chest, pressing her shoulder up in the crook of his arm. She was so small. "I always did think a cottage would be nice. In Biarritz, maybe."
"Mm."
"You're right, too many tourists in Biarritz. Maybe south, towards the mountains. We could have a nice little cottage down by the mountains. Near the sea."
"Yes, we could."
She lifted her face; her radiant, round face framed with the loose curls of white gold hair tumbling down around it. She smiled and her little pink cheeks lifted. "And we could have children."
Marc laid his head back against the pillow and closed his eyes. "Isn't it pretty to think so?"
"Do you love me?"
"Yes."
"Tell me again."
"I love you."
"Do you really have to go tomorrow?"
"I do."
"I don't see what need there

Christmas on the Border of England and Over ThereIt's snowing on Christmas Eve, and half the men I've ever known in my life are dead. But that was in the war, supposedly a long way away from Oxfordshire, where I am standing outside my brother-in-law's beautiful brownstone house watching the snow quietly cover the hillside beyond. The daylight is dying and it casts the once-white ground in pink, and the pine trees are black against the hillsides, and the truth of it is that the war is not far away because it has followed me here. I am smoking a cigarette, watching the hill, and my mind is slowly counting down the list of men that I once knew, now buried under hills and snow, all of the way from Lorraine to the Rhine. Some of them were my men.
Being an officer is like being a parent; when I left my boys in Paris, despite the Armistice, and despite how many times I reminded myself that they are not my children but in fact, grown men, I felt guilty, and frightened. Land mines don't know that the war has ended, and neither does hunger.
A Guide to Writing Combat-Related Mental IllnessComing Back from Combat: A Writer’s Guide to Combat Related Psychological Illness in Fiction
The aim of this guide is simple: plenty of people want to write about war, to explore it, to understand it and understand soldiers they know who are in it or have come from it. But, often times putting the aftermath, the pain, and the psychological impact war has on the mind into words is difficult to do well.
This guide exists to help fiction writers accurately portray psychological disorders in their work, because the people who suffer from these disorders and their loved ones deserve honesty and do not deserve to be misrepresented. The guide is here to help writers understand how these disorders come about, how they are treated, and how to think critically about how they might impact the person who has them.
I. Introduction
1. A disclaimer, and polemics.
2. Why are you writing a psychological illness into your story?
3. Terms you should be familiar with for this

And Two Years After That Night in Nasiriyah, now in storage.

DLDs

And Here Is JohnParis, 1917
Here is John, beside me again. Sometimes when we meet he gives me a small, courtly bow. Other times he’s tired and he can only muster up a smile as the words “Bonjour, ma belle,” fall out of his mouth. Sometimes his eyes burn feverishly, sometimes they’re dull, sometimes he’s drunk. It depends on where he’s been that day. There are only two things constant about my John: he always manages to smile, and I can always see the fear deep in every line on his face.
Paris is grim; the front is moving closer to the city, and we’re losing more battles than we’re winning. John spends his time here waiting, and afraid. He lost in these brown streets among these brown buildings, as are all the uniformed boys playing soldier.
Only they are not playing, really. Not anymore. Time is short for him, and the front lines rise up and loom in the darkness. He will meet them again soon. He is like a starving man, needing a good meal and a ki
Yellow Brick FrontThe bakery at the end of the block had a yellow brick façade, so you could always pick it out as soon as you turned off the main drag onto the cross street, and it's what made the street famous. Between the rows and rows of look alike houses with slanted roofs and same-old red brick fronts, there stood the bakery like a golden gift wrapped box waiting to be opened.
It had everything you possibly could have imagined; the gooiest chocolate chip cookies, the sweetest pizzelles, and the fluffiest, richest bread. Half a block away you could smell you were coming up on it, and every Sunday the baker who owned it would bring his trays out to the sidewalk – as long as the weather provided – and share a few free sugar cookies and lemonade with anyone who passed by. Everyone in the neighborhood went there. They couldn't think of going anywhere else.
The baker himself was almost always behind the counter covered in flour with his big, calloused hands deep inside a pile of dough. He

Becoming BrianThe soldier coming up on him was swaying, limping, climbing wearily up the stony street towards the terrace. He walked like an old man, thought Brian Strong, though he was scarcely older than Brian himself. He dragged himself along, tripping over the cracks in the cobblestones, hauling behind him a filthy rucksack all covered in gray trench clay. Pausing by the café, the old boy took off his garrison cap and worried it between his black-tipped fingers.
"Well, hey," said Brian Strong. "Sit down and have a drink on me."
Regarding him for a moment, the soldier conceded and sat.
Brian Strong ran his hands over a perfectly polished uniform and propped his shiny-shoed feet up on the trumpet case under his table. The fellow soldier opposite him rested his head on his hand and, though his eyes seemed hollow, Brian thought with a good night's sleep and a shave he'd be right as rain. He looked like a man who had seen things, thought Brian, and done things. A worldly man. He saw now that t
The Fox BrideThe sky is a kind of periwinkle; dusky and undecided if it is lavender or blue, and the full leaves of the chestnut trees are black against the sodium backlight from the streetlamps. Ethereal is the word for them, as within the wrought iron casings are nothing more than softly glowing orange globes. They may as well be faery lanterns.
But that is my imagination running away with me again, so I bring my attention back down from the sky and the leaves and the imaginary world that lies in the space between them, back to the quiet pleasure of my company. She's done up in scarlet tonight, which is my favorite color on her, and one she so rarely wears at home, but it complements her olive skin and her dark hair and makes her shine. She's smiling at me again in that way that says she knows I was drifting and it amuses her.
"Where did you go just now?" she asks.
"Sorry, darling."
"It's alright, but do I wonder where you go."
"Oh, up among the trees."
"Is it pleasant there?"
"Yes," I smile at h

And Two Years After That Night in Nasiriyah, now in storage.

Interviews & Reviews

Being Historical with doughboycafeHistory is cool. I could try to explain why, but if you aren't already interested, there's a better way to get on board: read and/or write historical fiction. Only...I can't say anything there, I don't know anything about historical fiction!
Luckily, dA has a strong cadre of historical fiction writers. I (metaphorically) sat down with one of the outstanding, doughboycafe:
What is "historical fiction"?

I think that it is, quite simply, fiction set somewhere in history. Though it usually draws on one or more actual events, we get to make up the whos and the whys and the hows.
That isn't to say it isn't accurate, however. Historical fiction, good historical fiction, is well researched and the details of the time period, social situation, and culture should reflect real ideas, technology, and cultural values. 

If you have to do the same amount of research, why not nonfiction?

I guess that all depends on your
Daily Lit Deviant - @doughboycafeDaily Lit Deviant is an article put out on a daily basis throughout the year that is devoted to showing the work and accomplishments of one writer per article and presenting exemplary pieces of their work. It is based off of bowie-loon123's series of articles of the same name.
Join me in welcoming doughboycafe as our Daily Lit Deviant for January 6th, 2014.
Nominated by NicBelroque
:icondoughboycafe:
doughboycafe is the definitive resource for all things military fiction on deviantART, and her gallery exemplifies her love for crafting realistic, accurate fiction in a war-torn setting.

The guide above deals with mental illness sustained from combat, and there is nothing quite like it on deviantART. Anybody with any intentions to create a believable character should read and take something from this guide.
What

Writers of the Revolution, July 21Featured WRITER
doughboycafe
Featured by SilverInkblot
Reading work from doughboycafe is a matter of investing your time – her pieces are often dense and long, but your investment will be returned tenfold. I, as a matter of personal taste, have never cared much for war stories, be it in my literature or my movies, yet the works below sucked me right in.

Becoming Brian
"He crawled on his belly through the thick jungle of the Argonne Forest and he covered himself in the gray French clay. His fingertips went black from cleaning his rifle. He tripped while running over a field and looked up just in time to see the rest of the squad mowed down by machine gun fire - they landed one by one on the hard ground, nothing but tatters and holes. He shot a boy in the head. He ran out of bullets and gored a man with his knife, and his fing
The Saturday Spotlight for August 25th, 2012Guidelines | How to Suggest a DLD | Group Administrators | Affiliation | Chatroom | Current Staff Openings
 
Saturday Spotlight for August 25th, 2012
Daily Literature Deviations is proud to feature this special recognition article!
You can show your support by :+fav:ing this News Article. We hope this gives you some insight into
the person behind the art.
Please comment and :+fav: the features and congratulate the artist!
 
Artists will be featured in a specia

Artist Interview - DoughBoyCafeArtist Interview with Professional Travel Writer http://doughboycafe.deviantart.com/ who has received a number of DD's with a recent DD being awarded for the piece A Guide to Writing Combat-Related Mental Illness at link http://doughboycafe.deviantart.com/art/A-Guide-to-Writing-Combat-Related-Mental-Illness-383688095. We have interviewed him below on his art.
1. What type of art do you do?
I am a fiction writer. I also do non-fiction work, but it’s mostly for my work, or in the form of guides. I consider my art and love to be a writer of fiction.
2. Have you attended education for your artwork, or are you self-taught? Do you do your art professionally or as hobby?
I have never attended classes for writing, no, but I wouldn’t say I’m entirely self-taught. My background is in History and Anthropology, which really helps me in writing because I primarily write historical fiction. My school study gave me a strong background in my material, and after that, I did coursework

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Historical Flash Fiction Contest: Results

Journal Entry: Sat Apr 5, 2014, 11:15 AM


Well, we finally made out decision. It was definitely not easy, because we had so many entries on so many different interesting topics. First, we want to share the topics and fiction we received.

Contestants submitted pieces on the French Revolution, two pieces on World War One, the Battle of Forli, the Vietnam Conflict, India in the 1820's, the Battleship Bismark, the Trail of Tears, four entries on World War Two, Australia's Stolen Generation, India at the turn of the century, the USA during segregation, and the Sand Creek Massacre. Phew. That's a lot of history! Click any of the links above to read the entries, and all of them are complete with sources for anyone who wants to learn more. (note that each word in WWII has a different link).

Thanks to all the contestants, not only for the entries, but the work they did in compiling sources. We have a great catalogue of resources here.

Alright, but the most important part, the results.

Pieces were judged on writing (meaning strength of grammar, voice, and style), historical accuracy, how engaging the piece was, and whether or not the historical period or event could be gleaned from the piece without help of the artist's comments. So, without further adieu, here were our three top scorers:

~*~First Place ~*~

The Gentle are the Strong“But her finger burned,” I said, dazed, when they came in the evening to tell me about my sister’s death by fire.
I remembered it: the brown diya filled with a pool of oil with a white thread running through it, the flame making the oil look like liquid gold. My sister’s hesitant finger had hovered on top of the flame, callused from sewing, but no less elegant, before it settled firmly in the middle of the flame.
Then, her gasp of pain, and the way she'd snatched her finger back.
One of the gora officials looked at me, his eyebrows coming down. My comment must have been nonsensical to him. “I think you had better sit down,” he said, gently, in an English so English, I found it hard to understand. Once I'd haltingly translated that, I sat down, and prayed he wouldn’t say what he did next, to no avail. “I’m sorry for your loss, child. I heard she was a good woman.”
I flinched. The word sati meant good woman, I knew

'Gentle are the Strong', by Vigilo

Congratulations, you really got us with this one.

~*~Second Place~*~

And the Clock Ticked On3:24:34
An Orderly finishes looping thread through flesh.
3:25:17
He goes about his business with a sigh and ties a futile knot.
3:26:27
Once he’s tied the catgut sutures and wrapped the paper crepe bandages, the Orderly moves onto the next man because the next man had a chance to keep breathing.
3:26:54
They take the bedding from the cot because there are men with a chance to keep warm and alive. A Nurse in a grey uniform that might have once been white almost leaves the sheet underneath him because a dead man should at least have a burial shroud. But she takes it anyway. It is needed for the living.
3:28:43
His face took on the waxen quality that almost-exsanguination brought.
3:29:11
His temperature rose. Its been days since he’d been fished from a taken trench, but there are no anti-tetanus shots for a boy-prisoner with flak in his lungs so liquid fills them slowly. There is no healing from this. There is no point in propping up a many already lying in his grave.
3:33:4

'And the Clock Ticked On', by Write-to-Rebel

~*~Third Place ~*~

SweepAs soon as he stepped into the open field, he slung the minesweeper from his shoulder and pointed its nose to the ground.  It was old, worn and heavy, and old and rough, calloused and breaking, and old.  The metal between his hands was cold and chilled his fingers.  If he was not careful he could step on the very mines he was trying to find.  They would have to pick up the pieces of his body and to send the tags home where his wife would cry and hold his son and daughter close with nothing to show them of their father but a piece of metal engraved with "Ajeet Singh".
One sweep, than another.
This war had taught him to never trust open spaces.  Open spaces were where the mines were planted, where Prets lay in wait.  France was green and damp just like the uniform he wore.  It had been days since he was separated from his unit, and now the Allies were breathing on his neck, searching for POW’s, searching for the enemy of which he was one. &

'Sweep', by Geistlicher


We had one other entry that scored almost as high as our third place, so we decided to give it an Honorable Mention.


Half-Caste"Mummy, mummy, mummy."
I twitch with longing and gently slide into wakefulness still murmurming for her until I remember, but at least I no longer call in the black man's words. In the quiet around me, I hear others mutter or roll, uncomfortable still in these white mans' dwellings. In the dreaming place it is safest, but it is never safe. If the nuns hear us using the old language, if black mans' dirty words foul our mouths, there is the strap, darkening our already wrong skin and paining us into the new day.
I was five when the policemen came, their horses pounding up the ground. I'm seven now but I still remember the way we were rounded up and sent on the boat. They demanded parents hand over all us 'too white to be black and too black to be white' kids, but we scattered. Children were running every which way, and everybody was shouting, but the white men chasing us down knew our hiding places. My sisters and I were taken, four of many, but our small cousin was left with his mama an

'Half-Caste', by bloodawni

Congrats, you'll pick up 50 points from us and a critique.


I also wanted to highlight two people: elksongredfeather and Naktarra both submitted two entries a piece. Big kudos, guys, spread that history around. We appreciate it.


So, good job to our winners, but also good job to all. Not being picked as a winner definitely doesn't mean we didn't like your piece. Just that we could only pick three. Any comments or questions about why we picked what we did, or questions on anything else, please send a note to doughboycafe and PlayinTheDead jointly and we'll be happy to talk.

Winners, if you don't receive your loot within the week, let me know via note.

Thanks again, guys! Great contest!

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doughboycafe

Artist | Professional | Literature
Spain
"You spend all your time talking, not working. You're an expatriate, see? You hang around cafes."
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If I hosted a month long, fairly relaxed historical fiction workshop, would you be interested? 

90%
19 deviants said yes!
5%
1 deviant said no.
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1 deviant said comments welcome!

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:iconplayinthedead:
Tumblr insists on claiming that wine tastes like bug spray and rancid wood. Go grab the pea-shooter while I sharpen the sabre.
Reply
:iconbeeinthebottle:
Thanks so much for suggesting "Dead Moth" -- that was really, really kind. :heart:
Reply
:icondoughboycafe:
doughboycafe Mar 19, 2014  Professional Writer
You are more than welcome! It gave me the shivers in a good way! Thanks for writing it :) :heart:
Reply
:iconvigilo:
Vigilo Feb 7, 2014  Student Writer
YOU. You are a sneaky mcsneaker and it's awesome and I love it and thank you for the DLD suggestion! :tighthug: :heart:

Now to figure out a way of returning the favour... :paranoid:
Reply
:icondoughboycafe:
doughboycafe Feb 9, 2014  Professional Writer
:shifty: the sneakiest!
Reply
:iconbloodawni:
bloodawni Jan 28, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
That's it, you've suckered me in. Consider yourself +Watch(ed). ;)
Reply
:icondoughboycafe:
doughboycafe Jan 28, 2014  Professional Writer
Pretty much what I do. Throw out my sticky tentacles and try to catch prey with them :p

Thanks, darling. Made my morning brighter.
Reply
:iconbloodawni:
bloodawni Feb 1, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Eeeek. Well, I suppose it's alright just as long as I'm not food! :p

You're welcome, and thank you for the watch back! I appreciate it, but I hope you don't feel obliged.
Reply
:icondoughboycafe:
doughboycafe Feb 1, 2014  Professional Writer
Nope. I just watch people I like.
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