Being Bobby Sands

This year marks the twenty-fifth anniversary of the hunger strikes in the notorious H-block prisons in the north of Ireland. It was the height of The Troubles, when the IRA went to war in an attempt to force equal rights and equal treatment in a highly sectarian colony. Bobby Sands was the face of the hunger strike, and is commemorated to this day as one of the many 'martyrs' to die for the cause of Irish freedom.

How incredible to learn that a group of suburban moms are taking the message of Bobby Sands and...what are they doing, anyway?

According to the Chicago Tribune, a large group of as many as forty women in Illinois are joining in the protest. They say they have a large group, at any rate. Attired in pink which represents the very motherly nature of the protestors, Ms. Julia Field, a member of the organization, now sits in a lawn chair in Evanston, hunger-striking in public. This hunger strike business is serious stuff. Bobby Sands lasted for sixty-five days, and by all accounts, the end is unspeakable agony.

And so she goes without food...from 4 in the afternoon until 8 at night. Wait, amend that to she goes without solid food. Barring the vacuum flasks of broth and juices. For four hours out of the day.

That's not a fast, for the love of Christ, that's a feckin' diet. You're dieting for peace, woman, you're not on a feckin' hunger strike.

Is this worthy of a grand gesture award? When I first started reading the article, I was ready to give herself the award, but as I read on, I'm ready to give her a good hard shake to wake her up.

This so-called hunger strike is a slap in the face, an insult to the memory of Bobby Sands, Francis Hughes, Patsy O'Hara, Raymond McCreesh, Joe McDonnell, Martin Hurson, Kevin Lynch, Kieran Doherty, Thomas McElwee and Michael Devine.

Sit out there on your lawn chair, Julia, and make a great holy show of your suffering. Don't strain yourself, darling.

Penguin's Discovery

According to an article in today's NYT, the bean counters at Penguin Group have made a most startling discovery. People tend to buy more paperbacks than hardcover, and they honestly believe that it's because the paperbacks are cheaper. Apparently, they don't get out of New York City much, and I very much doubt they've ever been in a Wal-Mart, or they would have figured that one out ages ago.

Kim Edwards' debut novel The Memory Keeper's Daughter did passably well when it came out in print, but since it was published in paperback, it's taken off. The NYT did not review it, and some found the emotions a bit too saccharine, but the main theme of the novel has touched many a heart and many a book group. As far as the author of the article, Motoko Rich, can say, it's word of mouth that fueled the runaway success of the cheaper edition.

Not only word of mouth, according to Susan Petersen Kennedy of Penguin, but

something mysterious about this book is really seeping into people’s hearts and minds

and so it's the summer blockbuster. That something mysterious might be the fact that readers find the book a real page-turner in a more literary style than the typical potboiler thriller, and the novel looks at family-related issues. Always of interest to the women who make up most book groups, looking for a novel that has some kind of issue to discuss over lunch and cocktails. What is startling is that a publisher finds this mysterious.

As for the whole word of mouth business, there's no doubt a good bit of that, but someone at Viking, who published the hard copy, had enough confidence in the novel to put up a six figure advance. For that kind of investment, the PR people at Penguin aren't going to sit on their hands and let word of mouth be their only campaign.

This book was heavily promoted, with extra paid out to have the copies located at the front of the store, where more people are likely to see and buy. Sure, word of mouth helped, but Penguin did their fair bit as well. If the novel had garnered little more than $10,000 for an advance, there wouldn't be so much work put into promoting it to boost sales.

Since publishers like to sell what has sold before, look for the Big Houses to be in search of family-issue oriented, literary type novels. Good for you if you've got one in the hands of an agent. Bad for you if you're only just getting around to writing it now. By the time you're finished, it will be last year's hot seller which is now too cold to serve.

Technorati tag: Kim Edwards

Muck To Rake

If there's one thing that the Chicago newspapers love, it's a story about wealthy people in the high rent district doing something very stupid. That's front page material every time.

What does today's Chicago Tribune have in store for those who are dying to know how the upper crust lives? Fascinating to discover that a certain Mrs. Walgreen is keeping pigs on her estate. Oh yes, of course it's that Walgreen, my dear. In Chicago, everyone knows that the drug store magnates are up north in la-di-da Lake Forest, the name being so unique in the area that one is safe to assume that anyone named Walgreen, residing in Lake Forest, is one of them.

Juicy little bit of scandal in the blurb, about the pig-keeping Mrs. Walgreen being - gasp! - divorced from the grandson of the original Walgreen. (That final bit was added to make sure that you knew which Walgreen we were talking about. For those not fortunate enough to dwell on the North Shore, that is. You know who you are.) Well, it was himself gave her the pet pigs, but that was back when they lived on a ten acre estate in Lake Forest. Since the divorce, she's had to climb down a bit and move to smaller digs, getting by on a couple of acres. Oh, yes, and the Tribune does mention that the estate is on Sheridan Road, a very well-to-do part of town.

It's the neighbors complaining, in the way that neighbors complain in Lake Forest. They call in the lawyers, of course, and file a lawsuit. Lobbing writs and pleas over tall fences, they spar over the legality of keeping pet pigs versus small scale hog farming. Mrs. Walgreen's neighbor is disgusted with the grunting, and is concerned about her children. Even Mr. Walgreen's mother has put in her opinion, claiming that old man Walgreen was nearly nipped by one of the beasts. Have to wonder if that has anything to do with the divorce, but who can say? Firing back, Mrs. Walgreen insists that she keeps her critters clean, regularly changing the hay that is kept in her garage cum pigpen. And they're harmless, her three Vietnamese pot-bellied pigs.

The local politician feels that the ordinances are pretty clear, that piggies are not allowed, but there are lawyers who believe that the ordinances are not that tidy, being rather nebulous and all. Are we talking dogs and cats here, or any sort of domestic pet? Mrs. Walgreen does have a dog license, for her pigs, but the neighbors aren't buying it. Except for one, who thinks the pigs are rather dog-like and she even lets her children play with the things.

I'm thinking full Irish fry, rashers and black pudding. A lovely ham for Thanksgiving dinner. And maybe I can convince my Italian buddy to whip up a batch of his famous hot sausage. Yum. That's good eating.

Of course, by the time the lawyers finish with the whole business, the pigs will be long gone, off to meet their maker, and isn't that a waste of good pork?

No More RSVP

A long time ago, when Kirsten Manges was still at Curtis Brown Ltd., I sent her a query through the mail. After a month had gone by, she sent me an e-mail, requesting the manuscript. She must have just gone off on her own at the time, and it took a while for the mail to catch up to her.

Now she's strictly e-mail queries, it would seem, since all she has listed is her e-mail addy. Must save a tremendous amount of time, not having to stuff rejections into envelopes. Then there's the overall cleanliness of the office, without stacks of queries cluttering up the place. Unfortunately for the author, it also means that Ms. Manges has joined the ranks of the 'no response is a no' literary agent. It may also indicate that she does not have an assistant to handle the paperwork, as the non-response is a great timesaving device.

A month ago, I queried my latest venture, but not a peep out of New York from Manges Literary. It's becoming more and more common for agents to not respond with their regrets, only extending an invitation to the dance if they are interested in doing the literary waltz with you. At this end, the problem is the wonder if the query letter was received or read or lost in cyberspace.

E-mail queries are too easy to send off without much thought, they cost nothing, and like everything else, you get what you pay for. Literary agents are swamped with them, and it's no wonder that some will not even accept them. I've come to appreciate that particular sentiment.

Technorati tag: Kirsten Manges

Downhill Already

Of the four queries that I sent out over the weekend, I've gotten responses from three of them - all no, of course. The other one I suspect is being answered even now. That would be the 'no response is a no' variety of rejection.

After sleeping on the query, I re-wrote it this morning and send another batch of e-mails. Within hours, I had garnered two more form rejections. Is there any hope for the two remaining? I'm not holding out any hope, not after the experiences that I've had over the years.

I'll let the query letter rest a bit more, and then go back to it to see what can be done. It's tough to put together a decent letter, what with all the conflicting advice that's out there. I tried to put in a bit of the plot and came up with two short paragraphs rather than one of medium length, but then again, it could be the opening paragraph lacks a pointy, sharp hook to snag the elusive literary agent.

Add to that the usual summer doldrums coming in, and I'd be better off holding onto the query until after Labor Day. August is vacation time in literary land, and I wonder if many agents do more than clear their desks in July to get ready for the break. In the meantime, I can polish the manuscript and start in on the research for the next WIP that I've had in mind for some time.

Good thing I enjoy writing, or I'd be ready to finish myself off. Ah, that doesn't work either. Look at the doctor in New York today, trying to commit suicide and ends up by blowing up his office building to dust. Survived the whole thing, injured a bunch of people in the process, and he's got more trouble now than he did last night. Might as well keep living, if that's the outcome.

Au Revoir, Zidane

Ah, you great cheese-eating surrender monkey. Couldn't take the trash talking comme il garcon, mais oui? That spaghetti strangler Materazzi got to you, yes you, the man who was rated as one of the best when it came to the penalty kick.

If you had timed that head-butt right, mon ami, you could have induced cardiac fibrillation and Signor Materazzi would be dead by now, to trash-talk no more. Instead, you let your temper get the better of you and before you could turn around, the red card was waving in your Gallic face.

Couldn't have been much fun, to sit in the locker room and listen to the Italians cheer their victory. Don't let it trouble you too much, Zinedine. I was pulling for the Azzurris, since the USA dropped out and Ireland never even made it to the qualifying rounds. I do love French food and French wine, and as for the champagne, mon Dieu, c'est magnifique. But I'm partial to pasta alla norma, washed down with a charming barbaresco, and who could turn down a cannoli?

What a way to end your career. What a stupid, stupid, stupid way to say goodbye.

Round Five

It's surely an addiction, this querying business. I put the finishing touches on Manuscript #5 yesterday, with every intention of putting it away to mellow like fine wine. The next thing I know, there's a query letter typed into the e-mail and I'm hitting the send key. Not once, but three times. What a rush.

This newest manuscript has taken the longest to write, and it's one of the shortest I've ever written. Is it ready to go? I like to think so, but time has a way of changing the old perspective. But after Sandy Lu of Vanguard Literary sent a form rejection, I had to get something else out there, to find a glimmer of interest from a literary agent.

Since Ms. Lu had read the first few pages that I included in the query, I thought that just maybe she might want to read more than the two chapter sample. Wrong again, and it was nothing more than a form rejection that came in the mail, two months after the submission, and right in line with her schedule.

As for the three new queries I shot out on a Saturday, B.J. Robbins was quick on the draw and read my missive within five hours. Then she immediately rejected it. Not enough time to scroll down to the sample pages, it was a no from the first line. My hook was either not sharp enough, or she's looking for more literary pursuits than my satire.

The World Cup final beckons. Time to put away the manuscripts, the queries and the Excel spreadsheets, and enjoy the best of soccer.

Technorati tag: Sandy Lu, Vanguard Literary

Assessing the Competition

At last, the new edition of the Mississippi Review is on line and I can see who beat me out.

Check the writing first? Hell no. Go to the end of every story and look at the author's bios. What do I find but that, of seventeen stories selected, only two were written by those not listed as previously published. Two. Out of three hundred submissions. Worse than one in a hundred, and those are some mighty bad odds.

One of the stories is in a very serious vein, while mine was entirely humorous. The other, from a college professor, reminded me very much of a college exercise in plagiarism. There were footnotes to the short story. Can't compare my little blurb to that; it's apples and armalite.

As for the rest, from the previously published, I can see where my story was on the right track. Why was it not selected? Perhaps it was too similar to a couple of others, and the previously published will always win out in that contest.

So I'll keep submitting, pounding on the doors of the literary journals until they let me in. I'm not far off.

Technorati tag: Mississippi Review

Show Me The Money

So you've poured your heart and soul, your sweat and blood into a novel. It's your baby, your creation, the fruit of your fevered imagination. Next step, find a literary agent who will love and cherish your little darling and send it along on the rocky road to publishing. Snap out of your dream, my friend, and check out the Peter Miller interview with Jenna Glatzer.

Unless I missed something, there's not a word in there about art. Of course, the word might have gotten tangled in the mass of money references. What does Peter Miller look for, as a successful literary agent? Not your work of literary excellence, to be sure, unless it also happens to be an item that will make a great stinking heap of cash. But this is your life's work, the one novel that is perfect and the only one that you are capable of creating - no thanks, Mr. Miller will say to you.

He wants prolific writers who pen best sellers with strong film potential. He's in the business for the money, and he's perfectly honest and up-front about it. Fair play to Peter Miller for stating, in stark terms, what drives an agent's choices when reading through the slush pile. Why should he spend his valuable time pushing something literary when he could expend the same amount of hours and have something to show for it at the end?

It's all just a business. Businesses exist to make money. No room for art, for creativity, not when it gets in the way of the bottom line. Over at Everyone Who's Anyone, Gerard Jones loves to rant about the money-grubbing Nazis who control what we see, hear and read. While he might sound whacked, what he says is proved by the words of Peter Miller, the Literary Lion, who prowls the slush pile for cash potential, and who gives a flying fuck about art?

July Book Club Selection

From what I've heard, Jodi Picoult is a best-selling author. So if I read her book, I can analyze it and get a better understanding of what makes a best-seller.

So here I sit with a copy of Vanishing Acts. I've had it since Monday night and today it's Thursday. For all intents and purposes, I have finished the book, although I didn't read much of it at all. I didn't like it. If not for Book Club, I would have skimmed the opening pages and immediately put the thing back on the shelf. But this is what sells.

First person point of view? Hate it. The whole book is done up in first person POV, but the person possessed of that POV rotates through the list of characters. Clever? I had to keep going back to the beginning to figure out who was who. You see, the chapter is titled with the appropriate name that matches the POV. There's some funky fonts as well to help out, but the old eyes aren't what they once were, and the font jumble gets exceedingly annoying after a while. Sort of like the printer screwed up, ran out of type or was fooling around with the Word program. And to top it all off, the whole novel is written in present tense. Strike three! You're out!

On Tuesday morning, I started in, only to find my eyes crossing. I could not, no matter how I tried, get into the flow of the narrative. It's a very subjective business, you see, and from my vantage point, this one is not right for my list. But it's book club, after all, and how can you talk over a novel without reading it? So I did the best I could without Cliff Notes. I skimmed. I read the beginnings of sentences to pick up the core of the story. I turned pages, eyes flittering over the middle paragraph to see if there was anything in there worth reading.

Last night, I could take no more. I turned to the last couple of chapters and skimmed through, where the conflict was resolved and the loose ends tied up. And that's it. I've done my bit for book club this month.

So this is what makes a best-seller. Pick a topic that Oprah could do a show on. In Vanishing Acts, the topic is culled from the pages of, well, not the NYT. Man marries drunk, sues for divorce, daughter gets molested by wife's lover, man kidnaps daughter to protect her from Mom's pervert boyfriend, shit hits fan after man's secret identity revealed, blah, blah, blah. To me, this is not captivating.

Could I write something like this? Without laughing over the inanity? Probably. For the sake of being published, maybe this is the way to go, but it's hard to write while holding one's nose.

Pencil a trip to the local library into today's schedule. I'm desperate for something to read...something worth reading. Back in the stacks, where the well-thumbed literature is stored, I'll find some quality reading that will be entertaining without having to rely on annoying gimmicks. Just tell me a story, for feck's sake. And that's my subjective opinion. Other literary agents may feel differently.

Jodi Picoult

Recycling

Money must be tight for the JetReid Agency. In lieu of a pre-printed form rejection or a faint photocopy of a photocopy of a photocopy of a form rejection, Janet Reid sent back my query letter.

Lovely little note printed on the bottom, declining the submission as it is not a good match, and her poor hand must be cramping up if she has a lot of these to turn down. I didn't mean to waste her time with my query, but I did think that maybe my novel fell within her guidelines. Everyone sees things differently, I suppose, depending on their perspective.

Now, about the sample pages - I do hope she can find some good use for them. Sell them for pulp, perhaps, since it would be rather awkward to use the clean face for correspondence, what with the printing on the obverse. A client could get mightily confused, not sure what they're supposed to be reading with both sides of the page in use.

Fair play to Ms. Reid, however, as she was most prompt in responding. If only she could push some of that organization over to Erin Cartwright at Folio Literary Management. She's had my query, with sample chapter, since the first of May and I've yet to hear back. So much for their one month response time - but then I'm not one to hold my breath waiting for agents to cough up an answer.

Clean Out The Freezer...

...and you never know what you might find. Might be a three-year-old turkey, a gift from one of your business contacts. Perhaps there's the odd frozen pizza, purchased who knows when and so covered with freezer burn that the cheese looks entirely inedible.

If you're the Sims Clinic in Ireland, you've most likely uncovered some frozen embryos, no expiration date, and what do you do with them? The woman who created the ova wants them, but Mr. Sperm-provider has a different idea in mind. And it's all been dumped in the laps of the Right Honorable High Court, in the land of saints and scholars. Quite a mess, this housecleaning and freezer inventorying.

Mum-to-be insists that her frozen babbies have a right to life as per some article or other of the Constitution, which protects the rights of the unborn. Never thought there'd be unborn in a freezer, did you there, Eamonn DeValera? Caught you napping, lad, and here's the court trying to sort out the muddle. If the court rules in Mum-to-be's favor, she'll have the embryos thawed to room temperature and implanted. Dad on the sidelines is one hundred percent against it.

Back when the fertilization took place, Mum and the unwilling Dad were married and having problems with conceiving, hence the IVF protocol. They had a beautiful child as a result of a successful implantation, but the left-overs were put on ice for later use. Most unfortunate that Dad had an affair and left Mum for another woman. Now that he's with a new partner, he doesn't want more kids, and there's the three embryos in the freezer and what's to become of them?

He wants them sold to a needy couple, with the proceeds going to charity, but Mum is horrified at the notion of selling one's own children. Destroying the embryos has also been suggested, but with the same reaction on Mum's part. The source of the dilemma is due to a slight oversight, as the couple never thought about the fate of the frozen when they divorced. Visitation for the child, divide the marital assets, who gets the house and the car and the vacation caravan, but the little icecubes at the clinic were forgotten.

Science rushes headlong into the future, while the legal system lags far behind, dawdling along as lawyers do, splitting hairs while scientists are splicing genes. But there is one point where both disciplines can converge. Biologically, Mum is running out of time as she faces the onset of menopause. Lawyers are superior at wasting time, dragging out a case for years with writs and motions. Combine the ticking biological clock and the snail's pace of the law, and very soon, the answer will be moot.

4th of July

Where else in the world could a million starving Irishmen go and have a chance in life? For those who survived The Great Famine, where else in the world could they go to make a decent life, without the discrimination and prejudice that plagued them in their own land?

Nowadays, it's popular, practically chic, to bemoan the loss of this 'land of opportunity', but the bemoaners haven't talked to any immigrants lately. I work with a man who loves America because he has a good job and always has twenty dollars in his pocket. He doesn't worry about the rains and the corn crop, the bandits on the roads, or whether or not he'll be able to feed his family tonight.

Another colleague slaved away, taking the backbreaking work that no one else wanted in the farms and field of California. Today, his two daughters are attending university, and the youngest is well on her way to success. He struggled so that his children could have the opportunities that he never had.

A third came to work with his father, to send money back home to the rest of the family. By September, the rest of the family will be here, permanent residents in a country that offers hope and, surprisingly enough, opportunity. It's there for these men, who see what the bemoaners miss in all their wailing.

It's what you make of it in America. Come looking for handouts and sympathy and the Ulster-Scots Presbyterian influence will flair up. No free lunch, do it yourself, but if you do, well then, good luck to you. You can make a go of it, but chances are, it won't be you reaping big rewards. It'll fall to your children and grandchildren, down the line, but who would begrudge a bit of success to the future generations?

No opportunity any more? When you're so far away from the source, it's hard to see through the immigrants' eyes. Course, if they'd only ask them, but a good whinge would be ruined by facts. So raise a glass and toast to the rebels of 1776, the men of Enlightenment's age, who shed their blood so that we could all be pursuing life, liberty and a bit of happiness.

Off The List

There goes another submission, crossed off as rejected. The Mississippi Review declined, what with 300 articles to pick from and I didn't make the cut. I was wondering if they would get back to me, since it was an electronic submission, and they did.

I had a feeling it was going to be a no. You see, the accepted short stories are always followed by an author bio, and, since they never contacted me to ask for one, I pretty much figured they had no need. It would not have been very interesting anyway, and certainly not up to the standards of their previous authors. Not a single publishing credential to my name, unlike the sort of author that the Mississippi Review likes to publish.

Once the issue comes out, I'll be reading it from electronic cover to cover, to understand what it was that the editor was looking for and where I went astray. Submission requirements are vague, and if your little flash of inspiration does not click with the editor, then the game's up and it's time to move on.

As for the short story, it's painfully short, as per the guidelines, but I can flesh it out, expand a bit, and find another journal. Before you know it, it will be autumn, and the university-based rags will be accepting submissions once again. Onward and upward! or downward...not sure which direction I'm going in these days.

Sound Advice

Until David Csontos, who at the time was with Frances Goldin's agency, strongly urged me to get some credentials, I hadn't paid much attention to literary journals and the like. He was so insistent in his rejection of my query, making a definite point that writers need publishing credentials, that I began the process of scribing short pieces and sending them off.

A check of the Agent Query website indicated that Ellen Geiger, also employed by Ms. Goldin, was taking a long vacation. Clicking on the link, just to see what (or who) might be new to the agency, I saw that Mr. Csontos was gone. It was a short ride, but I hope it was a glorious one.

If a literary agent were limiting his clients to the previously published, and he's only a hatchling himself, there won't be a line out the door. Potential authors in need of agenting will often look to the newest member of an established company, assuming that said rookie is hungry and willing to do the tough work to make his name. Limiting the client list to the more stellar authors, the ones who might attract a glimmer of interest from a heavyweight, may have been Mr. Csontos' downfall.

Wherever he is, I hope he does well, but I'd not recommend the commodities market for one who looks for the sure thing. As for me, I've had one story published and there's a pile of submissions waiting, and we'll see if getting some credentials will make any difference when it comes to snagging the elusive agent.

This Sounds...Silly

With time on my hands and tired of sending out queries, I turned to Publishers Marketplace to see what's new on the deals page.

The first thing to catch my eye was Gena Showalter's latest tome. The log line summed up the plot as:

...a man who is cursed to die every night only to awaken knowing he'll have to die again and the woman who finally saves him...

Huh? People must be reading this stuff or Harlequin wouldn't bother to publish it, but if I picked up a book like this and read the back cover blurb, I'd be scratching my head, like I am now.

No, I don't read romance. Not even on the sly, sneaking a glimpse behind locked doors, so I can't say that I'm at all familiar with the genre. But a story about a guy who dies every night and then wakes up? It's either Groundhog Day in a different suit of clothes, or the guy's asleep.

He's asleep, for feck's sake, that existential-Jungian whatever mess of pop psychology bit of nonsense that equates sleep with death. Ah, sure and he's only sleeping, you tell the kiddies at grandda's wake. Now let's throw a nightmare at the wee ones. Ha, ha, in the morning he'll wake up, and he'll die again tonight.

I like a good Irish wake as much as the next man, if there's a fine bottle of whiskey available and maybe a ham sandwich, but night after night? I don't drink like that anymore. And how many times could the widow stand to hear everyone telling her they're sorry for her troubles? She'd go mad and get a divorce so she wouldn't have to go through it again and again.

My next best guess is that there's something in the book about vampires or zombies, the living dead, and the feisty heroine finds a way to resurrect her sweetie and he won't have to die every night. Reduce it to just the one time, at the end, and it will be the final sleep. Send him to take his ground sweat, as they used to say.

You don't think Ms. Showalter's doing a variation on the Lazarus story, do you? Is the heroine a Mary Magdalene type, taking over for Himself because he's busy turning water into wine over in Cana? I could read the book and find out, but I think I'll pass. Finnegan's Wake just seems so much more appealing for a good read.

Carrot and Stick, Hold the Carrot

Up in the north of Ireland, the elected officials are supposed to be meeting, coming up with some sort of government that's in line with the Belfast Agreement. It's home rule, the same issue that's been plaguing the UK for hundreds of years, and now the politicians are under the gun. It's get it together, or else.

That's a mighty heavy stick that Dublin and London are using to dangle a mighty insignificant carrot under the noses of Sinn Fein and the DUP. The deadline to form a home rule government is set in stone, and it won't be changed, not ever, no matter what. Paisley or Adams could beg and plead until their tongues swell up and fall off, but come November 24, the clock will stop ticking, the alarm will go off and then...ah, what then?

Today, Bertie Ahern and Tony Blair took out the heavy lumber. And it's the DUP getting a beating, while Sinn Fein is drooling over the carrot. If the two parties can't come to an agreement, elect the First Minister from one party and the Deputy First Minister from the other, then a new bit of business will be undertaken.

Hey, Paisley, they shout from Dublin and London. Listen up, and listen good. Go gentle into that home rule government, or Dublin is going to have a lot more to do with governing the north than you could ever imagine. You don't like home rule, the prime ministers seem to be saying, well, it could be a lot worse for you.

Implied in their threat is an even worse outcome for the DUP. Dublin's going to be involved, and the Shinners want a united Ireland, and won't they be over the moon to have the Republic involved in the north? Behave, DUP, or we'll give the nationalists a little of what they've been after for the past ninety years, and you'll be sorry then. Look for Ian Paisley to be frothing at the mouth, roaring out his hymns and castigating any and all who dare to suggest that Dublin be called in from the sidelines.

A new study came out recently, showing that Northern Ireland is dependent on government subsidies, with over 60% of the Gross National Product the result of public service jobs. With evidence like that, you'd see why London would be keen to get rid of the six counties and the money pit that is Ulster province. Maybe they're counting on the DUP to balk at the threat, just they can have a reasonable excuse to pull out and dump the colony on Ireland.

And Sinn Fein is praying, fervently, that it comes to pass.

Belfast Agreement, Northern Ireland

Why Bookstores Sell Coffee

The boy needed a book for Economics class, so I was off to the local vendor to support independent bookdealers everywhere. Sure, I cringed as I paid out close to thirty dollars for one hardcover book, but Freakonomics is the sort of tome that can tolerate a second or third reading. Only books that will stand such review are worthy to be added to the home library.

And as long as I was there...

My pile of 'to be reads' was bare. John Irving's latest was in the discard pile, the 'what were the publishers thinking and doesn't this man have an editor' rejection collection. Repetition, the same thing over and over again for one hundred thirty pages and I'll be damned if I'll waste my time with such garbage. James Joyce's Portrait of the Artist As a Young Man was a healthy antidote to Irving's nonsense, but the novel was finished, cover to cover, and I needed more words, so....

The clever shopowner has a table in the center area, where she stacks little piles of new fiction, some literary, some NYT bestsellers, but nothing that you'd find in the racks at Wal-Mart. What better place to pick up something, or at least get an idea of what's available so I can head over to the library. One by one, I picked up the newest novels and scanned the back cover for information. Slowly, my eyelids began to droop. Boring story. Not interested. Not another weeper about an Arabic woman. Mother dealing with troubled teens, anorexia, self-mutilation, boring, boring, who cares?

Thank goodness the comfy chairs were taken or I might have been tempted to take a little nap. I could have used a rush of caffeine, a little buzz to shake out the 'poor excuse for writing' doldrums that were lulling me into somnambulence. Being a very small shop, there was no corner taken over by Starbucks, and so I had to make do with a walk and fresh air to wake up.

I'm on the verge of packing it in. I thought I could write a decent query letter, but now I can't seem to get an agent to bite. I once had encouragement from agents in their rejections, but now I'm only getting forms or no response at all. Take classes, attend workshops, network, but I've a full time job and responsibilities, so those options are not viable. As for reading to study the market, I've done that, and I can't stand the market. I don't want to be published that badly that I would put together something I'd be ashamed to claim as my own.

Publishing has changed, even within the three or four years that I have been shopping manuscripts. The faster I run, the further behind I get.

Reunited

Isn't love grand? Even in death, Nathaniel Hawthorne and his beloved wife could not remain apart. At last, the Associated Press reports, Nathaniel and Sophia are together again.

The author of The Scarlet Letter was a resident of Concord, Massachusetts, a descendant of fine stock, and rumored to have sprung from the same family that gave us the judge who really got the Salem Witch Trials up to speed. He was the father of three surviving children, a friend to President Franklin Pierce, and a very prolific writer, but one does not live forever and Mr. Hawthorne left this world back in 1864. Mrs. Hawthorne took the kids and made for England, to mourn at a distance.

As luck would have it, she lived only another six years and then she, too, died. No one thought to embalm her body and ship it back to Concord, so she was planted in foreign soil. One of her daughters also died in England, making two in the family plot in Kensal Green cemetery in London.

Another daughter, Rose Hawthorne, must not have fallen in love with England, because she came back to the USA and founded a religious order, a branch of the Dominicans. From that time, the Dominican Sisters paid to maintain the grave site in England, but money is tight for the clergy these days. The grave needed repairs, perhaps the monument was crumbling, but the good sisters could not keep it up anymore. What to do? Dig them up, of course, and send them home to Nathaniel.

The Hawthornes who are alive today are pleased that their ancestors are back home, all together in one place like husband and wife should be. Great-great-granddaughter Alison Hawthorne Deming, a professor of creative writing, was certainly over the moon over the whole thing, the reuniting and bringing together. And so, with great pomp and an antique hearse, what little was left of Sophia and daughter Una were planted in Concord's cemetery. Historian Philip McFarland, no doubt wiping a tear from his eye, noted that Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne were passionately in love, united in "...one of the premier marriages in American literature."

Rest in peace, Nathaniel and Sophia. Hope that you're not turning over in the grave, if you find the new arrangements not to your liking.

Into The Drawer

After getting a form rejection from Venture Literary, it is now time to officially declare the first manuscript dead in the water. I must have queried every agent around who accepts literary fiction, but no one is interested in taking on another unpublished author.

Time to focus on the next novel to be shopped, while writing the first draft of yet another manuscript. Maybe, just maybe, if someone would pick up something else down the line, I could pull the first manuscript out of the drawer, but for now, it's being put to sleep.

There's other ideas up in the old brain, other books to be written. Who knows what the future may hold? I've got nothing better to do with my free time anyway.

Take A Chance

How often have you heard a comment about publishing that involves such things as: it's a crapshoot, when the publisher buys an unpublished author's first novel. Taking a chance, a roll of the dice, the odds are against it, etc., etc., and, hey, why not hold book signings in a casino?

Doesn't it just seem to all tie together? The Big House rolls the dice and sits back, waiting to see if the author will crap out or hit their mark. So why not take that same author to a casino? Gambling, right, it's all the same thing, casinos and publishing?

Wall Street is as much a casino as the Mirage, but without the bright lights and cocktails, so I suppose it's more fun to hold a book signing in a glitzy and noisy spot. A recent NYT article detailed one such event, but the author was a big seller, Janet Evanovich, who writes mysteries. Ms. Evanovich had a doing at a resort casino, but that may be a bit over the top for the average writer. And it's certainly beyond the Pale for the literary types.

All over the country, light bulbs are popping up over the heads of self-published authors, always in search of that edge that will catapult their sales into the stratosphere. By this time tomorrow, you won't be able to walk through the door of the Ho-Chunk Casino without tripping over them, tables set up here and there, offering to autograph a copy of their overpriced verbiage. What better way to while away the hours, waiting for the tour bus to depart after you've blown your stash on the slot machines. As the other senior citizens drop their last nickels into the machine, you could sit back and read a novel by someone who could not find a legitimate publisher to put it out. Or you could take that last $25 and buy a few chips, put them on the craps table, and try your luck.

It's all a crapshoot, isn't it? Looks like even the authors have accepted the fact.

Welcome To Mayberry

The Andy Griffith Show has been broadcast continuously, it seems, since the day in the 1960's when it first aired. With its ensemble cast of unique characters, the situation comedy is part of the American psyche, from the bumbling Deputy to the addled gas station attendant, Gomer Pyle.

Reading the headline in today's Irish Times, my mind replayed an episode of the old show. Only a few lines, but I can hear it clearly, the less than bright Gomer chasing after some poor sap, shouting "Citizen's arrest! Citizen's arrest!" in a slow southern drawl. Hysterical, funny stuff.

Imagine, if you will, the American soldiers who went out for a walk in Ennis on Thursday. Their plane was stopped over at Shannon Airport, held up for repairs, and they were temporarily housed at the West County Hotel in Ennis, County Clare until the plane was ready to fly. What better thing to do than step out for a walk along the road, sticking to the busy streets so that they would not get lost. A chance to see a corner of Ireland, and who could resist the urge to wander a bit, in search of cead mile failte? So there they are, strolling along the Limerick Road, when a man drives past, stops and gets out of his car, and begins to trumpet "Citizen's arrest! Citizen's arrest!"

Sure and they were rolling on the ground, splitting their sides with laughter. For Mr. Conor Cregan's sake, however, I do hope that they held their mirth and confined it to a snicker or two, or at best, a look of complete puzzlement. Dear Mr. Cregan, local peace activist, was in the process of making a most grand gesture, and only tight self control could keep the Americans' guffaws in check.

Why did he hold these six American soldiers until the Garda was called? Why, the men were wearing their fatigues, which were no doubt the only clothes that they had available since they were not expecting to stay over and had not packed overnight bags. To quote from today's winner of the Grand Gesture Award:

"I saw the soldiers in uniform on the road, in a public place, where they shouldn't have been. It is a breach of Irish neutrality and our Constitution that these troops are allowed to pass through Shannon in the first place but to see them in fatigues on the streets of Ennis is a disgrace."

You see, soldiers of foreign armies can walk about Ennis, but only in civies, and only if the Irish Department of Defence approves. Now, you'd think that the gardai would be quick to jump on this breech of the law, but I daresay that they were at the station, having a top laugh, and couldn't safely drive the van over to pick up the Yank miscreants.

But that's not all that the gardai failed to do. Why, they should have lifted the lads and then launched an investigation to see if these same soldiers had been involved in crimes in Iraq and Afghanistan, according to Mr. Edward Horgan.

Difficult to be a peace activist these days, when even the Garda don't take you seriously. What's a man to do, but make the grand gesture and turn himself into a laughingstock? Good man, yourself, there, Conor, for bringing The Andy Griffith Show to life for a few of the lads. You made their day a little brighter.

Technorati tag: Ennis, citizens arrest

Summer Hours

Summertime and the living is easy for literary agents. Only insofar as they usually take off early on a Friday, that is. The rest of the business is a misery.

If only Martha Hoffman at Judith Ehrlich's agency would put in a few extra hours and get caught up. She's had a partial since the middle of January, and six months later, I've yet to hear from her. Has me wondering if she asked for partials from just about anyone who queried when she joined the agency, and now there's a backlog that threatens to crash her computer. Smart woman, to ask for a downloadable file rather than fifty pages of real paper. Can you imagine the weight of dozens of partial manuscripts? The legs of the desk would give out and crush her little feet.

Don't know if Frank Scatoni of Venture Literary is off to the Hamptons for the weekend, or if he's hauling my partial manuscript off for a cozy weekend. Curl up in a comfy chair and pore over the pages, sip a glass of wine...life is good.

Can't say the same for the literary journal editors, who are either teaching summer school or doing research for their own publication credits. Publish or perish out there in the scholastic world. My short story submissions from March are languishing, I imagine, or dozing in the summer heat. I suppose that the 2-4 month window of consideration gets dragged out when summer vacation intrudes, or that 2-4 months means months when school is in session.

I'm getting so tired of waiting that I'm not doing a very good job of tracking submissions anymore. When the rejection letter turns up, I'll log it in and cross off another agency. In the meantime, I can curl up on the plastic lawn chair, sip a cold gin and tonic, and read whatever is selling these days. If the agents and the editors are on shortened hours, why obsess over outstanding submissions? More productive to slice up a lime and chill the Bombay Sapphire.

Powerhouse Agencies

Today's NYT reports on some shuffling taking place in the Big Apple. Not that it has anything to do with literary agents, but the agencies involved are massive and I'm wondering if something might be a'changing.

IMG is a powerhouse agency that reps artists of all sorts. According to the NYT, they are a major dealer in classical musicians, possessed of a coterie of top notch talent. As for their literary agency, I've never been sure that it's still active. A look at the IMG website lists a few deals, but they are old. As for the list of agents, it's down to two, and for the longest time the agents included Lisa Queen, who went off on her own months ago. All that lack of activity leads me to believe that IMG is not a big mover and shaker in literary agenting.

ICM, on the other hand, houses some of the best literary agents around, and their stable of musical talent isn't half bad, either. The latest rumor has ICM selling their classical music division to IMG, although it's all very quiet, as befits an orchestral setting.

IMG was bought up in 2003 by Barrett Wissman, who just happens to be a Texas financier when he's not tinkling the ivories. His wife is a cellist, not an author, so the musical link is quite strong. The news article mentions that Mr. Wissman has established music festivals, part of his creative contribution to the agency he purchased. Nothing in there about BEA or Frankfort Book Fair or anything related to representing authors.

So ICM will unload their classical music division, while IMG seems to be phasing out their literary agenting. It's hard to tell on that last bit, though. Send a query to IMG, snail mail only, with SASE enclosed, and they won't answer you at all if they aren't interested. With that sort of non-response, you can't tell if they're out of business or your novel is not right for their list.

Even though I'm always looking for an agent to query, I'll pass on IMG. If they aren't even going to bother stuffing my SASE with a form rejection, I'll save the postage and use it elsewhere. Like to query someone at ICM.

Technorati tag: ICM Literary, IMG Literary

Empower The Little Children

After the row that erupted when a rapist was set free because a law was declared unconstitutional, the entire government of Ireland, from the law clerks on up, has been working around the clock to get some legislation in place to plug the hole. The first item on the agenda - what shall be the official age of consent for the wee little ones?

Who should decide such a weighty issue? Certainly, one must consult experts on child psychology and development, knowledgeable people who know what is best for the mental and physical health of our offspring. Constitutional lawyers, of course, must weigh in with their own particular slant on all things permissible under law, so that the new law does not get tossed out like the old one. All those involved in the child protection game will be called in to offer their perspective, and they can hash things out with the lawyers to put everything in order.

And then who do you talk to? In Ireland, you would of course talk to the children and ask them if they would like to have sex at the age of 14, or maybe 12, or should it be 16. Boys and girls both have to be asked, of course, because the EU insists that all be treated equally. As things stand now, girls under the age of 17 can't be prosecuted for having sex because then everyone would say that Ireland was criminalizing teen pregnancy, and after the whole Magdalene Laundry issue, well, no one wants to go back there again.

In a rush to cobble together a bit of legislation, the Government left the age of consent as is, and so, a boy of 17 could be sent to jail but the girl would most likely be sent home to Mammy. And so, everyone wants to empower the children and ask them how to best resolve the issue of how old is old enough to begin having sex.

They're thinking of starting out with a group of 14 - 18 year olds, and possibly head down to the 12's. Minister for Children Brian Lenihan believes "it is important that their voice is heard, and that they have a meaningful input into this national debate."

Meaningful, yes, indeed. How many fourteen year old boys would think that the age of consent should be lowered to, oh, say, about fourteen? And how many fourteen year old girls will complain about feeling forced to have sex? For this, they need a Government study.

So much for the silly, old fashioned notion that parents should be in charge. I mean, there's no room in the debate for the fathers of fourteen-year-old girls, is there? Anyone care to empower them to throttle the bastard who had his way with their little girl? That's become a nonsense in these modern times. Let the wee ones have their say and have their way. And then we can have a government study about the spoiled behavior of the younger generation, armed to the teeth with all their empowerment, and in more danger than ever.

Scammer Sightings

Where do they come from, these scammer literary agents? How do they find the gullible? Check the back pages of Writers Digest and you'll find them, prominently displaying their services in large boxed ads.

"Manhattan Firm Seeks New Writers" reads one banner. Mark Sullivan Associates, with offices on Fifth Avenue in New York, might be able to represent you. If they do, why, you could garner an advance between $5,000 and $100,000. Six figure advance! Money, money, money and what fledgling author could resist? Why, this company only wants serious efforts, so they must be serious themselves. Of course, the fledgling does not know anything about the stunt that was pulled off by several moderators at Absolute Write, who submitted to another scammer with other intentions, and scored big.

But before you send off your sample chapters, grasshopper, you would want to look at the website of Mr. Mark Sullivan. Nowhere on his page does he list the dubious distinction of being one of Writers Beware Twenty Worst Agents. Ah, but he does mention some of the watchdog groups who have outed him:

Internet reference services on literary agents, like P&E, WritersBeware, Agent Gripes, etc. express a general opposition to the reading fee, although some of them are selling their own services quite aggressively with poor research behind them.

But P&E, WritersBeware, Absolute Write, why, those are all free sites that have no services to sell at all. Mr. Sullivan is obviously confused, so we cut him some slack and move on through his FAQs.

What about that reading fee he charges? He feels that it's perfectly all right, as long as the fee charger is in New York City, where the publishers are, that the scammer, er, fee charger reads the material, and that the fee is reasonable. How about that, his fee is exactly as much as the reasonable fee. Why, doesn't that just prove how legitimate he is?

Next? Look at his list of clients. Legitimate agencies have no problem with detailing their clients, the books sold, and the name of the publisher. Mr. Sullivan is sadly lacking in that department. So he charges to read a manuscript, he offers editing services (no mention of the cost of that process), and then he can't seem to sell anything to legitimate publishing houses that require agented submissions.

Real agents do not charge anything to read your manuscript if they ask for it, because they are looking for material to sell. It's their business. It's how they make money. Reading fees are never legitimate, and there is no such thing as a reasonable amount to charge a writer.

Mark Sullivan claims to have been in business since 1992. At $225 a pop, he would have to sucker about five people per week to make a comfortable living on submissions alone. Add in some editing, which doesn't seem to be very good if he can't sell a manuscript to a legitimate house, and it's a vacation home in the Hamptons.

Don't you go falling for it.

Technorati tag: Mark Sullivan Associates, literary agent scam

Special Offer

Haven't we all received an e-mail from some character out of Africa, English broken into bits, pleading for help. There's always a lot of money involved, the refugee can't get it without your help, and if you'll just send them your bank account number, etc. etc.

Today's installment has me a bit puzzled.

My name is Mrs Martha Pujeh,from Diamond rich country district of Bombali in Northern Province of Sierra Leone.I am the widow of the Late Mr. MOMOH PUJEH, the Managing Director of Sierra Leone Diamond Mining Corporation and Transport Minister.I am currently living in a refugee Hostel in UK.My family and I have been unfortunate to find ourselves caught up in a very difficult situation here.

Unfortunate indeed. Martha goes on to say that she can't open a bank account in the UK, and there's this box with $12 million in it, housed in Spain. What with the UK being on pounds sterling, and the money in US dollars, I'd say she's got a little problem. Naturally, I'm expecting her to next ask me to e-mail her my bank information and she'll put the money right into my account and trust me to give her a cut out of the kindness of my heart.

But what does she want from me? Name, address, phone and fax numbers, but not my bank account number or bank routing number. Now that's a first. With only some random pieces of identification, she'd have to do a fair bit of work to put together some documents, and she still can't access my bank account. Clearly, she's after something else that relates to identification, but I can't quite figure out what the real scam is here.

Kind of her to leave her son's e-mail address, but since anyone can get a yahoo mailbox, I'll pass on contacting the lad. Working in a pub in the UK somewhere, she says in her letter, but she's quite vague on the location. It could be that she's hoping to craft a false identity for her illegal alien offspring so he can open a bank account and get hold of the $12 million that's in the box in Spain. I can't imagine that the customs officials would fall for this one, in the UK or in Spain.

I mean, what with my name and the racial characteristics of a native of Sierra Leone, there's quite the disconnect there. No, Martha, I won't send you my particulars. It would be a disservice to your young lad, forced to lie through his teeth to convince some agent at the border that he's black Irish, of a particularly dark skinned variety.

Pity that you didn't make your first stop in Spain, on the way out of Sierra Leone. Then you could have picked up the box of cash yourself. You said in your e-mail that your husband told you about the stash before he was murdered, so why didn't you get it when you had the chance? I mean, you say you have the certificate of deposit and the receipt from the Spanish security company. It would have been easy enough to pop in and claim your possessions, what with Spain being along the route between Africa and the UK.

Thank you for the opportunity to be taken, but, alas, I must pass. Your scam is not right for my list. But scamming is a purely subjective business, and I wish you luck in finding a complete idiot to fall for your e-mail.

Translated From The Latin

The bishops are at it again. In response to the ballooning sex abuse scandal, they found a solution in asking us to bow when we receive the Eucharist. Parishioners being what they are, there's precious little bobbing and weaving at the front of the altar. Now, you'd think Their Eminences would have noticed that their bowing business sank like a large stone, but no, they've gone off on another tack to make the Mass more relevant.

You see, there was a time when everything was in Latin, a time I scarcely remember and so don't actually miss. Although I am fond of the occasional Gregorian chant in a dead language, but it's the harmony and not the words that do it. Our leaders are old men who know their Latin, however, and they are concerned that the faithful aren't getting the full benefit of the Mass because the translations were too folksy - too much geared towards common speech. With fewer and fewer Catholics attending Mass, it's time to steer the unwieldly ship of faith back to the origins.

No, not all the way back to Aramaic. Just far enough to get on the other side of Vatican II and all those radical changes that the dinosaurs are itching to reverse. Make the English version of the Mass more true to a literal translation, and people will flock to Church come Sunday.

Most of the changes are minor, a slight tweak of a phrase and it's pretty much the same as ever. But, Your Eminences, when someone comes to the house, I think in terms of receiving guests. Maybe if I was Middle Eastern, I might be prone to having people enter under my roof. Here in the Western World, we don't talk like that, entering under roofs. "Howya, Roddy, glad to have you enter under my roof, lad and we'll share a jar." Oh yes, that makes the prayers ever so much more relevant.

If all the changes go through, at least the priest will have a subject for his weekly sermon for the next month. What in the name of Jesus is 'consubstantial'? In the Nicene Creed, I get what we are saying when we avow that we are 'one in being' with the Father. Now we're supposed to get a big word like consubstantial out of our mouths at half seven on a Sunday morning? And understand what we're saying we believe in?

"No time to talk about today's Gospel, parishioners. I've got a very interesting PowerPoint presentation on the words that have been stuck in so that our prayers don't sound the least bit Protestant at all, at all."

You can't get the people to sing the hymns, and now they won't be responding to the prayers either. Might as well listen to the whole thing on the radio and skip the trip to the church altogether.

This Is What Debut Means

Every Sunday night, Publisher's Marketplace
sends me a long list of all the current publishing deals for the past week, broken down by category. It's a great way to see which agents are repping what type of fiction, which is helpful in targeting the right agent for one's project.

There is a separate category for debut fiction, the first novel for some excited author, but I have begun to wonder just what a debut actually entails. Good old Google, always comes through.

Natasha Bauman is listed in the debut fiction category, represented by Lisa Grubka of the William Morris Agency. For a rookie novelist to have landed such a heavy hitting agency, it was hard to believe that Ms. Bauman was so devoid of previous publishing credits. If there was more to this 'debut' than a single novel, I had to know.

Checking with Google turned up countless hits for an actress who appeared in some obscure film and one episode of M.A.S.H. Somehow, it did not seem like the right person. Scrolling through the list, I uncovered an English professor out in California who shares the same name. Now, until the book is actually printed up and distributed, with an author bio on the flap, there will be no definite way to tell if the author and the professor are one and the same. Sometimes, though, these slight coincidences (author : English professor) seem to tie together logically, at least in the street cred sphere.

How surprising is it to discover that a Natasha Bauman won the Editor's Choice Award this past January at the San Diego State Writers Conference? Not very. Further digging uncovered yet another entry for Ms. Bauman, this time on a list of Glimmer Train very short fiction award winners. She was one of twenty-five finalists, which is nothing to sneeze at, considering the prestige of that particular literary rag.

So that is what debut boils down to. The first novel of someone with some credits. Or should I say, 'platform'? Think all you have to do is write an outstanding piece of fiction to get published? Think again.

Technorati tag: Lisa Grubka

Happy Bloomsday

To celebrate James Joyce and all things Joycean (TM), Dublin will be swarming with happy tourists celebrating...oops, sorry, but Charlie H. died and there's all that funeral business to attend to. A bit of rain on the Joyce Parade come Friday the 16th. The funeral mass has been set for Friday morning, which may put a damper on the traditional kidney breakfast.

Perhaps some hardy souls, determined fans of James Joyce (TM), will dress up like Leopold Bloom and Molly and Stephen Dedalus and pay a call at the different locations that featured in Ulysses(TM). There will be many who will lament the loss of so many of those places, victims of the Celtic Tiger and the changes wrought by a global economy. Joyce's Dublin is no more, to the sorrow of his fans. Welcome to the world of progress. Cities are malleable; cities change their faces, spread out and up, leaving behind a few traces of the past.

Given Stephen James Joyce's proclivity for suing those who threaten to infringe the grandfather's copyright, one should move about with caution, or take along the solicitor and a barrister or two. We can assume that the Irish government took all available legal advice before reopening the James Joyce Cultural Centre on Monday.

Senator David Norris, who was present at the grand re-opening, expressed his great disappointment over the cancellation of the planned Friday morning festivities at the Cultural Centre. A noted Joycean (TM) scholar, he said:

"I would have maintained the centre open and I would have had a minute's silence in respect for Charlie Haughey and I'm perfectly certain that Mr Haughey would not have cancelled it himself."

Not to be defeated, Mr. Norris promises to dress up in his Bloom-style paraphernalia, head over to the centre which will be open for coffee, and recite a few choice bits of Joyce.

Not to throw even more water on the poor man, but, before he quotes from Joyce (TM), well, should he run it by Stephen James Joyce first? The Exchequer's bulging with a hefty balance, but still, why tempt fate and a possible lawsuit?

R.I.P. Charles Haughey

No one knew exactly where all his money came from. He lived a lavish lifestyle on a politician's salary, served as taoiseach three times, and had to sell of some of his real estate holdings to pay up back taxes owed on eight million pounds worth of gifts and honoraria.

He ran for office in 1957, and never lost an election, stepping down in 1992. By the time that he retired, he had thrown Ireland, kicking and screaming, into the path of the Celtic Tiger. In an era of twenty percent unemployment and high emigration, his policies helped to turn the tide.

The son of a former IRA officer, Charlie did more than any previous leader to create peace in the north of Ireland, his efforts building up to the Good Friday Agreement. Oddly enough, Charlie was implicated in a 1970's plot to import weapons into the north, using Republic of Ireland funds.

Today, writers and artists will lift their glasses and toast to the memory of Charles Haughey. A man who promoted the arts, he recognized the lack of earning power that plagued the creative set, and did something about it. The few euro that the artist garners upon selling a canvas, or the paltry advance that the writer earns for a novel, are all tax free, no money due to the Exchequer. That, from a man who dodged taxes. It's a funny world.

Joycean Secrets

Families of famous authors will do what they can to protect the ancestor's reputation, and the descendants of James Joyce are battling against an American scholar. Makes you want to dig out your copy of Ulysses and pore over the pages. Well, perhaps not.

Ms. Carol Shloss is a professor of English at Stanford University, so you know she's bright. And she's a Joycean scholar, an expert on all things James Joyce-ish. Recently, she's put out a new book that attempted to link Lucia Joyce, the man's mentally ill daughter, to his blockbuster novel Finnegan's Wake . According to Ms. Shloss, Lucia was the "muse", and the professor used Lucia's medical records, some archives that had information on Lucia's life, and some of James' papers to flesh out her theory.

As fate would have it, there was some criticism, some claims that the Shloss theory was a bit thin on the proof, and Ms. Shloss wanted to lend credence to her views through her website. That's where the problem started.

Joyce's estate, which would be represented by the grandson, Stephen James Joyce and trustee Sean Sweeney, has been accused of destroying papers and keeping a lid on copyrighted material because they won't let Carol use the stuff on her website. The estate says the electronic use of their documents and images infringes on their rights of ownership, while Carol is suing because she feels that the estate is stepping beyond the bounds of copyright law.

According to the Irish Times:

"On multiple occasions defendants have denied permission to quote from James Joyce's writings, or stated that they intended to deny such permission, in retaliation for or as punishment for matters unrelated to protection of copyright in James Joyce's writings," Prof Shloss said in the suit.

Now, the woman's been at it for fifteen years to produce this book, and her publisher went and sliced out some choice bits of supporting material, because the suits at Farrar, Straus & Giroux were afraid of getting sued. How's a professor to support a theory without material to back it up?

For whatever reason, the descendants of James Joyce don't want her using that very material that the lawyers excised. Carol Shloss is suing to be allowed to reproduce it on her website, to make her case with the literati.

I've never read Finnegan's Wake, so I don't know what sort of portrait it paints, or if it makes James Joyce look like a complete horse's ass in regard to his treatment of his mentally ill daughter. Oddly enough, though, it has given me the urge to pick up the book when next I'm at the local library. Until I read it, I'll reserve judgment, and feel sorry for the judge in the San Francisco court who may have to slog through James Joyce's verbiage before reaching a decision.

But there's no way in hell that I'm going to read Ulysses.

Did You Read It?

According to their submission guidelines, The Threepenny Review needs three weeks to two months to think about your unsolicited manuscript. Was my short piece so pathetic that they could turn it down in a week? Did they look at it?

I expected to get rejected, since they pay $400 for a story, and that's the mark of prestige in the literary journal family. With a record turnaround time, I have to wonder if they even took the time to look at the piece.

When I peruse back issues of different rags, I see an enormous amount of first person POV, in direct contrast to what literary agents say is marketable. Truth be told, I don't much care for the POV, with all its navel gazing and heavy pondering of life's great dilemmas, and I don't write that way. Apparently, one glance at my piece failed to turn up a single 'I', and that was it. Reject pile on that one.

Too short? Too far out in writing style? Maybe it was a little too out there, what with a lack of punctuation for the very miniscule amount of dialogue. Just being creative, there, sorry. Shall I edit the piece, and change the character to 'I'? Would the editors be better able to relate then?

There's other submissions out there, still waiting. Those might be the ones I never hear back from, I guess. In the meantime, there's the Mississippi Review edition, where submissions close on June 15 and they print on July 1. If they are going to respond to my sub, they should let me know soon. If they are going to respond. Is the ubiquitous no answer going to hold true for literary journals as well?

Time will tell. Everything is a learning experience the first time around.

It's (a) Commercial

Authors in search of a literary agent are prone to ponder over the genre of their opus during the query process. Is it literary fiction? Historical fiction? Or could it be commercial fiction? Now there is a whole new genre - the commercial....fiction.

Sean Stewart and Jordan Weisman, two marketing gurus who put together a YA shower of shite, have moved fiction to a new level. Yes, they have indeed found a way to turn a novel into a commercial through the art of product placement, a trick once reserved for movies and television. Clearly Mr. Weisman is no slouch in the literary world, not when he has the Creative Artists Agency to rep him. CAA is a big one, involved in marketing products as well as writers, and the link-up was a natural one.

The authors are actually partners in a marketing company, and had been working with Proctor and Gamble on other projects when a lightbulb went on over someone's head and they thought it would be brilliant to promote YA cosmetics in a YA novel. In lieu of a cash handout, Mr. Stewart and Mr. Weisman will obtain promotion for their book through P&G's website.

Sounding a bit like a mystery, the novel will have all sorts of references that link up with P&G's website, binding the book inextricably to a commercial for Cover Girl cosmetics. So there you have it, a YA commercial disguised as a book.

I don't know that it's so wise to encourage our young daughters to read after all. Perhaps there's something to be said for a classical education, get them translating from the Latin at an early age and bypass the crass commercial drivel altogether. Caveat emptor, my little darling.

Agent Move Update

According to her blog, agent Jenny Rappaport has left Folio Literary Agency. I can't be entirely to blame for her departure, since I sent her a query at least three months ago, and a follow-up six weeks later when she never responded (as promised on the Folio website). Although my dismal query might have been enough to make her begin to question her chosen profession, surely all the fault is not mine.

She has parted ways with the managing partners, which is understandable. The poor girl began at Paige Wheeler's agency and the next thing she knows, she's sucked into a massive merger and answerable not only to Paige, but to Scott Hoffman and Jeff Kleinman as well. Sure, she didn't sign on for such a group to begin with, and things did not develop to her liking once she was on board the runaway train.

If she likes being an agent, and she has a few clients that are attractive to another agency, she'll land on her feet. Going off on her own was mentioned as a possibility, but she hasn't been at the game very long and that might prove to be a bit of a risk. Helps to have profitable clients to rely on until building up the stable of royalty receiving authors.

What did she tell her clients, I have to wonder? Ride on, see you? How many people are out there now, once over the moon that she asked for their full, and now in misery because that full is going nowhere unless they can find a new agent? Brutal business, this publishing. And as soon as she announces that she's at a new agency or heading up her own, I'll be right in line, firing off a query.

Technorati tag: Jenny Rappaport, literary agent

The Other Side

Writing in today's New York Times, Spike Gillespie weaves a happy tale of the joys of bankruptcy. She details the downward spiral that brought her to the brink of financial ruin, and every item she mentions is exactly the sort of thing our parents told us not to do.

She tells of using credit cards as loan devices, using borrowed money to cover basic expenses. There was a time when you had to find a way to stretch your earnings, or get a second job to increase the income, but Spike just took the easy way out and charged it. She even charged things to "cheer...up" her pitiful existence, when she apparently did not make enough to cover the everyday necessities.

On top of that, add a divorce, which we all know is the first step to money troubles, followed by a medical condition that would have been covered by hubbie's policy, if only Spike were married. Picked the wrong time to divorce, it would seem. Best to get a thorough going over from the doctor before telling the partner you're through.

And so she struggled, parrying the thrusts of debt collectors who came calling. Finally, unable to endure, she declared bankruptcy, and voila, the debts were gone. She ends her piece with a deep sigh of relief, freedom hallelujah! And as for all those folks she stiffed? Not a mention of them.

I've been at the receiving end of a bankruptcy filing. I've been left holding bills that have been excised by the courts, with my own expenses never to be reimbursed. Sure, I could borrow to cover things and end up bankrupt like Spike, leaving my vendors to solve the money crunch, but I find it difficult to face old colleagues who have been screwed up the arse.

Spike has no worries about the people who provided her with services and goods for free. She was in a bind, you see, and we should all feel sorry for her. Some of us, Spike, have to deal with financial shortfalls by turning down the heat in winter because we can't afford to be warm because a client decided to declare bankruptcy and not pay their bill. Some of us eat a bowl of oatmeal for dinner every night for weeks and ignore the pangs of hunger because we can't afford to buy enough food to eat because someone thought declaring bankruptcy was a victimless crime. I've patched my socks, bought second-hand from the Salvation Army Thrift Shop, and generally gone without.

In praise of bankruptcy? I'm all in favor of new laws to protect the vendor, to make it next to impossible to wash your hands of debt and walk away, free as the air, while someone else is forced to scrimp and scrape to get by, because people like Spike would not.

Easily Disposable

Another rejection came in, but since the agents at Curtis Brown did not ask for more, more, more a couple of months ago, I figured that the partial manuscript was dead in the water. It took them three months to make up their minds that the sparkling prose, polished to a high sheen, was not telling the story in the way that they liked.

Sure enough, a request for a partial came in on the same day as the rejection. Funny how this has happened a couple of times. I guess the agents phone one another, to coordinate the submission rejection cycle just to mess with our heads. They're a clever lot, those agents in NYC.

This particular submission, however, has a sort of 'easily disposable' quality to it. I don't know if it's a new trend, or a way to save on paper clutter, but the agent asked for a partial to be sent as an e-mail. Now, the same agent does not accept e-mail queries, which is not unusual, and she asked for the partial via e-mail, which is rather common. But to submit the partial electronically, no paper, no ink, no charge, lacks the substance I need for confidence.

It's happened before to me, and I fear the same again. I have three partials that were sent as e-mail attachments, all according to the agent's request. But without that SASE wagging under their nose to remind them that someone is waiting for an answer, they treat the submission as if it were another e-mail. Read the first few pages, and if it doesn't grab, that's the end of it. Just like the e-query, the lack of response becomes the not for us response.

The agent is saved the problem of stacks of manuscripts cluttering the office, and they don't even have to shove a rejection letter into an envelope. No muss, no fuss, just use and toss. And there you are, heart in a flutter, waiting to hear. Did the file download and open? Did they read it at all? Did they even get it?

The file's been sent and I'll not think of it again. I'll keep sending out queries, and enjoy the rush of popping fifty pages into a Priority Mail envelope, affixing the Priority Mail stamp, and slapping on the Delivery Confirmation. Seems so much more real when it's in your hand than when it's on the screen.

Hair-Do And Don't

Teens all over Ireland are in the throes of exam time, the last chance to regurgitate memorized facts and move along in the educational line. Score high and you're off to the university of your choice, with enough points to win a coveted spot in your chosen field of study. Score low, and it's off to learn auto mechanics or chip frying.

Ordinarily, a concerned parent would have test preparation on the mind, and not be thinking about their son's appearance. After all, it's all about what's in the lad's head and not what's on it that matters. Unless, that is, the boy is sitting his Junior Cert at Tullamore Community College in County Offaly. To that school's principal, it's the look that counts.

American boys sport buzz cuts, especially those who indulge in athletics in the heat of summer. In Ireland, that look is not acceptable, but then, they don't have to deal with ninety degrees and ninety percent humidity. I presume that Irish youths are not wearing baseball caps during every waking hour, thus they have no fear of hat hair and can be more stylish. Besides, there's a 'skinhead' thing there that we don't see here. A gaggle of buzz-cut American boys is accepted as normal, but across the pond they would see a congregation of hooligans and skinheads bent on destruction.

Three boys from the Tullamore school turned up right on time to sit their Junior Leaving, and just like that, they were booted, and all because of short hair. School rules, you see, must dictate something more coiffed, perhaps layered or gelled and spiky, but no buzz cuts here, thank you very much. It's not that this was the first time that the lads were warned about the short locks, either, but isn't it a free country? Can't a boy choose his own style?

Not at Tullamore Community College they can't. And because they did not listen to the principal when he told them before, the three students were sent away and had to find another school to sit their exams. One poor wee lad was so upset that he's decided to wait until next year.

So there they were, flaunting the rules, and Mr. McEvoy, the harried principal, had had enough. Out they went, and the uproar is being heard up and down the island. Yes, the boys had been warned before and yes, they had been suspended before, and all over the length of their hair. But, you see, they like short hair, and their mothers support their sartorial choices. The ongoing argument is simply that the principal picked the wrong time to make his point, during the high stress days of the exams.

Obviously, Tullamore Community College is not run by the Jesuits. They would have solved the problem by forcing the boys to don wigs if they wished to enter the building. Where's the respect for authority gone?

Hooligans Need Not Apply

Just when Iran's president was about to get a bit of support, the Germans pulled the rug out from under his unwashed feet. That most august body, the National Democratic Party, was all set to march in Berlin following the Iranian matches in the upcoming World Cup, but now they can't. Isn't there something the European human rights groups could do? It's so unfair.

The neo-Nazis only wanted to show their support for their buddy Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, who shares their conviction that the Holocaust never happened. Oh, and that bit about wiping Israel off the map, that's a go for the neo-Nazis. Leave it up to the German police to get all nervous, afraid that the world would pay attention to the skinheads and then no one would talk about how brilliant the Germans were as hosts of the World Cup. It's only a matter of image, after all, with the German people not wanting everyone else to think they're all a bunch of Nazis. They've been trying to erase that black mark for a long enough time as it is without some minor faction reminding everyone all over again.

Even though party leaders said that they were calling off the marches because of the strained security situation, who's to say that they weren't pushed? Where's Dick Marty when you need him to stand up for the downtrodden neo-Nazis?

Bad enough that a group of British hooligans were nabbed at the Czech border when they tried to sneak in where they aren't wanted. Surely that violates some EU directive or other, free travel between member nations or whatnot. 3500 professional hooligans had their British passports revoked for the duration, and the police confiscated the match tickets of 300 German hooligans. Is there some kind of union for hooligans? How do the police seem to know exactly who these fools are?

There's even worse evidence of human rights violations in Germany as the World Cup gets set to begin. They're discriminating against black people. Yes, it's true. Several African football associations have issued pamphlets to their fans, warning them to stay out of east Berlin and East Germany. Uwe-Karsten Heye, who was once involved in the German government, flat out told the blacks that they'd better stay out of small towns like Brandburg because they "wouldn't get out alive."

Ah, Europe, that bastion of equality and freedom, so unlike the evil US of A. And we're glad of it in America.

When Did You Stop Beating Your Wife?

Poor Ireland's in trouble again. Our friend Dick Marty, the Swiss politician who heads the Council of Europe's Parliamentary Assembly, has pointed the accusing finger at the Emerald Isle and proclaimed that the Republic is complicit in the whole rendition flights business. Sort of like the joke, about asking an innocent man when he stopped beating his wife. How do you answer a false accusation that implies you're guilty of something you never did?

Earlier Dick said that the USA was guilty of rendition flights, based entirely on the evidence of his personal opinion that it was so. The very planes that the CIA used for thousands of flights did make stops at Shannon Airport to refuel, therefore, the Irish participated in the evil scheme. All right, so there was that flight that he thought was rendition related but it was the head of the FBI come to call on his Irish colleagues. And the flights with diplomats and government officials, yes, but it was the same plane, you see, so, well, there you have it.

Where did Ireland go wrong, exactly? Well, when they asked the US government if they were using Shannon as a stopover on rendition flights, the US said no. Absolutely not. Swear to God. And so, to quote the report from the Irish Times:

Ireland colluded in this by invoking the "principle of trust" when pushed to investigate claims that US planes were using Shannon to facilitate the transfer of prisoners, the report found.

You can't trust the USA, that's Dick Marty's dogma. You have to trust Dick Marty and his certainty that America is in cahoots with the world. He knows. He just knows. Who needs evidence? Isn't the word of Dick Marty enough to get the Garda Siochana to inspect US planes at Shannon? How dare the Irish government not bend the knee to Dick Marty!

Meanwhile, in Canada, they're unraveling a plot to blow up buildings and execute government officials to revenge Canada's presence in Afghanistan. That would be the pro-Taliban crowd fighting against democracy, Dick. Sorry, lad, but I think the rest of the world's a little preoccupied these days to pay you much heed.

Go Electric

Is the book of the future going to be a glowing screen? Download from a literary iPod website, and off you go, thumb on the dial as you scroll through the LED text. And will these electronic devices have magnifying screens for the presbyopic? Lots of older people are readers, you see, and the old eyes, well, there's a strong market for large print books these days.

There are those who compare a book to a song, downloadable and portable. When I think of tunes, I picture the playlist, a song from one artist here, followed by a piece from someone else. Now, if I were to treat books the same way, I could read a paragraph of Hemingway, and then peruse a page or two of Welty, and maybe follow up with a little poetry from Michael Hartnett (in English, please. I don't understand more than a cupla focal and I'll never get through a whole stanza).

Books aren't pop songs. The structure of a novel is not an album, just as a chapter from a novel is not a tune in its entirety. Fiction has a pacing and composition that is different from a collection of songs which may or may not be linked with a common theme. A research text, on the other hand, can be culled for key points. One does not have to read the entire Grey's Anatomy to learn about the mesenteric vein and its branches. As Ann Fadiman mentioned recently in the New York Times, that's not reading, and that's fine for research documents.

The biggest problem with e-book readers is sand. Can you imagine the inner works of the thing, grit blowing in while you lie in the sun on a summer day, reading some trashy novel? With paper, you turn it upside down, give it a good shake, and no harm's done to the book. Can't say the same for the poor iPod. Drop that at the beach and you're out a few hundred dollars, with the sand scouring the delicate chips to electronic death.

There's nothing like a book, a physical entity that does not need to be replaced every few years due to upgrades. It does not need batteries, it will never blink out and die just when you get to the good part, and it comes in a print big enough to see without dragging out the bifocals.

Agent Moves

She couldn't stay away from the bright lights of agenting. Kate McKean has turned up at Howard Morhaim's agency, no doubt after a period of reflection and the unquenchable thirst for good writing - or making a buck, whichever comes first.

At the same time, Agent Query notes that Dystel & Goderich's revolving door has turned once again, with the departure of Michael Adelman. Perhaps he, too, will pop up at a different agency, chasing after a promise of bigger commissions or more office staff.

I have to wonder what happens to the clients of agents who give it up. Knowing how near impossible it is to get an agent, it must be like stepping into a new circle of hell to be told that your hard-won agent has had enough and you're cut loose. Just because there are other agents at an agency would not guarantee that someone else could pick up the baton and run. What one agent likes may not translate to the preferences of their colleague across the aisle, or even of the few who were left behind.

Take, for example, the break-up of Graybill & English. The partners split but have continued to represent clients. What of the clients of Lynn Whittaker or Kristin Auclair? If an author had some good sales figures, they could shop elsewhere, but the rookie writer with a first novel on offer would be back to the beginning.

And yet, I continue to pursue an agent. It's madness, this author business.

Expert Advice

By all accounts, the Printers Row Book Fair in Chicago was a great success. The weather was perfect, the options many, and the crowd was sizable.

Fans of E.L. Doctorow had an opportunity to hear him speak at the former Chicago Public Library, now serving as a cultural center. When asked how much research he did for his historical fiction The March, he answered in the simplest terms. He did just enough, he said. Too much could sink the prose, so he did just enough. It sounds logical, simple, but how does the budding author know when they have gone too far? Like pornography, you know it when you see it, but you cannot define it. That is what makes writing so difficult, even though it seems easy on the surface.

Another interesting point that he made related to his characters. Some hopeful novelists will create note cards and genealogical flow charts to map out their characters, but Doctorow takes the most basic approach. He knows his characters, which makes sense, since he has created them. In his mind, he sees how they look, what they wear, even how they think. All of this happens on a subconscious level, so that as he writes, the prose runs along and fits the character. Sure, it sounds like a no-brainer. Create a fictional figure and run with it, but to internalize each person takes more than a few brain cells.

Writing is a creative endeavor, akin to painting. You can take drawing classes as easily as you can take writing classes. A teacher can tell you what to do, but you may not have the talent to do it, no matter how easy the instructor makes it sound. How many times have you heard the adage 'Show, don't tell'? Three little words that sum up novel writing, but it is so hard to accomplish the task.

In Need Of Attention

I've been offered a rare opportunity and I'd like to share it. Yes, it's the opportunity we've all been waiting for - a place to promote our books.

For only $75.00, you can have your book listed on the Book Promotion website. And not only that, but the Book Promotion people will spam booksellers on your behalf, and that's just the kind of attention an author would crave.

For an extra $310.00, they'll fill bookstore mail bins with flyers that promote your tome. More junk mail - isn't that what we all want?

Like to be a hands-on type? For $300.00, they'll send you a list so you can do your own spamming and junk mailing.

Want to cover a lot of ground? Here's a quote from the e-mail came my way:

What You'll Receive:

* We will send a promotional email to bookstores and libraries about your book
(value $200.00)
* Press Release Distribution to over 2500 newspapers, magazines, radio & tv
shows (value $225.00)
* Your book listed and discussed on at least 10 blogs, websites, or newsletters
within the same week. There will be times during that week where you will have
to make yourself available for chats and/or blog discussions. (value $995.00)

Cost: Only $575.00

Now, I know what you're saying. Who's going to browse the Internet, looking for a website that promotes books? And what's to keep the book vendors from deleting the e-mails unread? As for the flyers, you can picture them being chucked straight into the dust bin. And how many blogs are there, competing for attention?

A fool and his money are soon parted, the old wives say. There's a sucker born every minute, according to P.T. Barnum. If you believe that this book promotion scheme just might work, then you probably believe that your self-published novel is going to sell tens of thousands of copies.

Change In Tactics

Many agents accept e-mail queries, which saves the author on paper and postage. The drawback is the non-answer, the lack of a reply that closes out the submission. Looking for closure, I checked my history with some agents who previously responded to e-mails (with a form letter rejection, I might add).

Steve Axelrod used to respond, back in 2003 and 2004. Fast forward two years, and he doesn't reply if he's not interested. Debra Goldstein at The Creative Culture used to answer her queries, but what held last year is not the case this year. Over at Imprint Agency, you could get a rejection, but that has stopped. I have tried John Talbot and Gail Fortune again, having queried them two years ago on another manuscript, but they no longer answer.

Which leads us back to the e-query and its cheap ease. Anyone can fire off a letter, especially when it costs nothing to send. And so the barrage is created, as hopeful writers submit their missives with the touch of a button. The agents are then swamped with queries, hundreds per week, and there comes a time when they cannot begin to answer them all, even with a blanket rejection.

Given a certain period of time to answer the e-mail, what agent is going to put in the extra hours on top of already long hours to cut, paste and send? Read the first lines, see if the hook is a grabber, and then hit delete. Just as the e-query is all speed and efficiency, so too is the non-response, the unstated not for us.

Speedy Delivery

Prestigious literary journals are as efficient as prestigious literary agents. The fiction that I submitted to the Cimarron Review two weeks ago has already been rejected. Talk about efficiency!

The tiny scrap of paper was as much a form as any agent's tiny scrap of paper, about three inches by four inches of heavy bond, printed with the stock rejection phrases. In essence, my short fiction was not quite right for their list, but good luck placing it elsewhere.

But there was an unexpected bonus in the SASE, a special gift just for me. Was it an added form, to ask me to submit something else another time? A little note from the editor? Of course not. This is a business, not a garden party. After rejecting my prose, the good people of the Cimarron Review invited me to subscribe to the very rag that does not want me.

Hardly the ideal client, am I, having been turned down. Someone must be taking a page from Al Zuckerman of Writers House, who is fond of using the writer's SASE to mail out an advert for his own how-to book. As much as I would like to indulge, my finances are precarious at the moment. The cost of submitting eats into the budget, and I'm dependent on the public library for reading material. Unfortunately for the public library, they are dealing with their own budget constraints, and don't subscribe to very many literary journals. The local book vendor does not bother with them either, taking up as much shelf space as they do and they need that space for Quilting News Quarterly and Scantily Clad Females Monthly.

Not to be defeated, I'll print up a few more copies and find some journals that accept manuscripts during the summer months. A form rejection won't stop me. Only death will put an end to my submitting.

Technorati tag: Cimarron Review

It's Getting Hot In Here

Exciting new study! We used to be warmer, millions of years ago. Who would have guessed that the dinosaurs were tooling around in lumbering SUVs, pumping up the atmosphere with green house gases? Does Al Gore know about this? Can he edit his movie to include this new data?

Scientists have concluded that a big warm up took place, a time when there were no ice sheets covering the Antarctic. Too bad Mr. Gore was not there with his camera, filming the bergs dropping off the glacier to demonstrate the drastic climate change. Of course, if he had been there in the middle of the hot times in the old town, why, when the cool down came in, he would have been filming the glaciers getting bigger, while ranting about the catastrophic climate change.

No one seems to know why there was a rise in greenhouse gases all those millions of years ago. Probably because the dinosaurs' cars have not left any fossilized remains. The reason why those same gases decreased is also unknown, but one can safely presume that some prehistoric Gore was able to push through legislation that limited emissions, and so the pollution declined along with the temperature. There he was, fourteen million years ago, agitating for alternative fuels, while the poor dinosaurs in Antarctica were getting covered in ice.

The problem with the current crop of global warming hysteria is that it is, indeed, hysteria. Scientists do not quite understand climate changes, and are only just now learning about natural shifts in temperature. Run around and proclaim that the sky is falling, but people will not believe you if it is not, really and truly, collapsing.

Exaggeration is not the answer - we look to scientific fact. What if all heat-trapping gases were reduced to near zero and the temperature continued to climb? Is it possible that the climate has naturally occurring cycles of long duration that we should prepare for? Would it hurt anything if we promoted clean fuel and alternate energy sources just so that we could breathe clean air, and skip the climate change hysteria?