Jesus Freaks Out in the Streets...Or the Parking Lot

Yesterday I was out running some errands, and I stopped at the Pilot to buy a money order. As most people are when they run in and out of any gas station or grocery store, I was in a hurry.

I noticed a pasty fat guy standing next to the entrance doors, and out of my peripheral vision I also noted he was staring at me. He looked semi-normal--t-shirt, shorts, tennis shoes, Baptist haircut, and he was clutching something in his hand. But there was also something determined and unsettling about him, but I sensed nothing dangerous or threatening about him, plus it was broad daylight in a crowded parking lot.

As soon as I got out of my car and walked toward the store, he leaped over to my car. "Here we go," I thought, but I felt nervy and oddly revved up, ready to go at it with him. This could be fun...

"Hello, Maam, how are you today?" he said in a syrupyand slightly infuriating voice . He held up a card in his hand, "I'm just gonna leave this card with you," just knowing I would take it, not expecting any refusal.

He leaned forward to put in under my windshield wiper. "No, don't do that," I said sternly, "I'm not interested."

He straightened up from his leaning position, card still in raised arm, his eyes wide. "But it's information about our Lord Jesus Christ," he said incredulously. "Are you sure you're not interested?"

I looked at him; I felt angry and interfered with. I bore my eyes into his, cut him to the quick with my unflinching gaze. "I am absolutely sure I'm not interested," I said in a tone that brooked no argument or challenge.

He stepped away from me, as if I was the Whore of Babylon; many emotions raced across his face: surprise, chagrin, annoyance. And then he uttered something that really pissed me off.

"Have a nice day; we love you," he said in a self-righteously arrogant tone.

I stopped, wanting to stomp over to him, grab him by his stupid shirt and make him face me. I wanted to demand who the "we" he was refferring to were. Did he mean he and Jesus? And if so, what would Jesus think of this pompous, pestering unemplyed man assuming that he could speak for Jesus?

And does he truly believe that Jesus would approve of him accosting and pestering people in places like gas stations, malls, grocery stores on a Friday afternoon, passing out dumb little mass-produced cars or leaflets filled with platitudes?

Because that guy--and almost every other man or woman I've encountered who do this sort of thing--have a pompous, judgemental, and self-righteous attitude. They also have a sense of entitlement, and can get downright pushy and nasty when you don't play along with their agendas.

But, I still had unfinished errands to run, and I didn't have time to get into a theological and moral argument with someone who wouldn't listen anyway. So I said nothing.

I have no problem with Christians or any other religion to which people choose to attach themselves. But why do people feel the need to push their religious or political views on other people? Especially religious beliefs; I've always thought religion should be a private and personal thing, between God--or Gaia, or Allah, or Mother Goddess, or whomever--and you, that's it.

Maybe I should print up a bunch of my own leaflets and carry them with me all the time. They would promulgate the peaceful, women-centered and earth-loving religion of Paganism, or explain the glorious intensity and history of Voodoo.

That way, next time one of them knocks on my door, or approaches me in a parking lot, I could say, "Sure, I'll take your pamphlet, but you have to take one of mine!"

Confessions of a College "Girl"

Sometimes it's hard to not feel like an outcast.

At college, for example. I'm a 30-something woman who's gone back to school after a long unintentional abscence. When I walk by a group of shiny-faced, 20-year-old girls simultaneously walking and chatting on their Blackberries, with their uber-expensive North Face backpacks, I feel like some kind of pariah. As if I should scuttle back to the castle, chased by Gen Y'ers brandishing torches and throwing stones at me.

And boy, don't I feel like some predatory Puma when I can't help but notice the veritable bevy of very cute, yet VERY young college guys!! (Note: It's okay to look!! I'm married, not blind!!)

Surely I don't belong amongst these spoiled kids, with their shiny new SUV's and brand new expensive laptops and breathless conversations about being rushed by their sororities. I drive an adequate and sensible car that was given to me by someone--and it's the nicest car I've ever owned, with working AC and plush upholstery. And I will never join a sorority (nothing against anyone in a sorority, but it's not my style), and as for my laptop I just got, it's the first one I've ever owned in my life.

Sure, I'm a little envious; I wish I didn't have to worry about working enough hours to pay for my tuition and books, and I wish I could spend more money on clothes shopping or a trip to the salon once in a while.

But it helps that I see a lot of older students spattered amongst the throngs of young faces. And it helps that I remember how grateful I am to be able to go to school. It helps to know I would be the same age even if I wasn't back in college, so I might as well have a degree.

And it definitely helps that I look 10 years younger than my actual age! (At least that's what the many stunned people say when I tell them how old I am!)

Back to School

First day of class at UT this past Monday. I could only afford to take one class this semester, and paying for that single class literally broke the bank for me. Sometimes I feel like putting up a PayPal account on my blog for donations. It would read something like, "All donations for poor, struggling hard-working older college student will be greatly appreciated."

I have to get my past financial aid mess cleaned up, and then hopefully I'll be able to get some federal aid in my ongoing educational career.

Anyway, the class is an upper-level Fiction Writing course, and I think I'm going to really enjoy it. The class is small--about fourteen people--and the professor is cool and creative and quite learned. My only gripe: The Humanities building classroom apparantely has no air conditioning.

You know what, though? I love it all: The intimidating size of the university, the swarms of milling students' bodies, even the hot stuffy non-air-conditioned classroom.

Summer Reading

Is there anything better to do on a hot summer day than drift around the lake or pool on a float with your favorite book?

Pretty hard to top. Monday we went up to Norris Lake (probably the prettiest and cleanest lake around these parts), where our friend took us out on the water in his boat. The lake water was that rich bright green, and with the goodly supply of rain we've had this year, the water level was very high and clean. You could see the fish flitting around your feet in the clear water.

The sun was so hot, and there were maybe two big puffy white clouds in the blindingly blue sky. It felt so good to dive into the lake from the boat, the water a perfect temperature, and so cool and silky. After slathering copious amounts of sunscreen on my face and body, I wriggled onto the float and read for a few minutes before falling asleep, lulled by the rocking of the gentle waves, and the warm sunlight.

Cosmic Prescription For Myself

Anything worth having is never easy.

If writing were easy, everyone would do it.


Take each of the above inspirational quotes, repeat several times a day, everyday, until they sink into your brain, and you are reaping the cosmic and spiritual fruits or your labors!

The Summer of the Vampire

I just ordered the Sookie Stackhouse collection from Amazon. It was a great deal, too: the entire seven-book set for $30.76, with FREE shipping!

I'm so excited; they should be arriving tomorrow. It's so great that there are like eight books in the series (new one coming in October 2009), then the True Blood series will run for a while. If you've never watched the show, do yourself a favor and do so immediately! It's addicting.

And this hot, steamy summer is the perfect time to become immersed in the seductive and bloody sex-soaked world of Bon Temps, with its vampires and shape shifters and utter strangeness.

True Blood vs Twilight

I've started reading the Charlaine Harris "Southern Vampire Mysteries", also known as the "Sookie Stackhouse" novels, upon which the phenomenal series True Blood is based. Harris is a great writer, and her characters are so vivid and engrossing, plus the storylines are so fresh and original.

That's why I can't understand all of the hype and rabid fan base behind the Twilight books and movies. Okay, to be fair, I never even made it through the first book in the series--I couldn't. I realized about 50 pages in that I was having to force myself to keep reading, thinking maybe it'll get interesting. When you read Harris' books, or see the series, you wonder how anyone could want a watered-down, saccharine version of the vampire story.

Maybe much of my disinterest is the fact that the books cater to a teenage audience; trying to get through those scenes in the cafeteria were sooo laborious. But, the truth is, if the writing is good, and the story grabs you and carries you along, it doesn't matter what age demographic it falls into.

My point: True Blood kicks Twilight's ass!

Southern Belle, Swamps, and Witches

I love it when you stumble onto a blog that's unique and interesting. Actually, I'm totally jealous of the writer; she lives in a beautiful plantation in the deep South, and is a self-proclaimed witch or psychic, or something. I don't know if it's a real or fictional blog, but I wish I had put together something like this.

Check it out!

Southern Belle Book and Candle.

Rural Writing

Been so preoccupied by my book-in-progress, that I forgot about my little article for Grit. It's pretty much finished, except for some polishing and proofreading, but I'm going to send it out this weekend and hope they publish it. I love the magazine, and it would be a thrill to contribute my piece.

Here's an excerpt from what I hope will be part of the "Looking Back" section of their magazine.

Now I live in a townhouse in the city, surrounded by noise, sirens, asphalt and concrete, with precious few spots of grass and trees. For someone who grew up on a sprawling farm with no close neighbors, who raced barefoot across open fields, who jumped from the creaky barn loft into a sweet dusty pile of hay with confident and carefree abandon, who romped through the thick wet woods behind her home, pretending to be a wood nymph casting enchantments and befriending animal familiars, my country soul cries out that I am surrounded on all sides by people, packed tightly and neatly into square walls.

At least once a month, I take a drive by myself to visit my childhood farm. Like a pilgrim making a journey to a sacred land, it's something I must do to restore my soul: lay eyes upon the rural loveliness and assure myself it's still here. But the visits are bittersweet; dreamy escapes from the urban noise, but also agonizing to be standing across from the land and the home you want so badly, and be locked out, forbidden to step foot upon the graveled driveway, or sit under the leafy canopy of the huge Maple tree.

Currently Reading

The collected short stories of Flannery O'Connor, and the "New York Novels" by Edith Wharton.

Two polar-opposite writers, but I intend to gobble up more books by female writers. Flannery O'Connor is a significant southern fiction writer, and she is able to create the most disturbing and despicable characters in a solid work of fiction better than any other writer. Her stories are proof that a character need not be likable or heroic to draw in the reader.

It's strange to go from O'Connor's tales of wooden-leg-stealing Bible salesman to Wharton's polite world of brownstones and New York society parties in "The Age of Innocence". Odd, but fulfilling.

And piled up in a corner waiting to be read this summer are lots of books on Thomas Jefferson, Monticello, and some books on old Southern homes.

And Then There Were None

Today was our last day in creative writing class. It's finals week, but there was no final for the class, so we spent the hour eating Krispy Kreme doughnuts and sipping coffee that our teacher had bought for us.

He handed back our fiction folders, which contained our writing assignments and our final projects. Instead of a short story, I used an excerpt of what I hope will be a novel, and scribbled on the inside of my folder was a note encouraging me to finish it, and adding that I had "all the earmarks of an authentic fiction writer". That lifted my spirits and jolted me into a state of euphoria more than the strong coffee could ever do.

I hate that the class is over, mostly because I will miss my professor, Ed Francisco; I actually caught myself wishing it wasn't my last semester, so I could take another class with him. Not really, I want to move on, but I will miss him. He's one of those rare people that is so smart and unbelievably talented and engaging, and I learned so much from him.

And he has had the most unusual and fantastical life: friendships with people like James Dickey and Walker Percy; heated political debates with David Duke, and getting on the shit lists of certain local politicians whom I won't mention. Seriously, someone should write this man's biography!

So, this summer, while some people will travel to Europe or the beach, I'll spend my summer working on my novel, which will take me to places far more exotic.

Childhood Friends

Found a dusty copy of one of my favorite childhood books the other day: "Little Town on the Prairie" by Laura Ingalls Wilder, and I sat right down on the floor in a shaft of sunlight and reread it. I looked in the front cover and saw my sister's name written in her childlike scrawl from elementary school. She loved those books too, probably because I used to read them to her when she was a wee thing.

The "Little House" books were the first books I remember really falling in love with as a kid; I recall the one summer I read the whole series, devouring one after another. And it's a testament that they still can be enjoyed by adults as well as by children.

The "Madeline" books were also childhood favorites; the free-spirited Madeline and her adventures in Paris and London. Laura Ingalls was a free-spirit, too. I loved how she would write about wanting to be like the Indians near their prairie home, wild and half-naked riding on a horse across the plains, and how she rebelliously refused to sleep in her corset in order to have a teeny waistline.

I can't imagine not having grown up with books; my parents read to all of us kids, and all of my siblings like to read, but I'm the one who truly loved to read: who always had my head in a book, sitting in a private spot under a tree.

This love of books is something I want to pass on to my kids, and I have already started to collect those treasured books from my bygone childhood days for them--like the "Little Golden Books" and "Aesop's Fables".

My Kingdom for a Deus ex Machina

I'm not usually the type to criticize other writers, especially novice writers (like me). However, there are circumstances where it's perfectly acceptable to criticize the novice; for instance, if she takes liberty with her thesaurus, or if she believes her writing to be superior to that of her other classmates.

There are several in my class who hold these opinions, but one in particular more so than the others. I literally cringe when she volunteers to read her stuff. Phrases like "balloon carcasses" and "yay-yo" pour from her mouth, as she concentrates to retain the modest look on her face, yet unable to keep the slavering delight for her words out of her voice.

Today, her salvos kept going off for an eternity; I tried to muffle my ears from the blasts, but some of them got in: "...valium " "...smeared cigarette ashes on my husband's Egyptian cotton sheets..."; "...vodka haze..."; "...the demon box..."; "...behind my Gucci sunglasses...".

Ugh; who farted, right?

Eventually my deus ex machina finally arrived...the bell rang. Walking out into the crowded hall, I thought, Please don't let me be that bad of a writer!

Gritty Love

I always imagine how much more I could appreciate the springtime in the country. More specifically, my old rural hometown. I drove up there a couple of weeks ago, it was when the weather was unseasonably warm, and it was so beautiful. The sky was a lovely shade of gray with puffy white clouds, and it almost looked like an ocean--a sea-foam grey and pale green body of water.

I remember the farm in the spring, how the flowers and the crab apple trees were a riot of color and perfumed the air with their sweetness. The woods were bursting with ferns, green grass, and the ground was brown and soppy wet from the rains; the willow trees and pine trees were dewy wet, and the forest smelled like dirt and grass, a verdant scent of the earth.

Anyway, I am working on an article about that very subject: how much I miss rural living. I discovered a magazine called Grit. It's been around since 1882, and the magazine is devoted to the celebration of all things rural.

Unlike mags like Country Living, Grit is also for people whose livelihood is tied up in the earth; the farmers and those who not only love the land, but who also live off of it. Along with articles about the city-dweller's existential loneliness caused by being separated from the land, there are informative articles about different types of hogs, and the right tools to use for specific gardening . It's kinda like Mother Earth News, but, well, grittier.

I have fallen in love with Grit, and I'm waiting impatiently for my first issue to come in the mail. So I plan on submitting my article for publication to them soon; needless to say, I'm eager and giddy with the possibility that I could contribute to such a wonderful magazine.

So if you are a lover of farms, land, or anything rural, check out Grit; both online and print versions are available.

Spring Fevers

I've had a nasty bout with the flu since last week. It's a tenacious flu, let me tell you; it's hung around for too long: the nausea, body aches, fever, and weakness.

Our spring break was this week, and aside from being sick, I've had to work, so it's not been much of a break for me. It felt and looked like spring for a few days last week; warm and sunny, and many trees and flowers put on their pink and white and finest greenery, and the soft air was perfumed with blossoms and petals. But suddenly, the cold was back, and the blossoms were shivering in the cold wind and rain. I don't mind cold, but I wish the weather would make up its contrary mind.

I knew some weird weather was imminent, though; the moon was surrounded by a huge hazy ring three days ago, and the clouds looked like mackerel scales. And I swear, the moon was full for about three days in a row, so maybe that's why I haven't been able to sleep so well lately. Or maybe it's the time change and the changing of the seasons.

My "spring fever" kept me in bed most of the week, and I haven't felt like writing. I've watched a lot of television, and read some books on fiction writing for my class. But now I'm feeling the itch to start writing again. I'll take the writing bug over the flu bug any day, thank you.

Bad Blogger!!

I know, I know, I'm a bad bad blogger. Look how long it's been since I've written a new post.

What kind of a writer am I?

Well, I have been writing: assignments for school, mostly. This week we start on fiction writing in my class, and I'm excited about that. I didn't care for the poetry too much, but we got to read many beautiful and strange poems and poets. Like James Dickey; I love his poetry. The only work of Dickey's I was familiar with was the book "Deliverance".

Let's see, I still haven't heard back about the story I sent out, so I'll send it out to some more places. But I'm going to focus on my getting my book written. I know I will learn invaluable tools and tricks in this writing class, so what better time to get back to that dark and gothic world that is my book?

Well, gotta go. I'm sitting in the library at school waiting on some people from class to show up. I'm here to videotape a speech for my online speech class, and you have to have at least ten people for your audience. So far, I'm the only one here! Shit people, come on; this thing's due on the 5th!

I'm giving them 30 more minutes...

Until next time, Dear Reader.

Catching Up

Been so busy with school and work lately, that I didn't realize how long it's been since I posted!

I'm digging my writing class; we're still on poetry for now, which is cool, but I can't wait to get to fiction writing in a few weeks. The poetry is like the appetizer before the main meaty course. I've surprised myself, though; I'm better at poetry than I ever thought I would be. Right now we are on free verse poetry, which is interesting. There is no meter or real structure for free verse poetry--no rules per se--but that makes it a bit of a challenge to write vivid cohesive poems; there are no set pentameters or stanzas or meter, so you are not bound to follow any structural rules.

One of my favorite short-lined free verse poets is William Carlos Williams, who in addition to being a poet was also a doctor, specifically a pediatrician who delivered babies on rural house calls. Anyway, we looked at "The Red Wheel Barrow" today; our professor pointed out that many students had gone "symbol fishing" in this poem, reeling out such whoppers like, the wheel barrow symbolizing red communism, and the white chickens are the oppressed democracy.

"The Red wheel Barrow"
so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

The professor pointed out that most poetry is not about abstract ideas, but rather pictures that describe things; that's it. But still, many of my classmates didn't grasp this; one person even said the poet was using hyperbole in saying that "so much depends upon...". Not to toot my own horn, but I knew right away that Williams was telling us that a simple, basic thing like a peaceful rain-splattered wheel barrow sitting in the yard is what's so vital. No matter how much you travel the world or wherever you go, you eventually want to go home. At least, that's my interpretation.

More on the school front, I'm busy getting started on writing some articles for the college newspaper. There's a lot of events coming up, and I want to make sure people know about them. Plus, I've been tutoring a couple of students, helping them write papers; it's time-consuming, but they pay me a little bit of money for my expertise (wink)! My speech class is online, and we have a project coming up soon that I need to quit putting off.

Also, I sent out a story to a few places to see if anyone wants to publish it; I'll report as soon as I hear something. I've also been trying to work on my book as much as I can. I'm learning so much from this writing class, and I want to make use of the knowledge I'm picking up. My professor, Edward Francisco, is such a great teacher, too. He's a published novelist and poet, and so funny and smart and engaging.

I will have my associates degree this May, and then I'm going on to UT, (that place is so expensive, it cost me $30 for an application for admission!) but this summer before I start UT, I want to take a certificate course at PSTCC. They offer many different certification classes, and the one I want to do is only 15 credit hours. With the job market looking so bleak, I want to ensure myself a fighting chance of landing a job. And the certification is in a job sector that will always be booming.

That's all for now.

Haiku for You

Okay okay, twist my arm, I'll post the haiku I wrote for class!

"From a Window"
Through the iced window
soft flakes of snow fall silent
A blanket of white.

"Winter Moon"
Bone-white winter moon
frozen in the black night sky
Stars of crushed diamonds.

"Wet Street"
Asphalt black and slick
like glass reflects the neon
Rain in the city.

Haiku

We have to write three haiku poems for our creative writing class tomorrow. I've never been good at writing poetry, but I like the structure of haiku. Three lines, the first line containing 5 syllables, the second line 7 syllables, and the third line has 5 syllables, for a total of seventeen syllables. That's it: 3 lines, 17 syllables, no more, no less. Haiku focuses on one specific image or thought, usually with a reference to the seasons.

Very structured and specific, but some of the most beautiful poems are haiku. Maybe I'll post my three when I get them written. Maybe, but like I said, poetry is not my strong point.

Coraline

The Neil Gaiman young adult novella Coraline is now a movie. I haven't read this one before, but of course my curiosity has been piqued (damn Publicity Machine).

A Writer's Worth

Discussing a poet in my creative writing class on Friday, the teacher mentioned the poet, a friend of his, once said his poetry book sales barely generated enough revenue to pay for a six pack of beer. He was a beautiful writer--like so many other talented poets and writers, but all of them had to supplement their income by working other jobs to pay the bills.

I got to thinking about true talent and high salaries: are the two mutually exclusive? It's discouraging that so many phenomenally talented writers and artists die penniless and unknown. There are freelance writers out there who couldn't get a bank loan or qualify for any sort of financing if their lives depended on it. They can't list on their applications that their credit is their character of a swashbuckling pirate that women fantasize about; or a demonic terrifying dentist that makes us think twice before scheduling a cleaning.

Stories and books written hundreds of years ago, books we all study and enjoy today, were written by the most brilliant creative forces of our time. Yet many of them could barely afford to buy food; famous artists, whose works grace the walls of prestigious museums to this day, were not acknowledged until they died dreary deaths, either by suicide or laudanum overdoses.

Shouldn't writers or artist be paid more? After all, writers create characters who live in our minds and hearts forever; they fashion immortal princesses and silky lethal heroes of which inspire nightmares and fantasies that take us out of our humdrum and sometimes depressing lives. A certain painting can cause us to weep with joy, reaching in and finding the core of our humanity.

Yes, a lot of writers and artists become wealthy, but the number of those that get lucky and have their books made into million-dollar movies, and the writers who are just as talented but struggle to pay their rent is lower. Maybe it's partly luck, but perhaps it's also the shrewd ability to know what will sell and what won't.

But, like my professor says, If you want to be a writer because of the money, you'll never make it. You don't do it for the possibility of fame or riches; you do it because you have to. There's no other choice; there's nothing else you can imagine doing.

New Stephen King Book Available

Stephen King has a short story collection out called Just After Sunset. As much as I love King's novels--I've been a loyal fan of his since I first read The Stand when I was sixteen--I tend to get more excited about his short stories. The book is available in both print and online editions.

I noticed on his website King has started a foundation for freelance writers and artists. It's called The Haven Foundation, and this organization financially aids freelance writers and artists who cannot work due to illness or injury.

Plot Impasse

Help.

I am stuck at a plot impasse for my book I'm working on; it's a very rough and clumsy beginning, but I think it's a great storyline that will form a very enjoyable novel.

As is so typical of my personality, when I get stuck on something, I put it away and try to pretend it doesn't exist. Just like with my guitar practicing, I was smoothly sailing along, loving it, and then Rick said it's time to learn barre cords. I don't know if you are familiar with barre cords, but they are VERY hard! So, of course, I haven't picked up the guitar for months. See, when things get challenging, and I have to work hard to conquer something, I just close my eyes, cover my ears and wait for it to go away. I'll pick it up again, but I hate that I just hide when things get tough.

Needless to say, I haven't worked on the book for some time; instead, I have been writing a few short stories, trying to pretend the book isn't sitting there gathering dust (figuratively, it's on my laptop), trying not to think about the characters growing stale and not speaking. I know what I want to happen; the plot is clear in my mind--the story's raison d'etre--but I am stumped on how to make it happen.

Oh well; I'll figure it out. I will not let myself sabotage this, because I truly believe this book could be great. It needs to be finished; I have to write this. I start school next week, and I'm sure I will learn some tricks in my creative writing class to help me pull this off.

Twilight at Bedtime

Yesterday a colleague from work brought the book "Twilight" for me to borrow. I was surprised that she even remembered, because I had casually mentioned my mild interest in reading it to her a couple of weeks ago. Very thoughtful of her to remember.

Anyway, I'm about twenty pages into it, and so far it's pretty good--not as gripping as I anticipated, but good. I'm hesitant to say that because I don't like to judge until I have read the whole book, but also I don't want to piss of the legion of rabid Twilighters out there! I would like to visit the place where the story takes place, though. I've always wanted to go to Washington state or foggy San Francisco: someplace that's rainy and green and cloudy all year. I guess I'm a weirdo; I've always loved the rain and the cold.

I always read before bed; I can't fall asleep until my eyes start to feel heavy and finally slip closed, while the book slides out of my hands and thuds to the bed.

So I'll read "Twilight" before bed tonight, and then have shadowy vampire-filled dreams.

New Story Almost Finished

I will block off some time around work this weekend to finish a short story I'm working on. It's so bizarre how much of writing fiction is out of the writer's hands. When you start writing something, whether it's a novel or a short story, I think a lot of it ends up being different than what you had in mind. Sometimes, it ends up being the complete opposite of what you set out to write; it's almost like bits of the writing process are done without your awareness. Eerie, but true.

This story has been fun to write; I guess it is tagged as chick-lit/erotic fiction, but there's no blatant sex thrown in to cover up the lack of plot or story. I never thought I would ever write something of this genre, but I have to say, it's been really fun. I know there is a place for it, and I'll submit it to some places as soon as it's ready to be read by their cold analytical eyes.

I notice a few writers put their work out their on the internet, they post each chapter as soon as it has been written. This writer keeps her serialized story online, for the whole world to see as it's being written. She invites people who visit her blog to point out incorrect grammar and offer advice and critiques.

I once put up an excerpt of something I wrote, but not the whole story. I guess I can't get past the whole someone-might-steal-my-work mindset. Not clear on the legalities, but I think anything written by someone is automatically copyrighted; however, an idea cannot be copyrighted, just a completed work. So be careful about sharing your ideas until you get them down on paper. Plus, I feel so protective and vulnerable about what I write that I can't imagine letting it be seen by anyone except me, not until it's been edited and revised. I think it's important to not have any input from anyone until the story is finished, because any outside input could interrupt the whole organic process.

Anyway, I'd like to hear from anyone who puts their unpublished work out there; has anyone ever had anything published this way? Anyone had a problem with their work being copied without their knowledge?

The Future of Print Media

Interesting piece via Writer's Digest about the future of print magazines. Bleak statistics and massive slashing of media jobs aside, it's an exciting and revolutionary time in the media and publishing world. The faces of journalism and media are evolving, and we are all witness to their historic changes.

Note the rising number of niche markets in magazines, both print and online; writers everywhere can reap the benefits. The concept of mass market is no more, which makes it easier for writers to break into many specific markets.

Follow the link below to read the full article.

"The Death of Print Magazines and Other Fairy Tales", Writer's Digest.