Hallelujah!

I found a way to make money writing. It's throw-away writing, but it pays all right and with enough of these little jobs I can afford to buy food and the necessities--like books.

I subscribe to a lot of writer's newsletters and one of them paid off this morning because it was about job bid sites. Rent A Coder isn't just for web coders but also for writers, or at least they have a few writing jobs, most of which consist of writing key word rich one page articles for web sites so they place high in search engines. Lovely. Throw-away writing. And the pay sucks, but you have to write so many of these throw-aways for one client that I might make enough to make it worthwhile.

It seems strange, but I am a little nervous--as I am at the start of every project I take on--about my ability to write the same crap over and over and make it fresh and different. I mean, really, how many different and fresh things can you write when you have to repeat buy female Viagra online 6 to 12 times per article? Oh, well, it will be a learning process for me.

I also got my first acceptance of my bid and I bid pretty high. The buyer said I was the most qualified person who submitted. Must be my way with words and salesmanship. Or maybe he recognizes talent and ability when he sees it. Of course talent and ability just mean I can string coherent sentences together and still maintain a credible English grammatically correct manner. Go figure. Which reminds me, I still have an article to write for Scribe & Quill. I have been so busy marketing myself and trying to make money I forgot. Oops. I hope elementalmuse will forgive me for not putting her and S&Q first.

Speaking of the Muse, has anyone seen or heard from that talented wit of a fast car lover, mentalfuse, lately? The Muse asked me and I haven't seen or heard anything from him in weeks. He's MIA again. Go figure.

This morning I also received an e-mail from a wealthy entrepreneurial friend in Texas who asked me about the lucrative possibilities of a government contract he heard about. It's for medical transcription for a VA medical center. He doesn't have the facilities, staff, or software he'd need to start up the business, or the staff, managers, and tech support personnel, but I gave him my assessment. He would lose some on the first year because of the initial outlay, but for the duration of the contract he should make a tidy sum. I have a lot of experience in that arena since I did medical transcription for seven years for one company and for twenty years overall. I think he has the idea of footing the bill for starting the company and letting me run it, but there is no way I want to go back into that world. It takes too much time and energy and effort for too little money, even if he offered me $100,000 a year to run the company because I would have to be on call 24/7/365. There's no way. I'd rather do a bunch of piddling throw-away writing jobs than to give up my life for anything other than writing. If I took on that magilla I would never have time to sleep or relax, let alone write. So, thanks but no thanks. I'll consult for a tidy fee, but I won't manage the company or set it up. I wonder what I could get for consulting? Interesting thought and a better idea if I can put in a little brain power and end up with a nice little check that paid the rent here for a year and gave me a little left over for books -- and food, of course, but books first.

At any rate, this has been a productive day and now I'm off to do a quick net search for some info on anti-virus software, or maybe one of the other topics, and write a press release for a new software application from a dummy company. Fun, fun, fun and it just keeps getting better.

Time to shut up and do some actual work, but I think I'll get some food first. Need fuel.

That's it. Disperse.

Save yourselves.

It's official. I might as well throw in the towel and retire to the shadows. I am old. Oh, my friends will rush to tell me that it isn't so. They'll tell me I look like I'm still in my thirties, that my mind is still young, but it's their fear talking. I never had the fear. It passed me by and I went right into ancient old age. Oh, sure, I had pain, but pain is your friend, the first one to remind you you're still alive; if you hurt, you're not dead. But the words, those slippery, eel-like words, the ones waiting in the darkness to grab you by the throat and take you down into the dust and cobwebs of old age, those words that, ever vigilant, creep up on you and take possession of your mind and your mouth, they're out. Luckily, I wasn't speaking, but writing to someone younger. Thank all the gods for a back space key so I could take the words back from darkening my screen. But they're out.

Had I said the words aloud the age police would have found me and taken me down, kicking and screaming, protesting they had the wrong person. I looked in my mirror yesterday and I was but a child. There were a few wrinkles, but that is to be expected when you smile and laugh; they are the tracks of happiness, joy, abandon, the signs of youth. I hadn't said the words; still haven't said the words, but they're there and I must be ever more vigilant, posting guard on my mouth 24/7. And if they can get me, you can't be safe for long. You're next. You know it and I know it; that is why you protest I am not old.

I'll have to move so the age police can't find me. Or disconnect from all living humans and crawl deeper into the mountains and forests near my home, become a hermit in truth to save myself from their Argos-eyed gaze.

The words are out. They're hanging like the sword of Damocles above my head waiting for the hair to fray or stretch so it can fall and cut me off in the bloom of youth. I am no longer safe and neither are you, my friends. Don't tell me the fear isn't there now. The words are out.

When I was your age...

I love learning

new things. Every day brings something new for me to enjoy and use. Today brought more information about my mother and my grandfather.

I remembered a story about John Dillinger's mother living down the street from my mother when she lived in Alger, Ohio where she was born. I saw a submission call for an anthology about small towns and I think this story would be perfect for it. And there is a neat twist.

My grandfather was mayor, chief of the fire department and sheriff (not all at the same time, I don't think) of Alger. He was involved in a stake-out to capture Dillinger when he was in Alger visiting his mother. They missed him but caught him and put him in jail in Lima, which is about 20 or so miles from Alger. Four men purported to be from the FBI came to the Lima jail to transfer Dillinger to Indianapolis, but they were Dillinger's friends and ended up shooting and killing the sheriff and putting his wife and deputy in Dillinger's cell before escaping with Dillinger.

A small footnote to history, but my family was involved. It's exciting and fascinating. I called my mother to ask her everything she remembered and she said she had some newspaper clips about Grandpa and Dillinger. This is almost as good as the story about Grandma catching Grandpa with one of his floozies on Main Street in Alger.

My grandmother was a sweet and quiet lady who never used a curse word in her life. She was short and plump when I knew her, but at one time her waist was so tiny, my grandfather told me, he could span her waist with two hands.

Anyway, Grandma was downtown (Alger is a very small town and downtown would have been the main street thru the center of the business district--about 10 or 15 buildings in all)--and she saw Grandpa with another woman. He was carrying a bottle of whiskey, which must have been before Prohibition. She went up to my grandfather and snatched the bottle from his hands and poured it out right in front of him. Mom said Grandma later said she should have hit the floozy with the bottle. That must have been in her more militant years. The idea of my short, plump grandmother facing down my great big 6-foot 4-inch grandfather would have been something to see.

I didn't know my mother's family was so prominent. I knew she was upper middle class, but she told me both my grandparents's families had money, lots of money. It must have missed us because I sure haven't seen any of it. Oh, yeah, my cousin took it all when she was my grandmother's guardian, but that's another story.

I remember my grandparents owned a tree farm when I was born and I knew they always had a comfortable home, but I didn't know there was so much money and history in my family. I guess the Mays had a right to be proud of their heritage, especially since they descended from middle European immigrants.

Isn't it fascinating what you find when you start asking questions? Do you know much about your parents' history and family? Seems most people today don't know much about their families at all. I knew a little, but I am learning a whole lot more. History is indeed in the details and some of the details may be in your family's cupboard. Have you looked?

Nothing in particular

...except that I really shouldn't read anything by Dan Brown because once I pick up the book and start reading I can't put it down. Deception Point is another thriller and it's really good . . . better than a death defying roller coaster or the slickest ride at the biggest amusement park. My pulse was racing thru most of the book and normally I am a very calm person, except during sword fights and battles in movies. Can't help myself, the blood lust just does things to me and I get all tingly and . . . enough of that. I'm getting excited again. LOL

Anyway, the story is about an embattled president who has taken French Leave during his re-election campaign to oversee a discovery of universal proportions and is based on Clinton's little faux pas with the life on other planets press conference that resulted from a mistake in identifying an extraterrestrial rock. Both sides are playing for keeps and four civilian scientists and the front running senator's daughter and her intelligence community boss are caught in the middle, their lives on the line because they have figured out the truth. Talk about your hell rides. Death, destruction, special ops groups, and high tech weaponry that just makes me giddy and fluttery inside. Rifles that can make bullets from sand, water, and even snow right on the battleground -- or killing field. Ingenuity is wonderful. There are planes that fly six times the speed of sound and clean burning slush hydrogen fuels that can take us to Mars or the rest of the universe. It's the kind of story that you just cannot put down -- or at least I had trouble putting it down (Just one more chapter, one more page, one more book) until about four o'clock this morning. I had the same experience with The da Vince Code and Angels & Demons. He has only written four books and I have Digital Fortress on order at the library; someone else has it out. But I certainly can't take much more of Mr. Brown's writing or I'd never get anything done.

I should be reading the books I need to review and cleaning the house instead of reading until all hours, but I just can't help myself. Even Philip K. Dick and Edgar Allan Poe can't keep my interest with Mr. Brown in the house. I only have a few more chapters to go and then I'll be finished -- until the other book comes in and then I'll be back reading till all hours. Well, there are worse ways to go.

One thing is certain, I have learned more about the intelligence community than I ever thought possible and I want to get out there and play with the new high tech weapons, although I will always return to the low tech swords and daggers I collect and use. Speaking of which, I can hear my sword calling me to play with it. I have neglected Excalibur of late and I really shouldn't. So, I'm off -- just downstairs not off my nut. What could you be thinking?

I'll shut up now.

Disperse and go play with something sharp and pointy.

Dusting

Did you know dust collected in the cracks and niches in your mind? I knew about the cobwebs, but not the dust. Like furniture, if there is a thick layer of dust on everything, you can't see the beauty of the wood or the craftsmanship--not that there is beauty or craftsmanship in my mind, but you never know. At any rate, since last week I have been clearing out the cobwebs and dust and finding me underneath.

I didn't start out to dust my mind, but my nephew's incredible good fortune with a trip to Europe for twenty days next year began the process and I'm still clearing things up. Music has helped (or hindered) a lot. I'm with Shakespeare in wondering how sheep's guts and instruments made of metal and wood and cork can hale men's souls from their bodies--and stir the memories.

I wrote my mother, who should receive my letter today, asking some pointed questions. Just the act of writing the letter and asking the questions blew off a huge layer of dust that has accumulated over many decades, dust I didn't know was there. Last night I blew off another layer of dust, not a lot of dust because it hasn't been there for very long, but more difficult to remove. Tears help a lot.

I wrote Don. He may never read the letter, but I needed to write it all down and send it to him. He's still so angry and hurt and it's my fault. I know that. I was a coward and turned my back on him when he needed me the most. It took me two years to realize that and admit it. I am a coward. Faced with a lifetime of happiness and love, I ran away because I thought I was helping him, saving him from pain and grief. What a martyr I am . . . not. I made a pre-emptive strike because I thought he was losing interest and I didn't want to see that deadness in his eyes when he looked at me, the deadness all the men in my life have had right before it ended. So, before he could hurt me I hurt him. The real kicker is that he probably had no intention of hurting me, but was intent on his own problems and I couldn't wait to help him figure them out. Aah, the things you see when you look back with your eyes wide open and get rid of all the dust and fears.

So what have I learned from all this dusting? That I have been my own worst enemy. That I have been a coward. That I don't have to be that way any more.

I know love like I shared with Don will never come my way again, but having known that kind of love I know I will never settle for anything less. I have actually known love--the real thing, not the infatuation and lust that passes for love--and anything else is a pale, anemic shadow by comparison.

Some internal changes are going on. I can feel myself shifting, clearing, shaking off all the dust and cobwebs. Where I will end up and what I'll find beneath the dust is anybody's guess, but I am sure it will be a purer and more resolute and productive me. That will be an improvement.

I'll shut up now.

That is all. Disperse.

Legend Update

Okay, thanks to Who Represents?, I will be interviewing Steven Spielberg and Tom Hanks for the proposed article: Saving Private Ryan: The Man Behind the Legend.

I interviewed Tom Hanks before for an article I did on the Great Lakes Shakespeare Festival, of which Hanks was a part before he made it big in television. In fact, my brother-in-law, Larry Sherwood, used to end up with Hanks's costumes because they were the same size and had no butt. Just a little factoid. However, the interview with Hanks was about 10 years ago and by telephone, as will this interview, but Steven Spielberg is new and exciting.

Of course, the interviews are contingent on selling the article, but I have confidence in the idea.

I'll shut up now before I really begin gushing. Can you tell I'm excited?

The man behind the legend

Six years ago, Tom Hanks and Steven Spielberg came out with Saving Private Ryan, which was based on a real life situation. The man in question was not Private Ryan but Sgt. Fritz Niland and he was the first man to be sent home from the war because two of his brothers were killed at Normandy on D Day and one other brother was reported MIA in the South Pacific. Roosevelt felt it was wrong to deprive a family of all its sons and enacted a law that sent Niland home.

The story is not at all as it is portrayed in the well known movie, but fantastic nonetheless.

I had the good fortune to know the nephew of the man who really saved Sgt. Fritz Niland and interviewed the gentleman in question. I also have a copy of a memoir the gentleman wrote detailing his sometimes hilarious adventures before, during, and after Normandy as one of the first recruits of the 101st Airborne, the screaming eagles.

Don't know why I waited so long, but I have spent the morning putting together query packages, e-mail and snail mail versions, to write this remarkable story behind the movie.

Now, I'm just curious if any of you ladies and gentleman would be interested in such a story, so give it to me straight and bare your soul. Does the story intrigue you? Would you like to know more? If so, let me know. Just consider this market research, especially since all of you comprise a varied cross section of American readers.

Light bulb moments

We never do anything well till we cease to think about the manner of doing it. William Hazlitt

Ain't that the truth?

Stop thinking about the rules and regulations, forms and formats of writing and let the writing come as it will. Maybe that's why my journal entries flow so well; I don't think about it when I'm writing; I just write. It's the reason I decided to join elementalmuse on DJ and then LJ, because it gave me the freedom to just write the way I write in my paper journals. I don't think about all the forms and rules and wherefores and whats; I just write. Whether that translates to something worth reading is another thing all together, but I'm pleased with what I write. It is also the way I talk. When you hear me holding forth on religion or history or writing, art, movies, whatever, it's the same as talking to me. Of course, in person you would get it at a much faster pace and you should see it when I type it out. It's probably better to read me than to listen to me ramble in person.

And speaking of rambling, I watched Living out Loud and it was better than the reviews made it out to be. There is a bit of confusion as to what is being acted out from her thoughts and what is real, but the confusion lasts only for a second. I was amused (read: laughed out loud) after Judith, played by Holly Hunter, gets up out of bed and jumps out her window and the television reporter says she jumped out her window and fell on top of her ex-husband and his new wife, killing all three of them. Now that would be the way to go, especially if you can take your husband and his floozy with you. I have to admit I had a moment of fondness for the new wife because I like the actress, but when she began talking about how she was a good person and had been brought up in a Christian home that honored and revered families and she would never have broken up a marriage . . . and on and on until Holly Hunter cuts her off, I wanted to slap her silly. She knew the man was married (and a lecherous jerk to boot) and she went with him anyway, falling in love and taking him from his loveless marriage. I understand the story is about Judith and her feelings and her husband is as seen thru her eyes, but she does an admirable job of taking half the blame when he refuses to take any of it. She tells him she doesn't blame him for leaving her because she left her long before he did. Personally, I don't have as much of a problem with men who cheat, but men who cheat and act superior and moral give me the urge to grab a sharp filleting knife and skinning them alive -- literally. At least be man enough to admit you're a jerk or that you were looking for more than you could get from your marriage, but don't try to take the moral high ground because there ain't any. I should know; I've been on both sides of the equation and I fell in love with a married man I knew was married before I got involved. I don't claim any moral superiority; it is just a fact of my life that I am neither ashamed or proud of.

I was struck by the fact that once again a movie is centered around the human need to be touched. Judith stopped touching her husband and he stopped touching her. She stopped touching the world and everything in it, rather existing in a state of limbo where emotion and touch were half remembered things, ghosts of reality. That has been a theme for me lately. The lack of touch. I'm not talking about the virtual touch of mind to mind or heart to heart, but the actual physical act of touching another human being and being touched in return. Or touching any living animal for that matter. Did you know that the SPCA donates dogs and cats to the residents of nursing homes and senior living facilities and that the act of petting the animals lowers the blood pressure and gives the people a sense of comfort? Why wouldn't it? You're touching another living thing and they are touching you: licking you, rubbing against you, being the very essence of communication: touch. It's probably why single women, especially old single women, who live alone have so many animals; they need to touch and be touched.

In a way, I think touch anchors us in this reality, makes us more real. Why else do you think men and women cheat? It isn't because of the sex, it is because of the need, the biological, deep down, gotta have it or I'll die need to touch and be touched. I'd be willing to bet that if you polled married couples you would find that their relationships began to fail when they no longer touched each other . . . and I don't mean the usual kind of touching, but the kind of touching that actually anchors us in reality and to each other. The kind of touch that signals the person is completely involved, communicating with you on a deep emotional level. I'd also be willing to bet that sex, while it feels good (incredible sometimes), isn't really about sex but about that deep emotional touching that comes with it.

There is a scene where Judith comes home drunk, disappointed that she has been stood up. She is angry and hurt and she needs something. Danny DeVito (who knew he could be such a sensitive and caring person when he played Louie DePalma in Taxi) tries to talk to her but she doesn't want to hear it. She doesn't want him. She wants someone who takes her breath away and makes her feel real. She calls a male masseur, who only massages women (says so in his ad), and he comes and sets up. He is a cute and beefy hunk who sets up his table and strips off his clothes down to his jockeys, but he is more than willing to take them off, too. Judith asks if she can decide later. He begins touching her and encouraging her to touch him, even to the point of putting one of her hands on his oh so firm and touchable cheeks. You can almost feel the silky smoothness of his skin, the play of muscles under the skin, and the warmth and scent of him warming and rising and filling your mind and your senses. HIs pulses quickens, his breathing is faster as she touches him while he's massaging her, giving her what she needs, and she slips her hands into the waistband of his shorts. It's sexual but it's not.

Touch is luxurious, it's elemental, it's a staff of life. It really isn't about the sex; it's about the touch, the need to be anchored in this world and to someone who touches you back, who lets you know they are an inextricable part of you and you are an inextricable part of them. You can live without food and you can go a long time without water, but I am beginning to see that we cannot live without touch and yet we do. We brush past each other, impersonal strangers that are as nebulous and ghostly to us as we are to them until we touch and the touch is echoed in our eyes, our breathing, our connection, our communication between each other. It's all about the touch.

Are we so busy making money and going about our daily ruts that we fail to notice that we have stopped touching, that we have stopped communicating on the most basic levels? Is that what is really going on?

Books, books, books

$1000 in books. How could I resist? Like elementalmuse I cannot understand anyone who spends $250K on clothes in a year, but I could happily spend (and read) that much on books. One of my favorite quotes is one I heard many years ago: I budget my money very carefully. First I buy books and with whatever is left over I buy food. Is it any wonder I am on every second-hand and first-hand bookseller's e-mail lists? Like Powell's Books?

Powell's is running an essay contest about your most memorable moment with a book (or books) in the last ten years to celebrate their tenth anniversary. I couldn't resist . . . obviously.

I am surrounded by books. I sleep with books. I work with books. I live with books. No matter how often I have moved in the past ten years (and I have moved a lot) books and I gravitate toward each other like comets toward the sun. I'm not sure whether I am the comet or the sun, but the attraction is irresistible.

Every time I vow to pare down my reading collection, and give away, box up, or sell books, I am struck by moments of joy, fury, excitement, horror, anxiety, the full gamut of emotions, all of which have come from private moments with books. I carry them in my bag, sometimes two at a time, to keep me company at restaurants in strange towns, hotel rooms on the road, or just for moments when I am drawn to an idyllic spot under a tree by a stream or some sun-struck spot at a weathered and aged rest stop picnic table.

Husbands and lovers have disappointed me, but never books. Even bad books have their moments of surprise, a sudden burst of brilliance in an otherwise dull trip. Each moment with a book is memorable, but the most memorable moments are those in the company of a new book or revisiting an old friend and discovering something previously missed. Such is the case with Lawrence Grobel and Helen Fielding.

"Endangered Species" by Lawrence Grobel was a peek into the thoughts and whys of writers like Saul Bellow, J. P. Donleavy, Norman Mailer, and so many other writers among whom I had yet to spend more than fleeting education-forced moments. I chose the book to read about Alex Haley and Ray Bradbury and was irresistibly attracted to the unread pages where I found new universes to explore, and a whole new crop of books to buy even though I promised myself I would keep things simple and patronize the library more often. High on Grobel's intriguing and wonderful interviews, I decided to eat less and buy more books--not a difficult choice.

More recently--this morning in fact--while re-reading "Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason" by Helen Fielding I broke into gales of laughter. Fielding had taken yet another book out of my reach, re-writing Jane Austen's "Persuasion". She beat me to the punch again. If I am not careful, she will steal "Mansfield Park" for Bridget Jones's adventures and I will be forced to find something new to write about and another book I must have.

Grobel and Fielding, and so many other writers, have shown me the errors of my ways. Books and authors I was forced to read in school take on new glimmer, a shimmering comet's tail that draws me onward into undiscovered country, providing me with more memorable moments and more companions for idyllic spots along the road or just because I cannot resist the gravitational force of a book I have not read or one I must own to read again and again like a comet drawn through a solar system of words and images and writers I have known and have yet to discover.

Are you game? I can stand the competition.

Words, words, words

I'm not sick of words like Eliza Doolittle who seemed to be angry at Professor Higgins and Freddie Ainsford-Hill and their words, words, words. Words fascinate me. They always have. If only words had a physical form I would be in heaven and the most promiscuous of all females who ever walked the earth, falling all over myself to lavish my attentions on words, words, words.

Last night, as I was writing in my paper journal (there are just some things I can't write here because my butt has already spread to cover my ergonomically correct desk chair) and noticing I had very few pages left and no new journal in sight (and no spare funds to buy another) to fill with musings, meanderings, and incoherent thoughts in my own personal shorthand, I was struck by the word catholic. Catholic has come to mean the Roman Christian church that grew out of Paul's teachings and an inability by the Roman empire to stamp out Christianity, but it original mean broad sympathies, tastes, and interests. Catholicism, and indeed Christianity, grew out of those catholic tastes, the Roman ability to conquer and absorb all religions, cultures, and societies in much the same way Christianity (as it is practiced today) grew out of Constantine's pagan roots and background, and indeed Rome's pagan roots, roots that continued to grow and flourish in foreign soils. For years I have said that the Roman empire did not fall, but changed its focus from military might to religious might and continued right up to the present day, just as the Vatican continues to control a very healthy percentage of the world, New and Old.

So many words; so little time to learn and internalize them all.

On Merriam-Webster Online, which today gave me the joy of conquering the dictionary devil, the word of the day is causerie, which is an informal conversation or chat and/or a short informal essay, such as my ramblings on LJ. Causerie makes me think of causeway, a raised way to get across water or wet ground, a dry path, much like the paths that crisscross in my mind from thought to thought and synapse to synapse. So, a causerie is a mental or verbal causeway.

And then there is static. Static can be the crackling chaotic sounds of radio transmissions, snow on your television set, or that little electrical shock that zaps people when the air is dry and you drag your feet across the carpet and touch metal or another person. A jolt that flashes sparks and miniature fireworks that can jump start a heart or fry a hard drive or generally interfere with smooth electrical impulses. But static also means stationary, unchanging, without variance, such as a static astrological sign, a sign that shows little variance or change, stasis, frozen in time and space. One more word that has completely opposite meanings, but such is the wonder and magic of words and language and meanings.

Words have given me much over the years, but right now, besides giving me food for thought and essays and pleasure, words have built a causeway to my father and his mysterious past. His past is not mysterious in the sense of secrets, but in the sense of not knowing as much about him as I think I should. One of the most important people in my life and it has taken me nearly fifty years to find out the truth behind the hints and stories. I spoke to him earlier after my mother informed me he had just finished writing me another long letter. I can hardly wait to read his small narrow script, decipher his handwriting and learn a little more. I feel like a trail blazer, an adventurer pushing back the frontiers where be monsters. Like an uncharted territory, the mists are being burned off by the sun of interest. Okay, so a little flowery, but this is how I feel.

So many mysteries are mysterious because no one has ventured close enough to walked thru the obscuring mists into the strange lands and build the causeway and join in a causerie, braving the static shock of recognition to remain static long enough to find all people have catholic tastes in one way or another.

Oh, well

I have been immersed in music and magick and all sorts of reading, but not much updating on my journal. I am fast becoming MIA like mentalfuse. I will do my best to write more frequently, but when I get on a track like finding out the real story of a woman who lived and died before I was born and where the biggest Teflon pan in the country can be seen, you can see my dilemma.

I subscribe to a lot of literary magazines and sometimes I can't quite understand why those stories are published rather than some of the stories I submit. It isn't that I don't get some sort of recognition, but I'm getting really tired of long personal rejections. I'd almost rather have an impersonal form rejection because it feels like get an F+ or an A-. It's a mixed message. Almost a D and not quite an A or a B. Personally, I'd rather see concrete, no nonsense grades and responses. I know editors don't have a lot of time and need to streamline their correspondence, but if an editor takes the time to type out a three-page letter, either consider personal correspondence or tell me simply what is wrong and I'll fix it. Something to work on when I am inundated with submissions and queries for my own magazine.

Did it ever occur to anyone, other than me, that Madonna did a good job of portraying Eva Peron in Evita? Of course, it could just be that I love the music and the songs. I have a thing for Andrew Lloyd Webber and I don't care if that makes my tastes pedestrian, but I can see how I would choreograph the musical numbers and the stage placements. Some of my past coming up to bite me in the butt. There was a time when I seriously considered acting, before pregnancy and the decline of my physical form into a breeding cow instead of a strong, curvy, corn fed female. Ah, well, life holds many surprises. I danced in several plays, The Music Man among them, and acted several leading roles before an unplanned and completely surprising pregnancy played havoc with my body and my life. I wanted to write screenplays and plays and indeed even rewrote the second act of A Christmas Carol (the musical version of Dickens' story) when I was in junior high school. I've played several pretty interesting roles, all of which came rushing back at me when I was at the checkout counter of the grocery store this afternoon.

I passed a bin of DVDs sale priced at $4.99. I didn't expect to find anything good, and mostly I was right. I did manage to find one gem, Our Town with a very young and innocent looking William Holden and a fresh-faced Martha Scott, who starred opposite Charlton Heston in Ben-Hur as his mother. I played Emily in Our Town in high school and some of the motifs and themes remain with me today. I had to watch the DVD as soon as I got home, but had to respond to the two calls I noticed on my Caller ID from Beanie earlier today. She's taking an English class in college and I'm helping her with a How-To essay.

Needless to say, my dark chocolate chunk ice cream was melting and I hiccuped my way thru some fried chicken livers while she read what she had written so I could give her my editorial opinion. I was a bit vague and confusing, but my mind was on other things at the time: melting ice cream and my new movie.

When I finally got to see the movie (having pushed OK on the remote several times to keep from having to watch the animated DVD egg bouncing all over the screen), I was greeted with fresh visions. I forgot how young and eager William Holden looked or that Emily didn't die in the movie as she did in the play. I remember dying in the play and sitting in the graveyard near Mother Gibb and Mrs. Soames who enjoyed my wedding to George Gibb. I don't remember having a choice to fight back the specter of death and come to with a new baby in my arms and George looking thru the door to make sure all was well. Still, it is one of my favorite plays and now I can watch it whenever I need a fresh perspective or just a walk down memory lane.

What does this have to do with writing? Everything and nothing. The whole thing is a mental train that keeps stopping at every little station along the way. Literary stories have some deeper meaning and I thought of a family going on vacation with a daughter in college who just graduated, guilted into the trip by one last family trip together, and having to go see the biggest Teflon pan in the country. The thought occurred that the manufacturer gets more out of each little tourist who stops to see this technological marvel than if they had taken the same amount of material and made a lot of smaller frying pans. You can sell a normal sized frying pan once, but you can sell the country's biggest Teflon frying pan forever. It isn't good for anything but giving something for people to stop and gawp at when they're on pointless family vacations just so they can be together for a few days or a couple weeks. More mileage for the manufacturer and a family's relationship with growing children. Makes sense to me, but I wonder if it will make sense to an editor with money they need to part with.

Oh, well, I have run on long enough and it is time. I'll shut up now.

That is all. Nothing to see here. Disperse.

The nature of horror

I have been pondering what makes a story frightening.

I remember my mother told me once that when she saw the original Frankenstein with Boris Karloff (made in 1931) she was about 11 or 12 years old and literally crawled up her mother's coat sleeve because the movie frightened her so much. Unlike my youngest sister and me, she does not like horror movies, books, or anything scary. Beanie and I love horror, but we differ on the type of horror, although there are some horror books/movies that we both like. I prefer psychological horror to bloody slasher movies like Friday the 13th and Nightmare on Elm Street. Thomas Harris is one of my favorite authors, as are Dean Koontz and John Saul, all of whom share that quintessential something that takes the every day, turns it on its head and makes it horrific.

I just finished watching Unbreakable with Bruce Willis and Samuel L. Jackson, which was made by M. Night Shyamalan. I have seen several of Shyamalan's movies and they all have an almost laconic movement like a person just out of a decade-long coma who is still feeling their way about their new reality. I didn't realize until halfway thru the movie I had seen Unbreakable before and I don't know why I didn't remember the movie because it certainly is riveting. Bruce Willis is understated and nearly silent as he moves thru his life, seemingly out of place and yet still a part of the events. It is something I've noticed that is peculiar to all the lead characters in all Shyamalan's movies I have seen. There is always a twist at the end that ties up the loose ends, that makes sense of the slow progression thru each event, a twist that is telegraphed throughout the movie, but which you do not always immediately understand. Shyamalan makes a stately progress thru the events, taking his time and carefully, methodically gathering each and every loose thread of the project, weaving them into a coherent whole.

I am surprised by Bruce Willis and Mel Gibson's performances, not only because they tend to be more bombastic, more larger than life at times, but because of the quiet depth of their characters. I am not sure if this is due to Shyamalan's direction or because of something Shyamalan has written into the scripts, but it works well...at least as far as I am concerned. And still there is an incipient horror in each movie, but a psychological horror of what is perceived as mundane until you know the secret--and there is always a secret.

So, what makes good horror? Is it the blood and gore dripping from the pages or taking the mundane, turning it on its head (or the viewer on his/her head) and shining the light from a different angle the way children shine their flashlights under their chins and make themselves into monsters and ghouls?

As a horror reviewer, I read a lot of so-called horror and most of the time I find it difficult to sleep without a prayer of protection because every bump, twitch, shift, and sigh in my silent house could be horror creeping upon me unseen or invading my thoughts and dreams. Most of the time I am surprised to find a book labeled as horror because, other than some colorful language about insides being turned to the outside, there is little or no horror in what could have been quite frightening. For instance, I just finished two novels (Family Inheritance by Deborah LeBlanc and The Wind Caller by P. D. Cacek.

LeBlanc's book took horror to the level that frightens me the most (and gave me nightmares in the bargain) with the mix of psychological and mythological elements and threw in a good dose of Voodoo that forced me to finish the book as quickly as possible to prevent further nightmares. However, Cacek's book had the same elements of psychology and mythology, and even included a healthy dose of good old-fashioned anger and vengeance, and failed to mix the elements with a deft hand, leaving me with a story that could have been wonderfully horrific but remained flat and lifeless. There was plenty of blood, guts, and mayhem, but the violence was gratuitous at best and thrown in for effect at worst, and still the story failed to frighten me or really do more than leave me with a bad taste in my mouth.

How is it possible to take the same elements and good writing skills and turn out two such different novels? It's like giving top quality ingredients to two people and asking them to bake the same cake, one of them turning the ingredients into a cake fit for the gods and the other a cake fit for the trash. Reminds me of one of Michael Cunningham's characters in The Hours. Actually, it reminds me of my ex-husband Nick who could not turn bread, butter, and Velveeta into a simple grilled cheese sandwich that didn't look and taste like crap.

What is the difference? Level of skill? LeBlance and Cacek have turned out wonderful stories in the past, so the level of skill is about equal. Ingredients? They both had the same ingredients, albeit from different parts of the country--LeBlanc used the mythology of the Cajun bayous and Cacek used Hopi mythology. So what made the difference, set their stories so far apart? Good day? Bad day? Vision? Maybe Cacek needs glasses or a piece of the Snow Queen's mirror made in hell to sharpen her horrific vision. Who knows?

It is doubtful I will figure all this out in this post or even in the very near future, but you can be sure I will continue dissecting this particular cadaver to find out all there is to know. Meanwhile, I think I'll go darken the atmosphere and watch Red Dragon again. It's too bad I don't have Silence of the Lambs so I can shiver listening to Anthony Hopkin's soft voiced menace as Hannibal "the Cannibal" Lecter once again. I do so love the shivers he gives me.

One more memory pops into mind, the memory of relating the story of Silence of the Lambs to my now-ex-husband Nick who had refused to go see the movie with me. The lure of telling the tale in Lecter's deeply menacing soft voice was too strong to resist, as was the complete and utter joy of watching Nick crawl up the back of his chair and up the wall to get as far away from the voice and the story as he could. Some horrors are worth revisiting . . . and that is one of them. Mmmmmmm

Babies, time, and hell rides

In The Chronicles of Amber Roger Zelazny wrote about a royal family who were at the center of time and reality. The reality in which the rest of humans live is but a shadow cast by the royal court of Amber and it is in the minds of the royal family that each reality is traversed as they change their surroundings to reach the particular reality they wish to visit or in which they wish to live. Although classed science fiction and somewhat fantastical in nature, Zelazny might have been onto something.

When a baby is born their unfocused eyes try to make sense of the world around them, a world of color blobs that move and speak, sing and touch, leaving a lasting impression, but there may be something else at work. In recent years as physics pushes back the boundaries of space, time, and reality there is a growing belief the universe is conscious, that its particles, down to the smallest muon, quark, etc., may have a consciousness that is interactive.

What if a baby is the bridge between realities, not fully in our universe, but visible because we believe the child to be visible, and yet able to interact with the world/reality from which it comes? Children have to be taught to read and write and yet some children cling to wrong habits of writing in reverse. Could it be that is how they see the reality in which they have come to live? Is their well documented ability to see things that adults cannot see proof they have not completely severed their link with another reality, a reality adults have been taught not to see or believe?

Add to this the possibility that the big bang could have been created in a laboratory and deliberately encoded with messages from its scientist/creator and you have the beginnings of something more than a short story or science fiction/fantasy novel. You have the glimmerings of truth. The signs are all around us and there is plenty of allegorical and cryptic writing to point the way.

The Bible says if we but have the faith of a mustard seed we can move mountains and that we must be born again to see the kingdom of heaven. What if those aphorisms are not religious in nature, but scientific truths? In the very ancient days, religion was used as a tool to preserve knowledge, but a primitive mind, one used to following and believing in the wisdom and all knowing abilities of god/desses, may have mistaken science for religion and began to worship what was meant to be preserved until such a time as mankind's mind was ready to see the truth.

Do we create the reality we see? Are we shadows of a central universe, a central reality that gives us existence and in which our belief is necessary to maintain solidity, dimension? Is a baby the bridge between where we have been and where we may return if we but open our eyes and see past the reality we have collectively created? Does it really matter?

I want to know.

Got a script?

Here's a possibility if you don't mind prostitution.

SCRIPTS WANTED (Pays $1,000.00)

"LMC3 Productions, Inc. need scripts in the 100k to 200k
range, these films will be shot in High Def. Comedy, drama,
horror and children scripts. Big plus if a major chain is written
into story line (i.e. McDonalds, Pizza chain, 76 Union, etc.)"
http://losangeles.craigslist.org/wri/35506003.html

Enough of that.

I have been busy commenting all morning, catching up on the attention my friends and acquaintances deserve, not to mentions reading my well known and sometimes feared personal views around. I had fun. Sorry if the rest of you didn't.

I also noticed something. Several of my friends believe--and often state--that no one would want them or consider them possible intimate partners (even for a night), but that ain't so. I've said this before and I shall repeat it again: when the big one is dropped and food is scarce who do you think will still be standing and living and maintaining the status quo? All of us well upholstered, voluptuously endowed, and insurance table fat/obese people. Yep. All you skinny people will either die in the first blast or you will die shortly thereafter from lack of food. However, the rest of us who planned for the future by storing food where no marauder, thief, or crazed thin mint can get at it...on our bodies. I don't really think we planned it that way, but Mother Nature certainly did by giving us the kind of metabolism that keeps more than it throws away or burns up.

You could see the rise in obesity (at least by insurance industry standards and BMI ratings, which include the likes of Russell Crowe, etc.), as Mother Nature or God or whatever power you choose telling us the end is near and it's time to plan for the lack of a future the likes of which we enjoy now instead of a symptom of rising disease and falling discipline with regard to food.

The really intelligent people, those who are worth your time and energy, know that intelligence, a killer smile, loving heart, beautiful expressive eyes, thick lustrous hair, generous nature, and a thousand other little beauties are worth more than a fashion runway body or even the body of a marathon runner or athlete. It's find if that's the way you were designed by Nature and genetic heritage, but there is much more to beauty than outward appearance. Beauty is no guarantee of what really matters and is usually a sign that someone has been genetically gifted and left the rest to chance. When you do not tend a garden it ends up overgrown by weeds and eaten by animals and the remaining plants are stunted and tough. Beauty is about more than looks. Beauty is in the intangibles. Even Galahad figured that out when he chose to marry the pig-faced girl who saved his life and led him safely thru the dangers and he was rewarded by marrying the princess of his dreams and her inner beauty shone outside as well.

As one friend recently reminded me, intelligence is Uber-sexy. So get over yourselves and show the rest of the world what most of us already know--you are eminently bang-able. Accept it. It's true. In the meantime, get over yourself.

And before a certain person reminds me to take my own advice, forget it. I know the truth and I'm not closing myself off to possibilities, but he'd better be able to track me down because I am never going looking for him again. I hope he has a good map and a better sense of direction.

When you get right down to it, I'm sick and tired of the way people judge the good and worthwhile in life. Their views are skewed at best and downright stupid the rest of the time. Talent, the ability to love, a generous heart, and so many more intangibles are worth more than all the surface beauty in the world. A little (or Tammy Faye Baker style) makeup, some surgery, drugs, diets, and the rest do little more than teach us to value only what the rest of the world values, the rest of the world as defined by Madison Avenue. That's a small piece of real estate with a very long reach, but it's not all powerful unless we make it so. Skinny bodies sell clothes because they don't get in the way of the line and flow of the cloth, but then clothes hangers work just as well and talk less.

If you want to work for something, work on improving your mind, your heart, and your taste. The importance of the rest will descend to its proper level of not important.

When you get right down to it, lean steak is all right, but for real flavor you want a steak with a lot of marbling (fat) and you get many more meals from a well fleshed cow than from a thin cow. When I spend my hard earned cash on steak I want to really enjoy the meal and get my money's worth. Don't you?

Monday, Monday

That's all I can say about today.

Okay, I have something else to say, but it may not be worth writing -- like that has stopped me in the past.

Got a very late start today because of a very late night watching all nearly six hours of Rose Red by Stephen King. It was really pretty good and quite scary in parts, but I felt energized and creatively activated to write some good old fashioned horror. I even watched the bonus feature about Ellen Rimbauer's diary, which was really fictional. Come on, folks. This is Stephen King we're talking about and not Ken Burns.

Anyway, I got up late at the tail end of a very strange dream about being invaded by a bunch of people bringing food and getting together to form a death watch for someone I don't even know . . . or at least didn't know about in the dream. They just barged into my home and set up casseroles and marked out sleeping space without an invitation or a reason as far as I could see. It ended with a discussion about Wicca versus Christianity and being called a devil worshiper and all kinds of weird things, to which I ended by explaining Wicca and some of the fallacies of Christianity. Go figure.

Very strange dreams indeed. They could have been brought on by a coming invasion of my space in August when my landlords have decided they absolutely must come up here for two three-day weekends to stain two sides of the cabin or maybe my imagination is just overly active.

At any rate, I need to put the DVDs back into their nifty Netflix mailers and send them back so I can get more movies this week when I should be writing and researching and doing all kinds of writerly things. It's just too beautiful outside and every time I put Queen and Pat Benatar on Real Rhapsody thunder booms and my phone line de-stabilizes and I end up with silence and no music. It's like something is trying to tell me to get to work and forget about listening to music and playing games and surfing the net when I should be quietly writing while listening to the edifying sounds of Mozart or Rachmaninoff or working on the new website, for which I have not quite designed a logo. Still, I'd rather dance to Freddy Mercury cranked as high as it will go and drive dirt under my fingernails while I play with plants and seedlings and cut herbs to hang and dry. I'm feeling very natural today with overtones of Queen rock and roll tingling thru my dancing and singing muscles.

However, I did do something writerly today. I edited Beanie's essay about Dad and loving animals on a little farm outside of Columbus, Ohio. It was a very colorful editing project and I'm sure she will soon be perusing my journal to notify me I have made further mistakes of spelling and omissions of words. It's okay. She's entitled to a little fun and it helps me since I do little more than run spell check on my journal posts and do not read them over often. All my posts are from the fertile, and sometimes mercurial, soil at the top of my head.

I'll shut up now. Nothing much else to say.

Shorthand

It started when I was looking up quotes from Shakespeare. I have a
tendency to remember the gist of the quote and not always the exact
words, sort of like shorthand . . . the representation of the words but
not the exact words.

The subject was music and two quotes immediately sprang to mind, one from Much Ado About Nothing and the other from Twelfth Night.
Benedick wonders at how sheep's guts can "...thus hale a man's
spirit..." from his body and Count Orsino is lamenting his lack of
success with Lady Olivia. Orsino is in love with love and Olivia is in
love with grief. Olivia has decided to spend the rest of her life
mourning the death of her brother and Orsino wants an end to suffering,
an end to his need to love.

I looked up the quotes just about
the time Diogenes, the eye of the needle, Freddy Mercury of Queen, Mah
Jong, and Michael Moore roamed thru my mind. You think they have
nothing in common? Not so. They are all examples of mental (and
historical) shorthand.

For instance: Diogenes roamed the
streets of Athens in search of an honest man. Or at least that's how
the story goes. Historical shorthand is what we remember. The fact is
that Diogenes, a wealthy peacock of a country boy, came to Athens and
fell as wholeheartedly for the school of cynicism as he did for
fashion. He wore the coarsest clothing, ate the meanest food, and
railed about everything. It was said Diogenes was so overboard with his
asceticism/cynicism that he roamed the streets looking for an honest
man in the daylight with a lantern. In other words, he took great pains
to find something to gripe about. He was a cynic. He hated everything,
unlike Mikey who actually loves Life cereal.

In the Bible
Jesus tells his followers it is as difficult for a rich man to get to
heaven as it is for a camel to pass thru the eye of the needle. He
wasn't talking about a real needle, but something that was well known
to all his listeners--a gate in Jerusalem called The Eye of the Needle
because it was so narrow and short. It's not impossible for a camel to
get thru the gate, but it takes work and a bit of foresight.

I
was playing Mah Jong at the time all these thoughts coursed thru my
mind and it struck me that it is possible to win every game if you can
see the larger picture. Of course the game I play is timed and the idea
is to make points, lots of points, not to solve the puzzle. For me that
is frustrating because I'd rather solve the puzzle than garner points.
The exercise of the mind is more important to me than score keeping.
It's like playing the word games at Merrian-Webster
every morning as part of my waking ritual. Some of the games are
impossibly easy, but they wake my mind and let my brain know it's time
to get to work. I prefer the difficult games, like Dictionary Devil and
(sometimes) Bee-Cubed. I need a challenge, not for the sake of the
challenge but to hone my mental and physical skills. I work against the
clock on Webster because it keeps me focused, but there are no points
for winning, just the satisfaction that I have beaten the devil or
figured out how to spell words I've never before heard.

If
Freddy Mercury of Queen had seen the big picture and known he would die
from AIDS, I doubt he would have been so free with his sexual favors.
Listen to Too Much Love Will Kill You and you can hear the
regret in his words and his voice. If he had only known what would
happen it is doubtful he would have been so promiscuous . . . or he
would at least have been much more careful about condoms and safe sex.
Who knew? We don't see the big picture. We don't see what lies ahead,
especially when we live in the moment. It is the double-edged sword of
Zen belief. The same country in which Zen Buddhism and Mah Jong are
part of the culture offers up enigma, a seemingly unsolvable puzzle.

Play
Mah Jong for points with a time limit and you end up choosing the most
visible and immediate matches to win the game, but that's not the real
point of the game. Sometimes the closest and most visible match is not
the best match if you are to solve the puzzle and carry off all the
tiles. You can't see the values and pictures of the hidden tiles and
thus don't know if that match you just made would be better to have
left until later. You could end up blocking yourself later on. You
don't see the whole picture, which brings me to Michael Moore, the
liberals answer to Rush Limbaugh.

What do all these things
have to do with Michael Moore? Historical and mental shorthand, rich
men, and the nature of truth and cynicism. Didn't think all this had a
point, did you?

Michael Moore started out with a vision, to
uncover the rot at the heart of the apple barrel. He succeeded . . .
too well. He has made some good points and uncovered some truths, but
not the truth, and he has become very wealthy in so doing. We
go back to the Eye of the Needle and that camel again. Does Michael
Moore care about truth any more or is he more interested in funding his
private issues and animosities? Is he Diogenes come again to look for
truth in the daylight with a lantern and really looking for nothing so
much as something to prove there is no truth and no worth in humanity
and government? Does Michael Moore really see the big picture or is he
focusing his lens on what he wants to see, what he wants to show?

Michael
Moore is a showman and could very well be Rush Limbaugh's soul mate,
each the other half of P. T. Barnum's soul. A sucker is born
every minute and both of them are making millions on that simple truth.
That is not to say both of them don't have valid points, that they
don't have some truth to impart, but they are not seeing the big
picture. They are grabbing the easy matches, the ones that serve their
immediate purpose, and will end up ruining any chance to solve the
puzzle and bear off all the matched tiles.

What all this means
to me is that we have to take Michael Moore, Rush Limbaugh, and
everyone else who says they have the truth and use their information as
a jumping off point, a bit of string to follow thru the Minotaur's
lair. Don't take any of it at face value if all you're going to do is
bash the opposition. Moore and Limbaugh are cut from the same cloth:
showman with a political agenda. They are not furthering the pursuit of
truth; they are lining their pockets and laughing at the suckers while
they take the quick match. Do you really want to end up blocked from
solving the puzzle by following them or do you want to solve the
puzzle?

Would either Moore or Limbaugh change the way they
play the game if they saw the big picture? Only they can answer that
question. But what about you? Do you have time to look for the big
picture or are you going to follow whoever has the best historical,
political, religious, or economic shorthand? Your life and continued
existence may depend upon it.

It's easy to take the first answer you find, to misremember a quote or take someone else's word for what they believe to be true. It's much harder to take that information and look for the story behind the easy answer and it takes more work. Take the easy answer, the quick match, and you will rack up lots of points, make lots of money, and never have to think for yourself again. Each person's opinion is a marker on the path, a possibility, but not a road thru the forest or the way to the center of the maze. Easy answers are easy and nowadays it is so simple to take someone else's opinion and make it your own. Think about it. Are you spouting someone else's opinion, someone else's quoting of someone else, or are you going to the source? Truth is out there, but you'll never find it with a lantern in daylight if what you're really looking for is something to gripe about, someone to support your prejudices and opinions.

If you want someone famous and recognizable to support your liberal opinion, go to Michael Moore. If you want the same for your conservative opinion go to Rush Limbaugh. If you want the truth, look for it yourself.

Music is not love and the pursuit of love is not love. Both are tools, markers along the path. Choose wisely.

Stick it to the consumer

Time for another round of Stick it to the consumer

While reading scimon's journal on my friends page, I came across a link about second-hand books that led me to a NY Times article. (You'll have to sign up to read the article, but at least that's still free.)

I'm surprised and I shouldn't be, especially when greed is the main focus of business these days.

When it's all boiled down to basics what remains is publishers upset that they're not getting the original price for books and that second-hand bookstores and resellers are making a big profit and asking for more books. Amazon.com is the focus of much of the article because, since 2000, Amazon has had the audacity to list second-hand books at bargain basement prices right next to the full priced books. *Gasp of horror* What's even worse is that people are buying the cheaper books. Is it any wonder publishers are beginning to worry about their profits leaking to co-ops and second-hand bookstores like Abe Books, Alibris Books, and other private sellers listed on eBay and Amazon? Their profits are being diverted to intelligent people who know the market.

Text book publishers thought they had the problem of second-hand books being resold licked by putting out new editions every two years, forcing poor college students to purchase new books in order to complete their education, but even they have noticed a dip in their profits, a dip of 3%. *another gasp of horror*

Publishers want the whole thing stopped. They want their profits and consumers, canny customers that they are, refuse to play by the publishers' rules. They are seeing the book equivalent of Napster haunting their bottom lines.

What publishers need to do is buy a clue. If they paid attention to the trend in second-hand books, books that someone bought at full price and is reselling or books that publishers gave up on and sold to a remainder bookseller, they might see greater profits. Of course, that would cut off the supply of available books to second-hand and remainder booksellers, but business is business and publishers expect to make a big return on their investment.

If you're not into publishing, here is how it works. Publisher decides to buy a manuscript from an author and print out many copies of the books. If the author is considered a mid-list writer (someone whose books sell about 30,000 - 100,000 books) they order a small print run. If all those books sell they order another print run of a similar amount (or larger if the books are selling quickly) and sell those. If, however, all the books do not sell and remain in their warehouses, they sell the books to someone at a much reduced price (usually for the cost of materials and labor, which is very cheap) and that buy resells the books at rate that includes a small profit margin, but is still much cheaper than the cover price. Those books are called remainders.

However, lots of people buy books at the cover price, or on sale at bookstores when they can't move the stock in a specific amount of time, and they read the books and sometimes sell them again to a second-hand book buyer for half the cover price or less. Those enterprising booksellers then resell the books and make a little profit on it. With the advent of the Internet and eBay and easy access to advertising and information, regular people who bought the books at the cover price or on sale are reselling those books themselves and making back some of the money they spent to buy other books or even other things, like paying rent and utilities or saving for a trip to the grocery store. And publishers do not like this trend. They feel they have been cheated out of their profits. Right!

Second-hand bookstores have been around since the beginning of publishing. The problem is not the secondhand bookseller, but the fact that s/he is making a hefty profit from what has always been a marginal living at best. Stores like Half-Price Books, Abe Books, Alibris, etc. have latched onto the Internet and turned a marginal business into a multi-million-dollar enterprise that is taking small bites from publishers' caviar and now publishers are sitting up and taking notice. Well, I have news for them, if they want a bigger piece of the pie there are other remedies that do not include lining up second-hand booksellers in their sights.

First, they should keep authors' books longer instead of dumping them after a few weeks. It also wouldn't hurt to actually publicize the books and give each author the attention and publicity they deserve and which will result in more sales of those books. Second, they should consider charging more realistic cover prices for their books, prices more in line with what they spend to produce the book and not try to make all their billions in the first batch. This will mean they will have to print more books at the outset, but it's better to sell a million books for a dollar than it is to sell one book for a million dollars. The amount is the same, but the impact is greater and more noticeable. Third, if they can't get with the first and second programs, they should continue what they have been doing and let second-hand dealers and individuals make a little money at the expense of the publishers' short-sightedness and stupidity. What's next, forcing libraries to charge for each book checked out? After all, this is America and the name of the game is FREE enterprise.

Publishers have no right to complain that books are being bought and resold and sometimes even resold again. It is a sure indication the book is worth reading and consumers want their own copies. Pay attention, publishers. If a book is being sold and resold and resold again it means people really like the book and they should have kept selling them in the first place. Such sales is an indication that a mid list writer, someone who has performed well over a long period of time, is worth more than the publishers gave them. Publishers should rethink their strategies and put out new and inexpensive editions of books that are hot tickets on the second-hand shelves. The wheel does not have to be reinvented all the time. If it works, use it. If it sells, make more of them.

Publishers should realize they can't have it all and if they are going to let big pieces of food drop to the floor with the crumbs the food will be eaten.

Starry days

There are days when I just don't feel like getting out of bed and then there are days when getting out of bed is the best thing I do. Today was one of those days.

I got up rather late (for me) and checked e-mail and downloaded music before I took care of my plants. Took a cool shower and got ready to pick up the mail. I can't walk down the driveway or out the front door to check the mail. I have to drive into town. But I had something on my mind besides Ben & Jerry's ice cream and Cheetos. I wanted to talk to the clerk at the Snooty Coyote, which is a combination quick stop shop and liquor store. It's the only real store in Tabernash. I live in a rural mountain community. What do you expect?

Anyway, I talked to the clerk whose husband is the groundskeeper of the golf course at Sol Vista in Granby about 14 miles down the road. I have ideas for articles running around in my mind, marketing ideas, slick magazines that pay fat checks for well written articles and pictures (someone else will have to take the pictures - I suck at it). I hit the jackpot.

Sol Vista is owned by a woman who inherited mega millions and operated the golf course at Berthoud pass about 20 or so miles up the road. She is from Brazil and moved up here when she fell in love with the skiing and some canny guy. She stayed. She pumped millions into the failing Berthoud Pass golf course and finally gave it up to open up the golf course at Sol Vista, which has been renamed to something more in line with the neighborhood. I won't give away everything just to keep you hungry vultures from stealing my ideas, but I have the basics for at least six, and probably ten, articles in various magazines: golfing, travel/tourism, airlines, enterpreneur and women's magazines for a start. That should make enough to live on for the rest of the year and I have an in with the groundskeeper's wife. Not too shabby. I may even do a series of articles about the triangle here--that's my idea, too. I live in the center of a triangle formed on the west by Denver, on the east by Vail, and the north by Steamboat Springs, all of which are well known tourist stops. The area is pretty rural and very beautiful with wildlife and plants and trees you can't see anywhere else in the same way.

For instance, I was driving up the mountain to my cabin and stopped to watch a doe grazing on the side of the road. I turned off the radio and watched/talked to her for several minutes while she ate. i know. It's a little rude to talk when another is eating, but I just couldn't resist it.

Today has been very productive, but it has also been very pleasant and fulfilling. I received my $3.00 copy of Much Ado About Nothing and turned it on while I read a quick note from my father that contained a little green surprise.

I had already sent my check for the ghost story to be banked and checked the rest of my packages. (There were quite a few) I received two copies of Five Points magazine to study so I can submit what they want to see, some self burning charcoal for home made incense, a sample copy of Commonweal magazine to check them out, another horror book to review, a fifty-cent copy of the collected works of Jane Austen, and a few more magazines. Halfway thru the movie my mother called to say hello and congratulate me on another good article (I send her copies of everything) and I just got off the phone with Beanie who was on her way home from a college course on writing.

After the movie, I transplanted some very tall and burgeoning tomato plants, basil, thyme, and mint and watered the plants again since the promised thunderstorm has not dropped its wet burden yet. At least my sinus pressure headache is gone, which means the low front is moving away and I can quit worrying my right eye is about to explode from the socket. Ever since I moved up here I have had sinus pressure headaches before big storms. I've become a better barometer than the glass and fluid-filled kind.

Beanie and I talked about focus in writing, the use of the word "you", and how to show versus telling a story with description and sensory details. I so enjoy talking about writing, so much so you'd think I was a writer or something.

Queen is on the computer and I feel absolutely energized and excited. The hummingbirds are buzzing the deck and greedily slurping the new syrup I put out this morning and my plants are finally growing in the summer sun that has at last deigned to make a daily appearance this week. All in all, networking has proved to be quite lucrative and I live in the most wonderful spot on this earth. How could this day be anything but wonderful?

Okay, I'll shut up now, but go outside and enjoy the sunshine or the moonshine or just the air that ruffles your hair and think about me picking out a constellation with my telescope to research and write about for a new magazine on beginning astronomy. Life is wonderful and I'm blessed.

That is all. Disperse.

Learning magazine speak

I received my first bid for printing Living Voices and I realize I don't know anything about card stock and weights. There are so many choices in cover finishes: lacquer, glossy, UV, etc. All pages have to be figured in multiples of four because there are four sides to a folded sheet of paper. I don't know how many stories I will have or if there will be any stories at all. The printer offered a bid based on 24 black & white pages with full color covers inside and out. I'm not even sure I want to go with something the size of a magazine like Writer's Digest or The Writer or if I want to go with something more like a literary magazine. I asked for further information, but I am a little out of my depth yet. It's like swimming for the first time when your feet don't touch the bottom. There is that instant of breathless shock and momentary panic before you remember you can actually swim and you're not going to drown. I'm still feeling for the bottom.

Beanie sent me the first draft of her essay about Dad and I marked it up in color . . . my usual mode of editing. She wrote things I didn't know and it was an interesting essay, but she needs to work on run-on sentences and the use of ITS versus IT'S, not to mention removing the ubiquitous THAT from her sentences, but most people have that problem. All in all, I'd say with a little judicious pruning and refining she'd have a very publishable essay where the wonderful story doesn't get lost in the grammar shuffle.

Then I received an SOS from a former colleague at R&T. She was given an August 1st deadline to finish editing an essay from someone I edited in the summer issue. No big deal. The essay was pretty clean and in the author's usual style of tongue in cheek comparisons of writing to food, which is always fun to read . . . like looking thru someone else's mind for a moment or two. It took about 20 minutes to edit and I sent it back. I guess I'm on an editing jag, but hopefully I am done for the day. I need to focus on my own writing and I'm on a writing high right now. Must be the nightmare I had last night and the energy that galvanized me into action.

I finished my essay for Parabola and got the confirmation they received it and would notify me in a month whether or not my words would appear on their pages. Strangely enough I have had several queries accepted by them, but this is the first time I have been able to break thru the block/barrier that kept me from being able to write anything at all. I just dried up on the vine as if the acceptance was some sort of cork to my energies and words. It has been very difficult for me to break thru the barriers for a while and I despaired of being able to break into print in Parabola despite my fondness for and study of myth and tradition most of my life. I'm sure you have read my thoughts and mental wanderings on these pages (and if you haven't then you should if for nothing else than a quick laugh) so there is no lack of desire and volubility, but when push came to shove and money was a possibility from my writing I froze. The thoughts swirled and drifted but I was unable to catch them and put them into any kind of coherent form until the deadline was long past. I pray that I have reached the end of that stop-gap.

I sent out queries to editors of several print magazines, some that I respect and to whom I have submitted my work, and received an answer from one of the founders of Glimmer Train. They are far too busy to respond fully but offered to answer specific questions and that is good news. I really respect the two sisters who created and run Glimmer Train. Lord knows I have entered enough of my writing in their contests and have submitted for publication. Haven't broken thru that barrier yet, but I think that time is coming soon. I am getting closer to their tone and type of writing.

I also received a positive response to a query for an interview. I snagged James Redfield of The Celestine Prophecy fame. I want to know about his self publishing and how he feels about the self published to mass published success he has attained, how he got there, and some info about the movie being made from the book which is finishing principle photography at this moment. I guess that means he will grace the cover of the debut issue of LV and should attract a sizeable bit of attention and readership, if for nothing else than his celebrity status.

If my luck continues, I should be able to line up quite an impressive cadre of well known authors to tell their stories and give us all a peek inside the publishing world. They can show us all what it really looks like to be a successful author living on the fruits of their literary labors. Who knows? I may take this is as a good sign and go after John Grisham, John Updike, and a few of the other notables, although Ray Bradbury is at the top of my list. I would love to have him on the cover of the debut issue of LV, but I'll settle for having him on any issue.

Now I have to figure out how to entice subscribers to buy something they won't be able to read until December and that what they're buying is worth the price of admission. I also have to figure out a price. Any hints or suggestions? There are also advertisers to approach and convince they are buying into a promising and lucrative market and I'm thinking about airlines who service the destinations where the stories and characters in those stories, essays, and articles live and have lived. Nothing like giving a place a bit of character, a place where life has been lived and continues to be lived in every day obscurity.

Oh, well, I'll shut up for now. But I'll be back.

Weekend

This entire weekend I have focused on nothing more than pleasure and relaxation. There has finally been some heat and little rain, for which my plants were panting, and a whole lot of sunshine. I have taken a small share of the sunshine, but mostly have been playing mahjong and trying to increase my pattern recognition abilities. I really should give it up though since it takes too much time from other more important things like writing.

I have been wrestling with Cupid and Psyche and C. S. Lewis's version of the story, trying to tease some sensibility of friendships and obsessions out of it all with very little success, and yet it still bugs me. I need to just forget about being intelligent and write, but that is one of my failings . . . I actually expect to be able to write something--anything--intelligible. I have become spoiled and arrogant and probably should just forget about making sense.

The whole premise of my article is that the question that arises from the pairing of ugly and beautiful people. Ever notice how some people tend to gravitate toward their opposites, either in order to make themselves appear more beautiful, more talented, or just more while others just want the leavings that fall from the beautiful partner's table? To be sure there are those who don't care so much about appearances, but those outside the friendship usually see the pairing as advantageous . . . and not a little sad for the ugly one . . . and desirable, especially if they are of the more appealing looking kind of observer. They say opposites attract, but you seldom see a handsome man with a plain or ugly woman, especially nowadays when most people focus on the superficial beauties and forget there is more to a person that should matter. It is not uncommon to see a fat or ugly man in the company of a beautiful woman, although that happens less and less as men become more aware and obsessive about their appearance and how they are perceived by society. It seems we as a society are becoming more superficial in a time when we should be more aware of and trying to develop deeper and more lasting qualities. Ah, well, as they say, beauty is fleeting, but sometimes I wish it would flee a lot faster until we are all reduced to a more level playing field.

It occurs to me that beautiful people often tend to ignore more lasting and substantial abilities of intelligence, wit, etc. in favor of ways to make themselves more beautiful, relying on that beauty to smooth the way and get them whatever it is they desire. I wonder if that means as a society we are becoming more stupid and less substantial. There is always room for improvement, but if we continue on this downward spiral we will soon find ourselves ignorant children bred to sustain ugly underground dwelling Morlocks.