Storytime... (KISS)

...the twisted little way I have of writing...

Saturday, May 27, 2006

Share your ideas on this one:

Recipe titles in the Addams Family Cookbook:

Vegan rotissary style
fork biters (the stuff that bites back)
Jellyfish and peanut butter sandwiches

Friday, May 26, 2006

Vacation time.

There were Palm Trees. Palm trees and little spiders. Cute things. We were in our own little world there and there were wonderful things. I found you in my bed that night and I was in heaven. You wore those shiny black shoes of yours and we walked along the shore. WHY?! Why were you so sensual? Why did you kiss me the way you did. We had something special darling. We kissed, we caught frogs together, remember the little gray-green ones and the big brown ones? Remember?
Then you took me to the little liquor shop on the corner, you took me to the liquor shop on the corner and got me drunk. I wanted you to get me drunk; I liked what you did. I knew what you intended to do. And I wanted you to. I needed to know your touch. You showed up in my life out of no where. Please forgive me for what I do. You showed up; You made it real. This is the result of your invitation. Your fault. Yours! So here we are darling. You tried to run, You tried! But no. I looked. I looked and looked and looked. I found you! You ran from me, You ran in the dark of night and hid when you thought I was sleeping. But our love, Our love was so strong, I found you. How should I react? How should it happen? You offered. Remember? And now… now… Now you pay up for leaving me. Pay up dear!

Wednesday, May 24, 2006

traffic-reporter gone off the deep end...

Tap. Tap. Tapity, Tap tap. Hearing the feelings flow, I'm hanging by my fingers. Where did it come from and where does it go? The pink tea pots and the amber waves. Where did the glass shards come from? In fact, they're still there.
Being a reporter isn't easy. I used to do this shit in my sleep, but then I got a real job. I report for the big boys now. Here I am watching it al from my big silver bird in the sky. The chopper's thup, thup is easy to forget after the first year or so. I'm looking down at all the blood, all the bodies, all the carnage. What's worse is the battle hasn't hit yet. Young minds, youg willings. None of them are ready for what's about to hit them. They'll never be ready.
I can't help but stare at just one though. It's a reporter's first rule ya know, personalize it; focus on one tragic soul and make it hit home for every bleeding heart. Gotta beef it up sometimes. Never leave a dry eye over your page. Ya know?
But nothing like that ever happens, here I sit in my high, safe perch. And all those soon to be dead are dying. I never get to meet them, never get to see them. I never get to get as close to the mangled flesh as any of my readers feel. Except this time.
There on the ground; That soon to be dead body. That is Johnny. They're all called Johnny until I think of a better name to give them.
Johnny is sitting there in his Jeep. He doesn't see the oncomming. He doesn't see the devastation. But I do. I saw it three thousand times and made millions on it.
And the big boys demand their story, bigger this time, worse. They always want worse.
They'll get it.
He's going to be shot. It'll be a high-powered rifle. From no-where. He's only seventeen. A medical student. And his daughter in the back-seat. Addopted. No one will know where the bullet came from. No one but me and my big-boys. They make the decisions ya know. I just report it for ya. Here from my big helicopter. The hard part is aiming while keeping this damn news chopper steady.
Wait for it...
Wait for it...
Watch, I've gotten good ya know. Aim gets better with practice. His head'll explode like Kennedy's.
And when it's all over the news channel. The girl from the traffic report chopper will ger her glory again. I've got the eye-witness account. I saw it all. Every chunk of bloody hell. Every car that got shattered along the way. I say the child get her head cut off. I'll sell the story. They'll buy. No one can resist. No one will.
Wait for it...
wait for it...
the big story...
Wait for it.
...

Monday, May 22, 2006

poetic ways; bonding

Thanks Minx for the idea, i'm certain this isn't what you meant but I had fun doing it this way instead. Hope y'all enjoy
Tag!


My answers: His answers:
I AM: strength I AM: unique
I HATE: ignorance I HATE: insincerity
I FEAR: misunderstanding I FEAR: anonymity
I HEAR: metallic pings I HEAR: little voices
I REGRET: living I REGRET: loss
I AM NOT: rearing I AM NOT: helpless
I CRY: too often I CRY: painfully
I AM NOT ALWAYS: aware I AM NOT ALWAYS: patient
I WRITE: too little I WRITE: vibrantly
I CONFUSE: joyfully I CONFUSE: the public
I FINISH: nothing I FINISH: quietly
I WANT: you I WANT: compassion
I MISS: loving I MISS: creating
I WONDER: at everything I WONDER: a lot
I DANCE: too seldom I DANCE: privately
I SING: nothing I SING: my own way
I SEE: darkness I SEE: a world of my own creation
I MAKE: Great things I MAKE: fantasy become reality
I NEED: hope I NEED: help
I SHOULD: relax I SHOULD: procrastinate less
I START: often I START: strangely

His answers: My answers:
I AM: weird I AM: modest
I HATE: stupidity I HATE: the masses
I FEAR: being alone I FEAR: being controlled
I HEAR: music I HEAR: fun things
I REGRET: not being able to say goodbye I REGRET: not being there
I AM NOT: ignorant I AM NOT: knowledgeable enough
I CRY: privately I CRY: when lonely
I AM NOT ALWAYS: intelligent I AM NOT ALWAYS: scary
I WRITE: seldomly I WRITE: with my heart
I CONFUSE: people I CONFUSE: myself
I FINISH: on time I FINISH: little
I WANT: happiness I WANT: everything
I MISS: friends I MISS: believing in something
I WONDER: infrequently I WONDER: why a lot
I DANCE: often I DANCE: when happy
I SING: not nearly enough I SING: when sad
I SEE: reality I SEE: the impossibly true
I MAKE: wonderment I MAKE: painful joy in dark things
I NEED: affection I NEED: time and rest
I SHOULD: be more observant I SHOULD: do more
I START: slowly I START: too much

Here's to all the yous out there.

Perversity endorced

Nosing my way across the mind within my soul.

I lost you there for a second, what did you say?

I said please pass me the salt.

I fingered it with a nail, trying to push it closer to her... she was getting aggravated, but I didn't want to touch the stuff. "I can kill you ya know" I said.

"Pardon?"

She was a cold and batty one but I didn't like to create waves. Sometimes I have to learn to lie a little so people don't get too nervous... "I said. It can kill you ya know... salt can. It's bad for you. I don't want to touch it."

"Beastly little boy!"

She seemed pretty steamed. She got up, stormed over in that paper Mache sounding dress of hers... some prom dress, it didn't even sound pretty. And she marched over to me and snatched the salt. I din't know why she didn't do that in the first place. I sure wasn't going to do anything for her! She can get everything her own damn self for all I care. I folded my arms in a huff and turned away from her with that look of pain and disgust. It shot right to mama's heart.
Mama walloped her one. ("Don't you dare get angry at him, he's slower than you are!")

I stuck my tongue out at her while only she was looking.

Sunday, May 21, 2006

tu... usted... yo... nosotros.

Crawling to the phone I find myself in shambles. I weep to think of the cold hard pain. Welcoming it, causing it upon myself, I despise it. I don't want to do this to myself anymore. Your stabbing, slicing, cutting ways, your words... you drive me to it. And who do I turn to? Who do I cry to for help? Why do I come to you with this? Why do I... Why do I?

I pick up the phone and my wrist bleeds on the keys.
I dial you, hoping you are there.
You scream at me, tell me I'm dumb.
I feel worse and the kind razor looks good again.
I'm ashamed I disappoint you so.


Hello to the lost souls
(best friends and bad lovers: suicide preventionists)

I've met you many times now,
In sickness and in health,
I look for you at night
Hiding in my closet.
You seek me out
And scare me so
And as my fingers fly
Across the dial,
On the other side of the line
You mark my words
I'm there.
Listen to me softly,
Speak to me your snarls
And keep me here,
My sweet dear,
Continue scaring me.
Because no man,
No braver beast
May save me from your grasp.
I look for you
From behind these eyes
And tears come streaming.
Stop the screaming.
I'm dying here by your lies.

Friday, May 19, 2006

Yay!!!

Home Sweet Home!!!

(And she rounds the corner, sliding for home... will she make it... She's Home!!! Now we're waiting for the judges... is she safe folks... Is She Safe?)

Thursday, May 18, 2006

Pink red flower

I see that spiral red and pink, the splotches that tell me of your untimely death... Like blood spattered upon the heart; I feel so out of place, so noble, so bold, so cold. Where did all the roses go? The daisies, the sunsets, the sweet water and air. Why passé that which is cliché? Why ban the beautiful? Sweet death has come to knock on the doors, it knocks and your heart be still. Mankind will not heed its call, with the death of beauty so dies grace. With a handful of red-brown earth, not apple, not poison, I tempt you. And so you shall fall. Not again sweet prisoner, not again. Fall for the first time from grace. Kill off the beautiful, kill off nature, kill off all which can be known. Knowledge itself is your victim. Knowledge, the dying muse.
Sit with me. Strange killer. By my side be my companion. See the world as you have not seen it, look at it not as that which must die. See it for what it once was and see it for what it has become and can be. Do not run from that which you cannot understand, do not try to kill it for having been beaten. I do not kill your wife for your battery, I do not shoot your dog because it starves. Sit here with me a while, hate if you must, and open your mind for once to the possibilities which can be but yet are not. Stare at that large lily-like pink flower, stare at its red splotched existence and tell me about the rose.

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

Glass Eyes - A short story and study in Poe

Glass eyes

(Originally found written in the journal of the institutionalized and criminally held person of Helry Wilsslossen and translated from its original language and form after the writer's passing.)

I stared into her face. Watching her, she was expressionless. And as I talked to her I wondered how long it had been since she had stopped smiling. She was no lost soul; she was, in that moment, the only lost soul. I watched her blank and blind face closely as I recited my lessons to her. I wondered if she was awake and listening or sleeping behind those vacant eyes again.
I paused to watch her wrinkles slither in their permanent frown.
And received a firm smack across the knuckles for it. Her aim, for being so blind was perfect. Painfully perfect.
She believed in education the way it used to be.
So I recited further, hurrying across the phrases so as not to receive another whack. Reciting, watching. Those dead and stern eyes. One crept slowly across the room. It always sweeps by me as if I'm not there. This time was no different. It swayed in it's pre-destined pattern and back across the room as if following a plane across some unseen horizon. She never looks anyone in the eye. It makes it hard to look her in the face when you talk to her. She's so creepy.
I've been taking lessons from her for about three months now. They say learning English is the hardest thing in the world. They say she's the best teacher and that she makes it easy.
As soon as I am good enough I will not take lessons from her anymore, I can't stand her eyes. One is a white glass marble and the other black glass. Some say someone switched one on her in the middle of the night; it was long ago and on a dare. Others say it was the doctor's idea, their way of warning the world of her evil.
She is evil too.
Just one time meeting her and you realize quickly how dark her soul must be.
She never has a kind word for anyone in the world. And when you cross her path an unearthly chill attaches itself to your spine for eternity in moments. As her hellish glare fixes upon you for those eternal moments, it seems as though you have fixed eyes upon hell and the devil, cruelty embodied. It's enough to stop a grown man in his tracks. And when it does stop you she wrenches back that arm of hers to clobber anyone in her way. She is her own seeing-eye dog, and she scares even vultures and pit-bulls.
I watcher her in her chair, the slow creak beneath us rose high in pitch and stifled every breath, every word. I choked on my lessons and ran screaming for the door. She sat there and stood the chair still turning her gaze to the sound of my running screaming lead-heavy feet. With her cold and angry gaze she shut the door before I could reach it. I could scream for help if I tried but it would be no use, not even the cats dared enter the realm of the old woman. I was on her territory, I was free game, I was helpless.
Cutting words, the blade in her sibilants and the bite in her phrases cut me down to the beast I was in her eyes. How dare I run from an old woman set upon helping me. I could hear the door lock of its own accord as she scolded me. Glass eyes wandering she rose from her captive seat and approached me with the nimble swiftness of a tiger. Claws and fangs at the ready. I tried to dodge. Intuitively she swiped the air where I was going and boxed my ear firmly enough to set me to the ground.
I told my self to calm down, to stay to my senses! I had to pay attention to her every move! "Imbecile!" How could I let my guard down so much so as to let her eyes catch glimpse of my knowledge. I knew she was evil and now she was aware that I knew!
I felt the uncontrollable urge to gouge out those glass and crust eyes of all-seeing hatred. With my bare hands I wanted to grab them and throw them to the pits of hell where they belonged. But she was the work of the devil and was imbued with the kind of true evil that senses such things. i needed to escape before she ripped the flesh from my bones and devoured all the evidence.
My body was soon to be her prey, my mind her playground. I could not let the devil's work consume me, I ran for the window. She clothes-lined me, causing me to fall forward into the tall panes of icicle-thin shards. I hit the window, luckily, with enough force to break it. In falling to the ground I thought only of how lucky I was to escape her fatal grip.
The witch-woman slew words at me but I made it to town before she could curse me with her foul speech.
I was a fool for wanting to learn from her. She is not the work of the devil, she is the devil, spewing her teaching upon the minds of the unsuspecting.
She had to be removed, one look at those eyes told of the torment she had caused.
Her skin was cracked and jagged like bark torn by metal teeth. Like shadows of dead trees lurking in the windy night, her limbs were deformed making instead branches which reached out in the night and grabbed small unsuspecting children's dreams to turn them into clawed nightmares.
Writing and festering her skin boils and cracks ready to turn to dusty white poison which she mixes in the water at night. She is determined to kill the town.
Her hair is a white-grey mass of not-hair. Rolled into it's knot behind her skull it leaves the public unsuspecting. But I know better, I have seen her put it on at hours untold. It is comprised of cob-webs and spider-poison. Infested with the netting of black-widows she keeps it close at hand to snatch up her young and tender prey and lure them to her dinner-table.
She is a sneaky one.
And worst of all are those eyes. The source of hell's evil itself, they sweep and sway in their unsuspicious turn watching for the one true soul who will kill her, converting all who lay in her path. I have seen them fix on me, nights long ago. I crept to her room to slip a silver blade to her throat. But the eyes sweeping in sleep glistened and swept and came to the door as I crept my shoulder neatly through. They stopped on me, they stared at me and her whole face contorted to an anger fiercer than the fiery wrath of hell. She, in silence, summoned all the demons of the depth to restrain me and so help me God I fled in terror.
But tonight with the nectar of the Gods at my will I am sworn to save the world from her beating black will.
May those sticks of hell's magic, those fingers of bony jackal’s teeth never again grasp throats as the trees grasp the wind.
Tonight being the night I am fated to; I creep into the room where the wind whistles through the shattered window shards. She sleeps here, and her chair seems poised as if her soul is resting far back in it unable to reside within the blacked charred self it once owned. Hell-bound her silent self lies. She is apprehensive in her sleep and her glass eyes sweep more slowly than usual. I must creep to the beast and slay it before it sees my presence and sounds the alarm.
A red light so dark and sinister radiates from her evil black eye. It must be projected through the curdled blood of the fated few who have tried to slay her before me. But I must not fail, I mush not let her corrupt another towards the devil's evil ways.
Sweeping it spots me as I creep. It stops and locks upon my own gaze. Stunned I move to the side attempting to side-step its attentions. It follows my eyes and surrounds me in the shroud of evil that I know shall be my death. I collapsing to the floor am paralyzed by her icy touch. It must me the trained spiders, for I cannot move. And the ever burning gaze burns a hole in my heart. I can hear my soul bleeding. Fresh blood for her hungry floor-boards. May she know my sound well. Thump-thump, Thump-thud, I bleed and her thirsty hell shall suck of my heart till morning, till death. Thump-thud, all I hear is the slow beating of my fists, my departure. I am here to release her of this world, and she, grateful is now free to capture the nether-realms. More evil than Beelzebub himself, I have made a mistake, she has awoken from her beastly exile upon this earth and I shall be no more a hero than Prometheus.
Weep no more little flame, we must enjoy what we can of our decent from the holy and into the darkness. Now is the time of the new reigning evil. I have unleashed it and it shall forever gaze upon me through Glass eyes.

Tuesday, May 16, 2006

Pepermint sticks

Soft and sweet
I ask you dear:
Do you love me?
yes or no.

Surrender to me,
my sweet love,
tell me that
you're near.

And if I falter
tell me dearie
what I've done
to harm

My love, only
you to hold me
protect me from
this storm

Sweet as candy
softly, slowly,
deftly I am
yours

Child of nine
I hold you tightly
You're my only love

___________________

So there is no rhyme or reason as to why we think what we do or why some writers can tell you what they're writing before it's written while others cannot. I was writing as a character in love with soft peppermint sticks. I failed to write that, but instead I wrote as a parent or something of the sort who loves and cherished a nine year old child. Children, candy, close enough. But the notion still remains in my brain. I cannot shake the feeling that I can never seem to write what I mean to.

I am soothed by the thought however; that at least what I do write is sometimes pretty.

PS: A big thanks to Tina for giving me soft peppermint sticks and a big thanks to Candy Minx for visiting and reading my blog. Your comments and contributions are greatly appreciated!

Sunday, May 14, 2006

Mating call for the nut-job

Oooo look! Padded walls! Boouncy, bouncy, bouncy, bouncy..... !!!!!!!!!!

Do I really need to elaborate further?

Friday, May 12, 2006

Home... a home

After long days away, it's nice to finally get to somewhere you can call home...

A story to be elaborated upon later.

Thursday, May 11, 2006

I'd like everyone to help me out on this one:

Famous last words:

Attack dogs? They just put that sign up to scare people away!
No No, that train is definently not moving.
Hey, What's this switch do?
Bears won't attack if you feed them.
See, told you this tiger was tame.
Yes, I'm sure these are magic mushrooms.
No really, I saw this on animal planet!
I ate what?
Lesbian convention? There goes my chances of getting laid!
Red to black ... something something ... red to yellow... Friendly fellow!
Red wire to ... um... what's this wire for?
It didn't kill Benjamin Franklin and I'll get a cool glowing key out of the deal!
Aw look honey, it wants to play, get a picture!
I didn't know Dolphins had such toothy grins!

Contribute more please... and check back periodically, I'dd beaddingmore as theyare thought of.

Added 5/15/06

Eh! What do Doctors know?!
Told you I was sick!
I'm not ready yet!
Duck? Where?!

This one's for Lucky: (Added 5/24/06)

Ok, grenade. Pull the pin and count to... Hey Guys! Count to what again?

Wednesday, May 10, 2006

Exams:

...


Blarg!


...

So comes the bitter sweet end of one of my favourite classes. To exchange words, ideas and live coincidal lives with so many great minds in one semester is a wonder. To learn under that professor, in my mind: A Master... It is an Honour. I only hope I could absorb some of their greatness. I fear otherwise.

Tuesday, May 09, 2006

Anyway,

I was going to post the paper I have due today buut since class was canceled I guess I have more time than I thought to write it and edit it I guess I'll not be posting it until later tonight... for fun stuff to read searh my archives for Straight-jacket or bald frog...

Post for 5/8/06

Since The calss is over I guess I don't have to blog every day anymore, But I really want to and am going to try to... Not that I'm off to a good start but at least I'm going to try...

Sunday, May 07, 2006

The Curse of the prolific writer

Over the course of the past several years I don't think I've written anything good, but I sure have written a lot of it and I'm so prolific about my writing that I really want to see some of it make money some day. I problem is with other people. I don't want anyone making money off my shit unless it is me. At least not without my concent. Dammit I wrote it, I should be the one getting paid for it! Meanwhile, I'm considering pulling all my shit off the internet (which I won't do because I'm trying to get exposure) and I'm also considering scouring the internet for everything I have ever posted or otherwise shared. That's where the curse of prolific writership comes in. I'm so nervous about doing this because there is so much I have written over time that not only am I bound to get a hit somewhere but I'm also bound to spend what may turn out to be months of non-stop search time searching for my own works. What's worse, I need to set up my own url so that I can at least appear to be a somewhat serious writer. I mean look at this site, this is crap! And I want to look profetional.
I now see where programmersget so much money from!
Meanwhile. I guess I'll keep writing hard core and I'll keep hoping something will come along that will allow me to lock my shit up better so at least the amatures can't get it. I have to do more research on this shit.
Talk you to later. Here's hoping. And thanks again Jonathan Baily. I really do appretiate it.

Welcome to another day from Hell

So here I sit singed by the simple fact that I am associated with those damn Fuck-Ups... But here I lye in this corner pressed to the wall. I shall tell you more as soon as I'm out of here.

Saturday, May 06, 2006

Worry materialized, Jonathan Bailey, I'm behind you!

Ever since I got that comment on my paper, I mean since I read it, really read it; I've been worried sick about all my writing. It seems that all my work my truly be lost to plagiarism and it scares me a lot. I pour my heart and soul into everything I write and some of it I hope to sell, to use to get me and my career off the ground. So am I really going to stand for this? Is there a simple way of "locking up" my work? What of it? And does this make me in some way some kind of rule and security obsessed conservative? I'm all for freedom and one's right to share. But c'mon people give credit where credit is due. i don't want someone claiming my words are their own. I want to have influenced, but I want to have benefited from my own work. After all it is mine! And if someone is going to get paid for those words, I want it to be the person who wrote them, in this case: Me!

Friday, May 05, 2006

The E-book Publishing Debate: In Final Paper Form (Yay!)

Shannon Hollender
Prof. Malesh
Hellacious Ppr.
Due: 5/5/06

Writing to be “Rich”… As Opposed to?
(Alternatively: Of Mice Among Men)

Stephen has a house, two dogs and a lovely wife. He does not work a regular job. He sells things on e-bay in his leisure time and buys more than he should in turn. After all, he can afford it. Stephen likes to enjoy his in-house pool and the stables where his favourite horse, Jumper, is and most of all he loves his back-woods cabin where his buddies like to go hunting and he will often go to fish. Most of all Steven is proud of his library. It took him a long time to assemble the collection of books he has and his favourite book is the one on the third shelf from the top. It is green, leather-bound and the lettering, in shiny black in-laid words, reveals the author to be a Richard Bachman. A no-body like he was. Rich was a man with a dream back in Maine and here he is now with hundreds of books and an ever-growing estate.
Back in Maine, where he keeps his cottage, Stephen can be Stephen, but here in his library with his pen, and the type-writer and all the fun new electronic toys he has, he can’t help but once more feel the influence of Rich. He too has had this dream and Rich proved for him that it was possible. It seems that in each other’s foot steps these two men followed.
A writer’s job is one of immense struggle; a writer’s story is one worth telling. In the quiet dim mornings, the dank and subtle afternoons, into each night, writers are awake tapping, scratching and forming out their stories. Every day hoping this time will be different, thousands of manuscripts pour through the mail. Publishers everywhere hire thousands of workers just to sort the relevant mail from the spittle. Every writer hopes that this time they will be given a chance to make it to the top. No one gets there unless they’ve done the foot-work first. It’s not in who you know, it’s who knows you and if those publishers have no clue who you are; there is no chance for you to survive the paper mill and make it to the big leagues.
Stephen went on a publicity-stunt spree. Finally, after having held several journalism jobs, someone gave him a chance. He’s rich today and day after day all he does, all he has to do; is write. Every year he cranks out multitudes of books. Eventually a few fall through the cracks and don’t get published. Like his earlier work, it never got published. Stephen thought of his idols looking out the window like he was doing, trying to figure out what would prevent their work from getting lost. He wanted to publish his older works. But now that he was a big fish in this ever smaller pond, he figured it wouldn’t go over too well. Maybe they would think his writing was slipping, maybe those books would end up being career-killers. Stephen loved to write, writing was his life. He stared out the window and thought.
The window is closed but the birds are outside dive-bombing each other. His mind wanders to the first time he wrote about the birds. The first time he really noticed them. He liked their blues and their grey-browns and watched as the Blue-birds and the Robins were fending off the Hawks. “In the face of dismemberment and death, those who fight are ultimately the ones who survive...” he thought and it became his motto for life. He wrote it in a poem on a tissue. Heavy black ink on fragile whitish yellow. After years the paper was old, and the words were blurred. That poem used to sit framed on the desk, until it was broken it in a fit of rage. He liked what the birds had taught him that day and he liked the fact that the little guy could always win if they fought hard-enough.
As a writer Stephen fought hard, Rich had taught him that, and so did the birds. But Rich was a bit violent from time to time. Violent but passionate and Stephen admired that passion, it inspired him. Both Rich and the birds taught Stephen to be a survivor and Stephen eventually survived Rich’s death, but it was the birds that gave him the solution to this, his problem.
Another publicity stunt and this one was the perfect solution to all his problems, no longer as himself Stephen barreled head-long into a progression of events that could have killed him, as a writer that is. It had the potential however to make a lot of people very wealthy and very happy… So with his idea in mind he drove straight into his publisher’s office and proposed his great idea…
Clive Barker, another no name writer was turned away from his meeting. He is scheduled to have an appointment with the publisher but since Stephen showed up unannounced, Clive was told to go home and that they would call him… His phone had been shut off, this was his last chance with the publisher and now he couldn’t afford his rent. Clive began to get desperate.
Stephen was ecstatic, he knew all along the publisher would agree, after all he is their best-seller but it was great to know they were so willing to succumb to all his demands, they even shoved out other writers to make room for Stephen. He really felt like he was in the big leagues now. Besides the fewer other writers there were, the better his chances were with the public. Stephen felt no remorse for the small writer outside, it was the small writer inside himself he wanted to clear the way for.
Back in Connecticut, or was it Illinois, Stephen was Rich and Rich was a part of Stephen. And the whole messed up story left Stephen, under Rich’s name, rich and famous as Stephen. Confused yet? Sounds like a third rate thriller novel right? No? Well it would be completely understandable if it did sound like that. So let me illuminate the scenario for you. Firstly it is exceedingly important to know that Stephen isn’t just wrapped up with some guy named Richard. Stephen is Richard. Secondly, it needs to be understood that both Stephen and Richard are writers, famous writers.
As an author, Stephen made it big, but he didn’t want all that fame affecting some of his earlier unpublished work. Stephen instead changed his name, at least in literary terms, to Richard so that he could publish his earlier works without feeling like he was riding those earlier stories on the fame of his now well-known name. But when the public found out that Richard in fact was Stephen, Stephen decided to get rid of Richard. He threw a funeral for his pen-name and when the next book came out, a perverse joke ensued.
Remember that third rate thriller novel I mentioned? Well Stephen thought it was a great idea too and after Richard’s funeral, Stephen decided to write down the battle between his self and the alter-ego pen name Richard. This book was an instant hit because of publicity alone. Stephen built quite a name for himself not only because he is an inspired writer but also due to his flair for the abnormal and twisted and his talent to draw the attention of the reader in publicity stunt after publicity stunt after publicity stunt… Stephen often wrote about himself, subjecting his mind and life to the scrutiny of the page. One of Stephen’s seemingly favourite moves is letting the story take over and literally reshape his life. Where the book started out with a struggling writer using a pen name, in a nasty and jaunting abnormal twist of events the author, our beloved Dr. Jekyll type has found himself the morbid play thing of his own Mr. Hyde.
The reason our Stephen was trying to get rid of his pen name, was due to what he called in his book “cancer of the pseudonym.” The pen name however, is more than just shiny black lettering on a dark shade of green binding. The events unfolded for our Rich, our Clive, our many other writers like some story from the pages of a book. Stephen, in his utter success pushed away so many others. Squashed them under the sheer magnitude of his own big name.
1980 passed slowly for Raymond Edward Miner, who like our Clive was a budding writer rejected. He was alone in his apartment, he had to get his mother to care for his kids and his sister to care for his cat. He found a janitorial job in addition to his McDonalds job and was making rent again. He thought he’d never save the money he needed to publish by vanity press, but he vowed to begin scraping together the cash. If a publisher wouldn’t buy his book he would put up the cash himself to get his career started.
When Rich was no longer useful to him, Rich too had to go. And like some villain in the book, Stephen began to effectively kill off every small writer that didn’t help him or conform to his own plan. Stephen managed to take over the literary scene as our beloved little-guy writers began to die off faster. In the years that followed Stephen’s rise to the top, writers found it exceedingly harder to get signed and published because it was hard to measure up. Stephen was on the top of the heap, like some strong man in a Nazi gas chamber. And he wrote about it. Over and over again, writers found rejection in the wake of Stephen, they had to turn elsewhere to pay the rent, and there was a budding job-market sucking up creative minds. Technology. In 1983 as Stephen was publishing his twenty-fifth major work the internet was being formed into a species of what we know it as today.
In 1988, “advancement” to this solution occurred affecting the struggle between big name publishing and the little-guys. The Internet had arrived head-on not as the solution to the problem necessarily, but as at least a back door into becoming a big name. This new concept, the “world-wide-web” refused to stand down and left people able to access a far wider reaching type of publicity.
As the years passed, creative thinkers no longer capable of finding their fortunes in writing turned to journalism and technology. As Stephen was writing his sixtieth book, creative problem solvers and quick studies found themselves moving technological advancement at mach speed. In 1993 Gates slowly began to become the World’s wealthiest man as he published his first Biography. He indeed became the world’s wealthiest man, tenfold. And while Gates continually gave it away, Stephen continually dished out more suppression to struggling writers. He dished out book after book to his fans and failure after failure to young writers trying to measure up. Stephen kept getting better and better. In technology however, the more savvy writers were on the brink of finally bringing Stephen to his knees.
1996 was a big year, for the first time, an online library which offered entire books in digital format became available to the public. These electronic books (e-books) were an instant hit for all those technologically savvy persons on the go. As reading in the plane is a favourite pass-time among many businessmen on the go, clunky books were a problem. It was found that these e-books were a great and relatively cheap solution to their space issues. Lap-tops and PDAs in tow, these e-books left the traveler with less to carry and more to do. They could take their computer and their handheld to what ever meeting they were going to and read their book on their PDA like their child played with the Game-Boy they got for Christmas. Not having to worry about those clunky books was a two-fold advantage as well. The readers didn’t have to worry about space issues and the authors didn’t have to rely on publishing and distributing paper-bound copies. Effectively this freed the writer of the once-necessary publishing company. The cost and struggle of publishing had been nearly eliminated and like the levies breaking in New Orleans, the writers should have flooded this new market.
They couldn’t. There was nothing to protect their writing from plagiarism and many lost their work to prolific distributors and dishonest readers who did not pay for copies of the books they had access to. In literally no time there was another big problem, if no one was paying for what was being written and distributed, this new “solution” became essentially useless as writing became essentially a non-profit job even if the writer were someone as good as Stephen. Only those writers looking to distribute their names without gaining profit could find this new solution useful. The rest of us had to wait. Eventually a number of electronic publishing companies, companies like LaTeX and Adobe and DjVu, found ways of encrypting and protecting and essentially putting “locks” on all that they published. This introduced a new kind of publisher, a new kind of rights of distribution problem and a whole new legal playing field. The “solution” had opened the proverbial can of worms.
While Stephen was writing and publishing “Bag of Bones” in 1998 the internet was offering writers a new outlet. As a reporter, a budding writer could now offer their opinions online through online newspapers, and through web logs (or blogs). A short story writer could find a whole new pool of readers quickly and easily through a variety of great search engines. Building a name and reputation now was as easy for a novice writer as it could possibly be for a big name writer.
What made the whole internet outlet deal sweeter was a law was passed in 1998 called the Digital Millennium Copyright Act. The DMCA in a nut shell served, to wall up and protect copyright and to punish “those who seek to breach that protection.” So says Scarlet Pruitt, digital correspondent for CNN. And this was what budding writers needed, to get their work publicized safely and at minimal cost.
Using this law and the opportunities provided by the web, finally little writers could get their books some circulation without having to worry about big name writers like Stephen pushing them out. But as e-books became the next big thing in literature, Stephen began to hatch yet another publicity stunt. Stephen was up to no good again looking for even more publicity and profit and four books after his 1998 best seller, Stephen again decided to bum-rush novice writers in the e-books realm too. With newly designed digital encryption and a variety of other anti-theft protections including the DMCA Stephen published his next big book in the series he was working on.
Stephen published “Riding the Bullet” only in e-book form. Within hours, distribution of novice writers felt the impact and within those same hours Stephen’s new book had already been hacked and distributed illegally. Over the course of two weeks though, selling his digital book online for only two dollars and fifty cents, Stephen had made upwards of two-hundred-thousand dollars. This was far more than he had ever made selling to his publishers and in this way his book also ended up cheaper to the public by about six dollars. With his book “Riding the Bullet” Stephen took a chance on something new and gained the world of e-book publication infamous notoriety.
Despite this lucrative ordeal, Stephen never published electronically again. He had learned a valuable lesson about the dishonesty of the public and he had exposed a very important flaw in the world of digital ownership. File copy, file transfer and general file sharing is almost entirely untraceable and it can be profitable for any dishonest Joe and their site to have the public’s desired files including e-books offered for next to nothing and less. Posting advertisements on a frequently visited web-site can rake in the cash, and if you have Stephen’s new and exclusive book, the kind of traffic your site will see is bound to leave you far better off. Consider what would happen if you had an un-locked copy of Stephen’s new book, you offered it on your site for free provided those coming to your site tolerated a barrage of advertisements. You would end up filthy rich or at least close enough to it off the illegal copy of the book and provided you took down the book after a while, you would have gotten those profits in a virtually untraceable, therefore impossible to prove way. In this manner, the thieves are getting away with murder, and all that a writer can do, good bad or in between, is write about it.
So our Mr. Stephen is back to the publishers. He’s talked with them again but this time not about another book. This time he is talking about this new and truly scary problem that he faces along with thousands of other writers. The publishers, paper-bound and electronic alike, are currently pouring an estimated twenty-billion dollars a year into figuring out how to truly and more securely lock up the e-books and other files so that the dishonest vultures hacking and offering copy written works for “free” cannot take profits away from the already monopolized strong-hold the publishers have on the realm of publication.
What’s a writer to do? “Lock” their work to see it hacked in a few hours? Rely on the old-fashioned way of getting recognition but risk getting virtually no circulation? An estimated two-thirds of everything people read at the present time is read on-line. Should a writer still risk this plagiarism and lost work essentially sacrificing their creative self for what amounts to increased distribution and some circulation without profit? Only big names like Stephen can really afford to lose all their work like that, he could essentially write and post a new book that will be lost to the “free” vultures in two hours and live off the profits for the rest of his life. Is this what a writer must do to get that kind of recognition? There is no doubt it is still by far better in most ways, including legal avenues, to publish in paper. However, in order to be recognized by a publisher and actually get published, a writer must have that name, that distribution, and these days due to how large the field is, they must command a relatively large internet audience. It all hinges on having the name.
So the problem isn’t really with writers, publishers or even with the insecure methods with which we today protect our digital material. The problem, the real problem lies with the consumer. The student behind the computer screen trying to get as much as they can for free, the businessman looking for his next plain-book for free, the man or woman turning a profit on the talents and skills of others, the “free” vultures and their public. These men and women the world over who don’t want to pay for their music, books or media are the driving force. The Problem lies with those who cater to this public and with this, the problem lies with the public themselves.

Works Cited:
"Bill Gates." Wikipedia. 1 May 2006 .
"Committee on Copyright and Other Legal Matters (CLM)." Limitations and Exceptions to Copyright and Neighbouring Rights in the Digital Environment. 18 Sept. 04. IFLA. 27 Feb. 06 .
"Digital Millennium Copyright Act (DMCA)." SU Lair. Stanford University. 23 Feb. 06 .
"Internet." Wikipedia. 1 May 2006 .
“Limitations and Exceptions to Copyright and Neighbouring Rights in the Digital Environment: An International Library Perspective” IFLA, Committee on Copyright and Other Legal Matters (CLM) 22 Feb. 2006 . February 2002
"Online Book Catalog." Project Gutenberg. 11 Apr. 2006. 1 May 2006 .
“Petition to Abolish the Digital Millenium Copyright Act” 22 Feb. 2006 .
"US CODE: Title 17,107. Limitations on exclusive rights: Fair use." U.S. Code Collection. Cornell Law School, Legal Information Institute. 5 Mar. 2006 .
“US v. ElcomSoft & Sklyarov FAQ” EFF 27 Feb. 2006 . February 2002
Bernard, Andre, ed. Rotten Rejections. Ossining, New York: Pushcart P, 1990.
Curtis, Richard, and William T. Quick. How to get your E-Book Published. Ed. Donya Dickerson. Cincinnati, OH.: F&W Publications, Inc., 2002. This book by Curtis
Dinsmore, Alan; Sajka, Janina; Schroeder, Paul; “Comments to Library of Congress, 2003: AFB Seeks Exemption for Literary Works” 22 Feb. 2006 .
Eamonn Neylon “First Steps in an Information Commerce Economy Digital Rights Management in the Emerging E-Book Environment” D-Lib Magazine Volume 7 Number 1 27 Feb. 2006 . January 2001
Hilden, Julie; “The First Ammendment Issues Raised by the Troubling Prosecution of E-Book Hacker Dmitry Sklyarov” 23 Feb. 2006 .
Hodes, Laura, “Adobe's reversal of its Position on the "Hacker" That Cracked its E-Books: Proof That The Digital Millenium Copyright Act Needs To Change” 27 Feb. 2006 . August 2001
Jay, S; “How To Protect Your e-books From Piracy And Copyright Infringement!” 22 Feb. 2006 .
John, Dessauer P. Book Publishing What it is, What it Does. New York, N. Y.: R. R. Bowker Co., 1977.
Lloyd, Rich; “Electronic Rights: What is a Book?” 22 Feb. 2006 . 2002
McAllister, Neil; “Thursday, Civil Rights or Copyrights? Hack an eBook, Go to Jail” 22 Feb. 2006 . August 2, 2001
McCullagh, Declan; “The Struggle over Intellectual Property” 22 Feb. 2006 . August 6, 2001
Moohr, Geraldine; “The Crime of Copyright Infringement: An Inquiry Based on Morality, Harm, and Criminal Theory” 22 Feb. 2006 .
Pimm, Bob; “Authors' Rights in the E-Book Revolution” 22 Feb. 2006 . October 2000
Pruitt, Scarlet; “Four years on, digital copyright law revs up”, 22 Feb. 2006 . February 2002
Templeton, Brad. "An EBook Publisher on Why the U.S. Attorney Should Free Dmitry Sklyarov." Dec. ClariNet. 23 Feb. 06 .

Thursday, May 04, 2006

Wind chimes

Wind chimes
The sound of the dangling glass was singing in the wind like silver bells and liquid sound. I found myself for a moment and thought about the cat sitting there napping on my lap. Why wasn't the summer over yet?... "Chiile, get me some lemonade." I said to my nephew. He's almost eight now and I knew that as soon as I sent him inside he was bound to get into the chocolate. "…and don't you let me catch you snitchin no chocolate ya hear?"
"Yes mama, No mama" He was a good boy, a dumb one but a good one.

Johnathan got up to go inside, and the monster-truck versus T-Rex battle stopped abruptly. As both fell to the floor the cat woke up and stretched. "Go back 'sleep Ronja" John was one to stutter and mis-pronounce things; he did well enough with "Roger" this time. A bit slower than most, Johnathan at least had a good heart.
The kids at school had begun teasing him for being slow, but the girls stood up for him and he was oblivious. Happy and oblivious in his own little world. The rocking chair creaked beneath Aunt Bettie's weight, she was a plump, but healthy woman, She fanned herself, smoother out the cats fur and waited. A much more patient woman than her sister, it seemed Bettie had all she could do to ever get impatient with Johnathan. It was hard sometimes to see him struggle though, and Bettie waited with the best of them.
Johnathan carefully pushed the latch with one finger, held the handle with the other, leaned back... the door slipped from his hands and he fell on his bottom. The cat flinched, for a moment digging her claws in, then back off to sleep, she was used to this sort of thing by now.
As a side note to y'all... Yes, she's female a cat named Roger. Johnathan's sister had namer her when she was found under ol' Roger the Grocer's porch. Sister's gone now, but that was life in those parts, hard to manage keeping the younger more troublin' ones from catchin one thing or 'nother.
As the dust cloud lifted around Johnathan, he didn't seem in the least bit upset. Determined to get it right, he stood up butt first and fingered the door handle again. A hundred times he gone through that door and every once in a while it get's him again. The door grabbed his shirt corned as he let it shut behind him. It knocked him to the floor again when he walked just a step further. Some days were better. Practice makes perfect. He imagined himself a spider making it's first web. Spiders have to try lots of times to get things right. Sometimes they even have to try twenty times to get their first web right, only to have to start over again when the rains get to it. He got up on his hands and feet and walked like a spider would, like he imagined a spider would if it had only four legs and knees like his joints were. 'Even as a spider he would be handicapped' he thought 'but at least he would have practice at it.' and he slinked along in a jaunting and precarious fashion. The hallway was the easiest part, when he started to fall again, the walls would catch him. But he tried not to fall because he saw the walls as being covered in poisonous snaked ready to snap up any unsuspecting spiders hobbling by. He touched them a few times but he was lucky, none of the snakes noticed. Next was the bottom of the pit of doom. The Foyer was lofty and high and standing at the bottom he imagined himself a fly crawling across the picnic table; he had to avoid the fly-swatters and the sticky surfaced fly-traps all along the way. Crawling around every pink blotch in the carpet, Johnathan the amazing Fly-boy managed to avoid sticky gooey death and nearly was squashed once but luckily he felt the wind of the on-coming fly-swatter when he ducked under the air-contidioner which nearly caught him in the back.
His chin felt sore - it must have been his fifteenth sense tingling as he turned to see the great dg beast of the bottom-less pit. It was charging as him with it's slobber of doom! Using his amazing fly-like abilities he practically flew when he jumped onto the chair. The beast slid under him and was defeated.
Johnathan made it to the door before the dog-beast awoke and slipped silently into the kitchen. There he found himself face to face with the next great threat! This was the realm of The Great Cold King. He had to convince the King that little him was no threat! Only then could he slip by, into the Castle and gather the King's lemon-nectar for his dependent and sickly family. He looked all around and could not find the King. It is well known that the King is small, but like Johnathan the small ones are so much more than they appear. Johnathan figured the King must be out on official Cold King business, so he began sneaking quietly to the door of the castle. The handle he knew would be cold so he grabbed a nearby vine from the towel-rack of greatness; Aunt Bettie liked to keep towel racks of greatness in the most convenient of places, and he wrapped the vine around the handle, this should be sufficient insulation he thought as he pulled with all his might on the mighty door. Suddenly he was hit with a rush of cold air and a spot-light. In the coldness he could see his breath and despite the distraction had to try to think fast. He looked up into the Castle shielding his eyes from the light and there on the second shelf was the nectar! It was just within reach and as he brought it down he knew he had to hurry. Already he heard the guard-dogs advancing; the door must have sounded some alarm which was beyond his perception. The heavy contained had to be left on the counter because the leader guard dog was already here. He looked into the great Castle and saw an orange carrot-stick-sword of fore-sight in the bottom drawer. Grabbing it he pointing it at the guard-dog intending to defend himself to the death. But the great beast took one sniff at his weapon and snatched it from him. The Beast chomped on it and sat down hoping for another. The great Johnathan had subdued the beast. Grabbing several carrot-sticks-swords of foresight Johnathan shoved them in his pocket and proceeded to get the nectar pitcher out of the fridgid Castle. He scaled the rock-face with the aid of the now docile beast, which made a good stepping stool when he asked it to lye down. Giving the dog-beast a carrot every time it was good to him, Johnathan convinced the beast to remain loyal. With a glass of the lemon-aid for his dying family in hand he replaced the pitcher to its former place and began to close the door. Something tempting caught his eye and the golden chocolate-cookie-nuggets of poisonous death seemed to almost beckon him with their sweet smell and shiny shell-bowl of temptation. He knew it was a trap intended to bring any daring but dumb adventurer to his demise. "You won't get me this time Cold King! Ha ha!" He yelled and he shut the door of the castle.
Turning back to the treacherous road before him he knew he could not spare a drop, the cup he held was essentially the cup of life and his family needed every precious golden drop to survive. Carrot-sticks in pocket and Dog-beast in tow, he knew the road back would still be treacherous...

As Johnathan handed Aunt Bettie the glass of Lemonade he found himself glad he hadn't spilled any of it. She was Mama to him, the only person close enough to him to be called Mama and her hands were awful shaky anymore. He knew if he had spilled half of it, like he would have done if he weren't so careful, by the time it got to her mouth she would have spilled the other half. Johnathan smiled at her. Bettie, seeing carrots in his pocket and no chocolate on his hands told him to go have himself some chocolate for being so good.

The adventure continued as the wind chimes whistled and marked time as merely summer.

Wednesday, May 03, 2006

More on the complete re-write

Shannon Hollender
Prof. Malesh
Hellacious Ppr.
Due: 5/5/06

Writing to be “Rich”… As Opposed to?
Stephen has a house, two dogs and a lovely wife. He does not work a regular job. He sells things on e-bay in his leisure time and buys more than he should in turn. After all he can afford it. Stephen likes to enjoy his in-house pool and the stables where his favourite horse; Jumper is and most of all he loves his back-woods cabin where his buddies like to go hunting and he will often go to fish. Most of all Steven is proud of his library. It took him a long time to assemble the collection of books he has and his favourite book is the one on the third shelf from the top. It is green and leather-bound and the lettering, in shiny black in-laid words, reveal the author to be a Richard Bachman. A no-body like he was. Rich was a man with a dream back in Maine and here he is now with hundreds of books and an ever-growing estate.
Back in Maine, where he keeps his cottage, Stephen can be Stephen, but here in his library with his pen, and the type-writer and all the fun new electronic toys he has he can’t help but once more feel the influence of Rich. He too has had this dream and Rich proved for him that it was possible. It seems that in each other’s foot steps these two men followed.
A writer’s job is one of immense struggle, a writer’s story is one worth telling. In the quiet dim mornings, the dank and subtle afternoons, into each night, writers are awake tapping, scratching and forming out their stories. Every day hoping this time will be different, thousands of manuscripts pour through the mail. Publisher after publisher and more still hire thousands of workers just to sort the relevant mail from the spittle. Every writer hopes that this time they will be given a chance to make it to the top. No one gets there unless they’ve done the foot-work first. It’s not in who you know, it’s who knows you and if those publishers have no clue who you are; there is no chance for you to survive the paper mill and make it to the big leagues.
Stephen went on a publicity-stunt spree. And after writing thousands of articles, finally someone gave him a chance. He’s rich today and day after day he writes. Every year he cranks out multitudes of books. Eventually a few fall through the cracks and don’t get published. Like his earlier work, it never got published. Rich like famous Stephen looked out the window trying to figure out what would prevent his work from getting lost. Stephen wanted to publish his older works. But now that he was a big fish and the pond seemed smaller, he figured it wouldn’t go over too well. Maybe they would think his writing was slipping, maybe those books would end up being career-killers. Stephen loved to write, writing was his life. He stared out the window and thought.
The window is closed but the birds are outside dive-bombing each other. His mind wanders to the first time he wrote about the birds. The first time he really noticed them. He liked their blues and their grey-browns and watched as the Blue-birds and the Robins were fending off the Hawks. “In the face of dismemberment and death, those who fight are ultimately the ones who survive...” he thought and it became his motto for life. He wrote it in a poem on a tissue. Heavy black ink on fragile whitish yellow. After years the paper was old, and the words were blurred. That poem used to sit framed on the desk, until it was broken it in a fit of rage. He liked what the birds had taught him that day and he liked the fact that the little guy could always win if they fought hard-enough.
As a writer Stephen fought hard, Rich had taught him that, and so did the birds. But Rich was a bit violent from time to time. Violent but passionate and Stephen admired that passion, it inspired him. Both Rich and the birds taught Stephen to be a survivor and Stephen eventually survived Rich’s death, but it was the birds that gave him the solution to this, his problem.
Another publicity stunt and this one was the perfect solution to all his problems, no longer as himself Stephen barreled head-long into a progression of events that could have killed him, as a writer that is. It had the potential howeve,r to make a lot of people very wealthy and very happy… So with his idea in mind he drove straight into his publisher’s office and proposed his great idea…
Henrik Ibsen, another no name writer was turned away from his meeting. He has an appointment with the publisher but since Stephen showed up unannounced, Henrik was told to go home and that they would call him… His phone had been shut off, this was his last chance with the publisher and now he couldn’t afford his rent. Henrik began to get desperate.
Stephen was ecstatic, he knew all along the publisher would agree, after all he is their best-seller but it was great to know they were so willing to succumb to all his demands, they even shoved out other writers to make room for Stephen. He really felt like he was in the big leagues now. Besides the fewer other writers there were, the better his chances were with the public. Stephen felt no remorse for the small writer outside, it was the small writer inside himself he wanted to clear the way for.
Back in Connecticut, or was it Illinois, Stephen was Rich and Rich was a part of Stephen. And the whole messed up story left Stephen, under Rich’s name, rich and famous as Stephen. Confused yet? Sounds like a third rate thriller novel right? No? Well it would be completely understandable if it did sound like that. So let me illuminate the scenario for you. Firstly it is exceedingly important to know that Stephen isn’t just wrapped up with some guy named Richard. Stephen is Richard. Secondly, it needs to be understood that both Stephen and Richard are writers, famous writers.
As an author, Stephen made it big, but he didn’t want all that fame affecting some of his earlier unpublished work. Stephen instead changed his name, at least in literary terms, to Richard so that he could publish his earlier works without feeling like he was riding those earlier stories on the fame of his now well-known name. But when the public found out that Richard in fact was Stephen, Stephen decided to get rid of Richard. He threw a funeral for his pen-name and when the next book came out, a perverse joke ensued.
Remember that third rate thriller novel I mentioned? Well Stephen thought it was a great idea too and after Richard’s funeral, Stephen decided to write down the battle between his self and the alter-ego pen name Richard. This book was an instant hit because of publicity alone. Stephen built quite a name for himself not only because he is an inspired writer but also due to his flair for the abnormal and twisted and his talent to draw the attention of the reader in publicity stunt after publicity stunt after publicity stunt… Stephen often wrote about himself, subjecting his mind and life to the scrutiny of the page. One of Stephen’s seemingly favourite moves is letting the story take over and literally reshape his life. Where the book started out with a struggling writer using a pen name, in a nasty and jaunting abnormal twist of events the author, our beloved Dr. Jekyll type has found himself the morbid play thing of his own Mr. Hyde.
The reason our Stephen was trying to get rid of his pen name, was due to what he called in his book “cancer of the pseudonym.” The pen name however, is more than just shiny black lettering on a dark shade of green binding. The events unfolded for our Rich, our Henrik, our many other writers like some story from the pages of a book. Stephen, in his utter success pushed away so many others. Squashed them under the sheer magnitude of his own big name.
1980 passed slowly for Kate Milner Rabb, who like our Henrik was a budding writer rejected. She was alone in her apartment, she had to get her mother to care for her kids and her sister to care for her cat. She found a janitorial job in addition to her McDonalds job and was making rent again. She thought she’d never save the money she needed to publish by vanity press, but she vowed to begin scraping together the cash. If a publisher wouldn’t buy her book she would put up the cash herself to get her career started.
When Rich was no longer useful to him, Rich too had to go. And like some villain in the book, Stephen began to effectively kill off every small writer that didn’t help him or conform to his own plan. Stephen managed to take over the literary scene as our beloved little-guy writers began to die off faster. In the years that followed Stephen’s rise to the top, writers found it exceedingly harder to get signed and published because it was hard to measure up. Stephen was on the top of the heap, like some strong man in a Nazi gas chamber. And he wrote about it. Over and over again, writers found rejection in the wake of Stephen, they had to turn elsewhere to pay the rent, and there was a budding job-market sucking up creative minds. Technology. In 1983 as Stephen was publishing his twenty-fifth major work the internet was being formed into a species of what we know it as today.
As the years passed, creative thinkers no longer capable of finding their fortunes in writing turned to journalism and technology. As Stephen was writing his sixtieth book, creative problem solvers and quick studies found themselves moving technological advancement at mach speed. In 1993 Gates slowly began to become the World’s wealthiest man as he published his first Biography. He indeed became the world’s wealthiest man, tenfold. And while Gates continually gave it away, Stephen continually dished out more suppression to struggling writers. He dished out book after book to his fans and failure after failure to young writers trying to measure up. Stephen kept getting better and better. In technology however, the more savvy writers were on the brink of finally bringing Stephen to his knees.
1996 came and went in a big way and with it an online library which offered entire books in digital format, this a first ever. These electronic books (e-books) were an instant hit for all those technologically savvy persons on the go. Reading in the plane being a favourite pass-time, many businessmen found it clunky to take their lap-top, their PDA and their books. With these e-books, they could take their computer and their handheld to what ever meeting they were going to and read their book on their PDA like their child played with the Game-Boy they got for Christmas. Not having to worry about those clunky books was a two-fold advantage. The readers didn’t have to worry about space issues and the authors didn’t have to rely on publishing and distributing paper-bound copies. The cost and struggle of publishing had been nearly eliminated and like the levies breaking in New Orleans, the writers should have flooded this new market.
They couldn’t, there was nothing to protect their writing from plagiarism and many lost their work to prolific distributors and dishonest readers who did not pay for copies of the books they had access to. In literally no time there was another big problem, if no one was paying for what was being written and distributed, this new “solution” became essentially useless as writing became essentially a non-profit job even if the writer were someone as good as Stephen. Only those writers looking to distribute their names without gaining profit could find this new solution useful. The rest of us had to wait.
In 1998 there was yet another advancement to the new solution to the struggle between big name publishing and the little-guys. The Internet had arrived head-on as the solution to the problem and refused to stand down. While Stephen was writing and publishing “Bag of Bones” the internet was already offering writers a new outlet. As a reporter, a budding writer could now offer their opinions online through online newspapers, and through web logs (or blogs). A short story writer could find a whole new pool of readers quickly and easily. Building a name and reputation now was as easy for a novice write as it could possibly be for a big name writer. A law was passed in 1998 called the Digital Millennium Copyright Act. The DMCA in a nut shell served, to wall up and protect copyright and to punish “those who seek to breach that protection.” So says Scarlet Pruitt, digital correspondent for CNN. And this was what budding writers needed, to get their work publicized safely and at minimal cost.
Using this law and the opportunities provided by the web, finally little writers could get their books some circulation without having to worry about big name writers like Stephen pushing them out. But as e-books became the next big thing in literature, Stephen began to hatch yet another publicity stunt. Stephen was up to no good again looking for even more publicity and profit and four books after his 1998 best seller, Stephen again decided to bum-rush novice writers in the e-books realm too. With newly designed digital encryption and a variety of other anti-theft protections including the DMCA Stephen published his next big book in the series he was working on only as an e-book. Within hours distribution of novice writers felt the impact and within the same hours Stephen’s new book had already been hacked and distributed illegally. Over the course of two weeks though, selling his digital book online for only two dollars and fifty cents, Stephen had made upwards of twenty-thousand dollars. This was far more than he had ever made selling to his publishers and in this way his book also ended up cheaper to the public by about six dollars. With his book “Riding the Bullet” Stephen took a chance on something new and gained the world of e-book publication infamous notoriety.
My point is, despite this lucrative ordeal, Stephen never published electronically again. He had learned a valuable lesson about the dishonesty of the public and he had exposed a very important flaw in the world of digital ownership.


Works Cited
"Committee on Copyright and Other Legal Matters (CLM)." Limitations and Exceptions to Copyright and Neighbouring Rights in the Digital Environment. 18 Sept. 04. IFLA. 27 Feb. 06 .
"Digital Millennium Copyright Act (DMCA)." SU Lair. Stanford University. 23 Feb. 06 .
“Limitations and Exceptions to Copyright and Neighbouring Rights in the Digital Environment: An International Library Perspective” IFLA, Committee on Copyright and Other Legal Matters (CLM) 22 Feb. 2006 . February 2002
“Petition to Abolish the Digital Millenium Copyright Act” 22 Feb. 2006 .
"US CODE: Title 17,107. Limitations on exclusive rights: Fair use." U.S. Code Collection. Cornell Law School, Legal Information Institute. 5 Mar. 2006 .
“US v. ElcomSoft & Sklyarov FAQ” EFF 27 Feb. 2006 . February 2002
Bernard, Andre, ed. Rotten Rejections. Ossining, New York: Pushcart P, 1990.
Curtis, Richard, and William T. Quick. How to get your E-Book Published. Ed. Donya Dickerson. Cincinnati, OH.: F&W Publications, Inc., 2002. This book by Curtis
Dinsmore, Alan; Sajka, Janina; Schroeder, Paul; “Comments to Library of Congress, 2003: AFB Seeks Exemption for Literary Works” 22 Feb. 2006 .
Eamonn Neylon “First Steps in an Information Commerce Economy Digital Rights Management in the Emerging E-Book Environment” D-Lib Magazine Volume 7 Number 1 27 Feb. 2006 . January 2001
Hilden, Julie; “The First Ammendment Issues Raised by the Troubling Prosecution of E-Book Hacker Dmitry Sklyarov” 23 Feb. 2006 .
Hodes, Laura, “Adobe's reversal of its Position on the "Hacker" That Cracked its E-Books: Proof That The Digital Millenium Copyright Act Needs To Change” 27 Feb. 2006 . August 2001
Jay, S; “How To Protect Your e-books From Piracy And Copyright Infringement!” 22 Feb. 2006 .
John, Dessauer P. Book Publishing What it is, What it Does. New York, N. Y.: R. R. Bowker Co., 1977.
Lloyd, Rich; “Electronic Rights: What is a Book?” 22 Feb. 2006 . 2002
McAllister, Neil; “Thursday, Civil Rights or Copyrights? Hack an eBook, Go to Jail” 22 Feb. 2006 . August 2, 2001
McCullagh, Declan; “The Struggle over Intellectual Property” 22 Feb. 2006 . August 6, 2001
Moohr, Geraldine; “The Crime of Copyright Infringement: An Inquiry Based on Morality, Harm, and Criminal Theory” 22 Feb. 2006 .
Pimm, Bob; “Authors' Rights in the E-Book Revolution” 22 Feb. 2006 . October 2000
Pruitt, Scarlet; “Four years on, digital copyright law revs up”, 22 Feb. 2006 . February 2002
Templeton, Brad. "An EBook Publisher on Why the U.S. Attorney Should Free Dmitry Sklyarov." Dec. ClariNet. 23 Feb. 06 .
"US V. ElcomSoft & Sklyarov." Electronic Frontier Foundation. 19 Feb. 02. 23 Feb. 06 .



http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Internet
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bill_Gates
http://www.gutenberg.org/browse/authors/r

Paper I'm working on

Death is freedom from Family:
Dickenson; ’Twas just this time last year I died.

Human life according to Emily Dickinson amounts to shit. With this poem I believe that Emily is trying, in a polite and subtle way, to examine the idea that no matter how hard one tries to express love and affection towards one’s own family, it is inevitable that they will only show their respect for you once you have died. Perhaps she even fears this happening to her, I can sympathize with her, but I think on a deeper level she has really hit the proverbial nail on the head. We shall pay no manner of attention to Emily’s past and family life as I really think (and intend to show) that this poem is about a conceptual happening, not about her or her life specifically. Besides, if you can’t figure out hat this poem isn’t about real events by the first line, perhaps we should re-think who should be teaching this course. It seems though, that Emily’s opinion of herself, or the opinion that others may have of her, is an extremely influential conception and one which, when allowed to weigh so heavy on the mind, can cause either very morbid thoughts of self or . This exemplary knowledge shines through in this her poem: ‘Twas just this time last year, I died.

What facts do we know about this speaker, and how do we know them?
In this poem we are introduced to the speaker who, in first person and in a morbid attention-getting fashion, describes their surroundings.


At the start of the final stanza the speaker says that “this sort, grieved myself.” This sort of what?

What is the attitude of the speaker towards the family?

Does the poem end happily, sadly, or some other way?

How might this poem make us re-think what it means to be a member of a family?




Find the Poem at www.bartleby.com/113/4140.html

'Twas just this time, last year, I died.
I know I heard the Corn,
When I was carried by the Farms—
It had the Tassels on—

I thought how yellow it would look—
When Richard went to mill—
And then, I wanted to get out,
But something held my will.

I thought just how Red—Apples wedged
The Stubble's joints between—
And the Carts stooping round the fields
To take the Pumpkins in—

I wondered which would miss me, least,
And when Thanksgiving, came,
If Father'd multiply the plates—
To make an even Sum—

And would it blur the Christmas glee
My Stocking hang too high
For any Santa Claus to reach
The Altitude of me—

But this sort, grieved myself,
And so, I thought the other way,
How just this time, some perfect year—
Themself, should come to me—

Post for 5/2/06

So I threw out the first idea entirely and started again....

So far:



Stephen has a house, two dogs and a lovely wife. He does not work a regular job for a living, he sells things on e-bay in his leisure time and buys more than he should. He can after all, he has the money to do so. Stephen likes to enjoy his in-house pool and the stables and most of all he loves his back-woods cabin where his buddies like to go hunting and he will often go to fish. Most of all Steven is proud of his library. It took him a long time to assemble the collection of books he has and his favourite book is the one on the third shelf from the top. It is green and leather-bound and the lettering in shiny black in-laid words reveal the author to be a Richard Bachman. A no-body like he was. Rich was a man with a dream back in Maine and here he is now with hundreds of books and an ever-growing estate.
Back in Maine, where he keeps his cottage, Stephen can be Stephen, but here in his library with his pen, and the type-writer and all the fun new electronic toys he has he can’t help but be Rich. He too has had his dream and Rich proved for him that it was possible. The window is closed but the birds are outside dive-bombing each other. His mind wanders to the first time he wrote about the birds. He liked their blues and their grey-browns and he liked the fact that the little guy could always win if they fought hard-enough. It was his motto for life and he wrote it in a poem. That poem used to sit framed on Richards Desk, until he broke it in a fit of rage. Rich was a bit violent but he was passionate and Stephen admired that passion, it inspired him. Like the blue-birds fending off the Hawks, in the face of dismemberment and death, those who fight are ultimately the ones who survive. Rich taught Stephen to be a survivor and Stephen eventually survived Rich’s death.
Back in Connecticut, or was it Illinois, Stephen was Rich and Rich was a part of Stephen. And the whole messed up story left Stephen, under Rich’s name, rich and famous as Stephen. Confused yet? Sounds like a third rate thriller novel right? That is completely understandable. Firstly it is exceedingly important to know that Stephen isn’t just wrapped up with some guy named Richard. Stephen is Richard. Secondly, it needs to be understood that both Stephen and Richard are writers, famous writers.
As an author, Stephen made it big, but he didn’t want all that fame affecting some of his earlier unpublished work. Stephen instead changed his name, at least in literary terms to Richard so that he could publish his earlier works without feeling like he was riding those earlier stories on the fame of his now well-known name. But when the public found out that Richard in fact was Stephen, Stephen decided to get rid of Richard. He threw a funeral for his pen-name and when the next book came out, a perverse joke ensued.
Remember that third rate thriller novel I mentioned? Well Stephen thought it was a great idea too and after Richard’s funeral, Stephen decided to write down the battle between his self and the alter-ego pen name Richard. This book was an instant hit because of publicity alone. Stephen built quite a name for himself not only because he is an inspired writer but also due to his flair for the abnormal and twisted and his talent to draw in the attention of the reader in publicity stunt after publicity stunt after publicity stunt… Stephen often wrote about himself, subjecting his mind and life to the scrutiny of the page, often letting the story take over and literally reshape his life.
In the book which followed the funeral of his pen name, his character was a writer trying to get rid of a pen name due to “cancer of the pseudonym.” Within the pages it is found out that the pen name is more than mere letters on bindings and on paper. The events in the book take over as our beloved writer begins to be taken over by and to struggle with an alter-ego who refuses to be stand down.

...

his book “Riding the Bullet” in an e-book only

Monday, May 01, 2006

Just a thought... elaborated in futility

"Nadalya veru tu non quetesta. Tu shu tung. Viveta."

You. You never remembered, you never cared, you heap of flesh on molten hot spit. Turn for me, dance for me, tell me I am being entertained. I die for you and to what end? The simple smile and fleeting laughter, like a fox tail dissappearing in the distance, I shall pursue this impossible querry. I shall question you to the end if need be. You will perform, this time you will care. I will rip out your tongue and force it to speak for you, be there no question about that... I will get answers. I swear to never leave this task. I vow my life to it, Never you worry, I will get answers!

"Never you worry, wild one that you are, be there no questions about it. For you I would kill. All my life, dedication for you."

It's amazing how inflection can tell a lot about words and language. Sarcasm is a tool that cannot be read, expression is the key to so much, and without it as a writer must do on the page, one is left instead to examples and visuals and emotional, thought-provaking scenarios to portray, even in translation something they did not write and likely don't know what they are talking about.

Just a thought.
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