by Jean Henry Mead
We left Seattle, Washington, one cold early spring night on a midnight flight to Fairbanks. Our daughter Lynda had recently moved there with her husband and invited us for a visit. We were unprepared for the unusual trip, to say the least.
Why the only plane for Fairbanks left at midnight remains a mystery, but it was immedaitely obvious that Alaskans were the only other passengers. Dressed in plaid wool shirts and mucklucks, they immediately reclined, stretching their legs across the aisle into the opposite seats. They soon fell asleep. Ever try accessing the restroom in the rear of the plane under those circumstances?
I had flown many times before but was nervous about this flight, probably because it was Friday the 13th. I couldn’t sleep so I watched the snow covered terrain, forming an escape plan in case we had an emergency landing. My husband slept through the entire flight.
We experienced a bumpy landing and no one was there to greet us at the terminal. A miscommunication had us landing at four that afternoon. So we hung around the airport until after six that morning when we called our daughter, who came to pick us up. While we were there, Lynda's mother-in-law tried to talk us into a partnership in an RV repair shop. The 1,390 mile long ALCAN Highway was still a gravel road and recreational vehicles were usually in bad shape by the time they reached civilization. Fortunately, we declined because it wasn't long before the ALCAN was paved.
We were there during the four-day World Eskimo-Indian Olympics which we thoroughly enjoyed. Then held in March, it has since been moved to mid-July in Fairbanks. Natives from not only Alaska, but the Pacific Northwest and Canada compete in traditional contests which include some unusual events such as knuckle hopping, ear-pulling, Alaskan high kicking, Eskimo stick pulling and nalukatak or blanket toss. It's said that age and wisdom often defeat the young and strong, and we were witness to just that.
The Race of the Torch, a five kilometer road race, is held during the festivities and run by both male and female contestants. The winner earns the honor of lighting the WEIO torch for that year and a pretty Miss WEIO is crowned. All daytime events are free to the public but you'd better have your wallet handy for nighttime activities. Among them were dances, races and games.
Traditional native dancers perform throughout the games as well as every night. A potlatch, or pot luck supper, is served with traditional native foods. And we were glad to be there during early spring before Alaska’s native bird, the mosquito, emerged from hibernation.
Before we left, we saw Santa’s workshop at North Pole, Alaska, a few miles north of Fairbanks, and were disappointed that it wasn’t open that time of year. The old gentleman must have been on an extended vacation. We flew home with a huge, beautiful dark blue Alaskan flag and carved wooden Eskimo figure that is still here on display. We’ll return to Alaska one day, armed with plenty of mosquito repellant and enough film to capture the wonder and beauty of our northernmost state. We may even stop by Wasilla.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Time
By Mark W. Danielson
Time is finite, and there’s never enough of it. With the exception of flying a two-day trip, I’ve been home for three weeks, and yet during that period, I have failed to accomplish all that I intended. When people ask what I’ll do when I retire from FedEx, I smile and reply that I’ll enjoy spending more time with my wife, writing, painting, playing on the lake, flying for pleasure, building and then rebuilding things, and most of all, engaging life. It’s the only way to live because we never know how much time we have left. I was reminded of that this morning when I learned that a co-worker's son died yesterday from meningitis--after falling ill four days earlier. He was a Naval Academy student, and lived a mere two decades. No doubt we can all attest that life isn’t fair.
During my time off, I completed the first draft of my next manuscript, painted five paintings, and performed countless tasks around the house. During breaks, Lyne and I walked nearly every day, enjoying a beautiful Colorado Indian Summer. I cherish the time Lyne and I have together because in the end, it’s the quality of my time that matters, not how many jobs I complete.
Tonight I start another two-week round-the-world trip; this time flying eastbound via Paris, Delhi, Shanghai, buzz around the Far East for a few days, then back to Anchorage and home. I look forward to getting airborne again, seeing a world without borders. I also look forward to having the time to edit my manuscript. A few long layovers should allow me to get through it before I return. But I’ll also regret missing Thanksgiving. You see, Thanksgiving in Japan isn’t the same as being at home with family, but that’s my life as a gypsy pilot. Then again, such disappointments help inspire believable protagonists. After all, aren’t we all a bit conflicted at times?
I should point out that there is another artist with the same name, but unlike him, I don’t sell my work. Although I’ve been painting my entire life, I’ll wait until I retire before pursuing that career. In the mean time, I’ll enjoy creating memorable works for my family members at Christmas—another holiday that I’m likely to miss. Regardless, so long as I enjoy living each day to its fullest, regardless of where in the world I am, time will always be on my side.
Time is finite, and there’s never enough of it. With the exception of flying a two-day trip, I’ve been home for three weeks, and yet during that period, I have failed to accomplish all that I intended. When people ask what I’ll do when I retire from FedEx, I smile and reply that I’ll enjoy spending more time with my wife, writing, painting, playing on the lake, flying for pleasure, building and then rebuilding things, and most of all, engaging life. It’s the only way to live because we never know how much time we have left. I was reminded of that this morning when I learned that a co-worker's son died yesterday from meningitis--after falling ill four days earlier. He was a Naval Academy student, and lived a mere two decades. No doubt we can all attest that life isn’t fair.
During my time off, I completed the first draft of my next manuscript, painted five paintings, and performed countless tasks around the house. During breaks, Lyne and I walked nearly every day, enjoying a beautiful Colorado Indian Summer. I cherish the time Lyne and I have together because in the end, it’s the quality of my time that matters, not how many jobs I complete.
Tonight I start another two-week round-the-world trip; this time flying eastbound via Paris, Delhi, Shanghai, buzz around the Far East for a few days, then back to Anchorage and home. I look forward to getting airborne again, seeing a world without borders. I also look forward to having the time to edit my manuscript. A few long layovers should allow me to get through it before I return. But I’ll also regret missing Thanksgiving. You see, Thanksgiving in Japan isn’t the same as being at home with family, but that’s my life as a gypsy pilot. Then again, such disappointments help inspire believable protagonists. After all, aren’t we all a bit conflicted at times?
I should point out that there is another artist with the same name, but unlike him, I don’t sell my work. Although I’ve been painting my entire life, I’ll wait until I retire before pursuing that career. In the mean time, I’ll enjoy creating memorable works for my family members at Christmas—another holiday that I’m likely to miss. Regardless, so long as I enjoy living each day to its fullest, regardless of where in the world I am, time will always be on my side.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Fair Weather
By Chester Campbell
Outside it was cold and rainy, but inside the Frankfort Convention Center warmth and coziness prevailed. Conditions obviously weren’t as favorable as in years past, what with the economy sliding down the tubes.
So the question arises, is it worth an author’s time to weather the storm and trek off to a book fair?
I journeyed to Frankfort the past weekend for the 27th annual running of the Kentucky Book Fair. Despite the weather, a respectable number of buyers showed up for the Saturday event. But as one man told me apologetically, “Last year my wife and I spent $400. With the way the economy is now, we won’t do nearly that much today.”
Everybody came with the idea of buying books, however, and a few toted away bags full of them. Some authors had an inside track by being well known in Kentucky. Others by being well known in their field. A children’s author at the same table with me had a constant stream of kids, parents, and grandparents stopping to get his colorfully illustrated books signed.
Sitting beside me was Judy Moffett, a science fiction writer who lives part-time in Kentucky and the rest in Pennsylvania. Her paperback books sold well, but the hardcovers bombed, which was a sign of the times.
Book fairs like Kentucky’s bring in 200 or more authors, so there’s plenty of competition. You can’t just sit there and smile. Half the people look the other way and many more seem to be hurrying by on their way to catch the next bus.
If you’re not a household name, it can pay off to put in a little extra effort. Following my usual policy of ignoring the chair at a book signing, I stood behind my table from 9 a.m. to 4:30 p.m., except for the time it took to eat my sandwich. Anybody who came within range of my voice, which isn’t all that strong, unfortunately, got the smiling query, “Do you read mysteries?”
I talked to enough of them to sell 39 books. Not a bad day, all things considered. The Wall Street Journal recently quoted Barnes & Noble’s chairman as saying he had never “seen a retail climate as poor as the one we are in.” Simon & Schuster reported store traffic was down and fewer customers were buying more than one title.
I had the luxury of four books in my Greg McKenzie Mystery series lined up on my table at Frankfort. A couple of people bought all four.
You never know what will push someone’s hot button. When I told one man that in Deadly Illiusions the Federal Reserve chairman is murdered at the Opryland Hotel, he grinned and said, “I’ve got to have that one.”
It’s always nice when a reader comes by (in this case a member of the DorothyL listserve) and says, “I’ve read all of your books and really love them.”
But the name of the game at a book fair is to sell books. It can be done if you play your cards right.
Outside it was cold and rainy, but inside the Frankfort Convention Center warmth and coziness prevailed. Conditions obviously weren’t as favorable as in years past, what with the economy sliding down the tubes.
So the question arises, is it worth an author’s time to weather the storm and trek off to a book fair?
I journeyed to Frankfort the past weekend for the 27th annual running of the Kentucky Book Fair. Despite the weather, a respectable number of buyers showed up for the Saturday event. But as one man told me apologetically, “Last year my wife and I spent $400. With the way the economy is now, we won’t do nearly that much today.”
Everybody came with the idea of buying books, however, and a few toted away bags full of them. Some authors had an inside track by being well known in Kentucky. Others by being well known in their field. A children’s author at the same table with me had a constant stream of kids, parents, and grandparents stopping to get his colorfully illustrated books signed.
Sitting beside me was Judy Moffett, a science fiction writer who lives part-time in Kentucky and the rest in Pennsylvania. Her paperback books sold well, but the hardcovers bombed, which was a sign of the times.
Book fairs like Kentucky’s bring in 200 or more authors, so there’s plenty of competition. You can’t just sit there and smile. Half the people look the other way and many more seem to be hurrying by on their way to catch the next bus.
If you’re not a household name, it can pay off to put in a little extra effort. Following my usual policy of ignoring the chair at a book signing, I stood behind my table from 9 a.m. to 4:30 p.m., except for the time it took to eat my sandwich. Anybody who came within range of my voice, which isn’t all that strong, unfortunately, got the smiling query, “Do you read mysteries?”
I talked to enough of them to sell 39 books. Not a bad day, all things considered. The Wall Street Journal recently quoted Barnes & Noble’s chairman as saying he had never “seen a retail climate as poor as the one we are in.” Simon & Schuster reported store traffic was down and fewer customers were buying more than one title.
I had the luxury of four books in my Greg McKenzie Mystery series lined up on my table at Frankfort. A couple of people bought all four.
You never know what will push someone’s hot button. When I told one man that in Deadly Illiusions the Federal Reserve chairman is murdered at the Opryland Hotel, he grinned and said, “I’ve got to have that one.”
It’s always nice when a reader comes by (in this case a member of the DorothyL listserve) and says, “I’ve read all of your books and really love them.”
But the name of the game at a book fair is to sell books. It can be done if you play your cards right.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Addicted To Jim
by Ben Small
Have you ever been addicted to a program you hate? I know, that makes no sense. If one has an injection phobia, does one volunteer to give blood weekly?
I have a hard time explaining to people why I used to be addicted to the PTL Club and why I now record and watch some of the Jim Bakker shows. But the explanation is simple: Bakker is so outrageous, I just cannot turn him off. First with PTL, Jim was selling partnerships in Heritage USA, a huge family oriented ― or so it was claimed ― project, now in ruins. Now it's Morningside, which I predict will be in ruins in a few years.
Heritage was fraudulent, and rubble is often what happens to hopes and dreams that are based upon fraudulent claims.
Morningside? Tune in and you be the judge.
Jim’s good at selling. He lays down a façade of ministry, a cover, when what’s really going on is a sleazy sales pitch. After an eight year stint in federal prison ― it would have been much longer but his appeal resulted in a reduced sentence ― Jim’s back doing what he did before, selling what looks to be cheaply made condos under cover of providing a religious program. It’s called the Jim Bakker Show, and this time, instead of the now deceased Tammy Faye to laugh at, we have Jim’s wife, Lori, a busty blonde with a lurid past, and a brain that might fill a thimble.
This time, Jim’s selling units at Morningside, a five hundred sixty acre development in Branson, MO, owned by his friend Jerry Crawford. Jerry brought Jim and Lori out and put him up and on the air, so Jim could sell his cheap Bibles, tiny swords, Jesus pictures, “partnerships” and CDs at inflated “Love Gift” prices, and so Jim could spend most of his programming hour pushing Morningside units.
My wife and I were in Branson, and we drove by the complex. We laughed out loud. The “village” had a roof, a big one. Long, black I-beams provided a three story structure that stretched for several hundred yards. So what now looks like a strip mall is Jim’s Village of Morningside, which is nothing more than a television set, a few shops selling trinkets and plastic or coated religious stuff at inflated prices, a bakery, a general store, maybe something of a restaurant, and of course condos, apartments, a hotel and building sites. If you want to watch the Jim Bakker Show from the tiny balcony of your postage stamp condo, one or two stories above a fake street, you’d like Morningside.
I’m sorry, but Jim’s show is so outrageous, I just cannot turn it off. So I watch, angry, cussing, seething inside at all the old people ― the group Jim’s always victimized ― who fall for his blather.
And you should see Jim beg. He’s got all the tools. I don’t think a show goes by where Jim doesn’t cry. Or pretend to do so. Jim’s lip will quiver, and he’ll talk about how much money he needs to do one more program, and then he’ll beg. And after the beg, comes the threat, that God won’t like you if you don’t support Jim’s church. And Lori just nods, a hollow look in her eyes, like someone’s just reached in and scooped out her brains.
It’s better to give than receive, you know? So says Jim, as he encourages everyone to feel good about themselves by giving to his ministry.
Oh sure, Jim mentions Jesus once in a while, usually in a loud, practiced stretch-syllable Southern Baptist way, like speaking the name Itself will provide enlightenment and salve all his sins. “Yes,” he’ll say, “Jeeeeeezzz-us loves us,” as if this makes the sales pitch a holy one.
But while the guy can sell, he’s not very smart. Jim’s a preacher, right? I thought it was enlightening, and not particularly bright, when Jim said during one sales pitch that he’d never read the Bible until he was sent to prison.
Huh? Never read the Bible? Then what was PTL all about? You don’t think PTL was just a money grab, do you?
Of course it was. And so is Morningside and the Jim Bakker Show.
Recently, Jim announced that Jerry Crawford, the Morningside developer, had called him in to say development [read sales] was slowing, that Crawford would have to forgo a promised million dollar payment to Bakker. Jim took the high road, at least he appeared to, and instructed folks on the need to be altruistic. Then he asked for special love gifts.
C’mon, you knew that was coming.
And Lori’s a peach, too. Tammy Faye, at least, could sing, and her eye makeup was always entertaining. But Lori just sits there and makes inane comments, comments that are so right field that Jim turns and stares at her, as if he’s a catcher and the pitcher just rolled the ball to home plate.
No, Lori doesn’t have much to say, but that doesn’t stop her from saying it. She’ll say something like, “Oh, Jim, everyone should know that God is always with us.” And Jim will turn, and he’ll stare.
Like me. I’m dumb-struck, too.
But then they’ll talk about Lori. Jim loves bringing up Lori’s sordid past: how she was addicted to any number of drugs; how she slept around, trading sex for drugs; that she had a number of abortions. And Lori will sit and nod and grin.
This is great soap opera.
My wife thinks I’m nuts to watch this stuff, and of course she’s right. But my sister watches Nancy Grace, just because she finds Nancy Grace so irritating. And it’s the same with me. I cannot stand what Jim Bakker does. I think the guy is a crook, and that he’s bilking little old ladies. And he infuriates me so, I have to watch his show a couple time a week. That’s how mad he makes me.
I mean the show is so obvious. How could anybody be fooled? If there’s any mention of the Bible or Jesus at all, it’s usually connected to a pitch for money. The Bible says we must support the church; Jesus wants our support, he needs our support, and Jim needs our money to spread this message.
It should come as no surprise that The Jim Bakker Show has almost no audience. It’s on at various times during the wee morning hours, at about the time teenagers are painting the old water tower. In fact, when I tell people that Jim Bakker is back on the air doing the same old thing, they’re shocked.
But Jim looks good. He’s had so much plastic surgery, he looks about forty-five, although his face has that certain smooth and shiny plastic texture that comes with having skin stretched too tight across facial bones. I can’t tell if Lori’s had plastic surgery. I can’t get past her lipstick. With Tammy Faye, it was the eyes one laughed at. With Lori, it’s the wind blowing through her ears and the spooky high gloss clowny lipstick.
Despite the title of Jim’s book, it’s apparent from comments Jim's made that he doesn’t think he did anything wrong at Heritage USA, and that he was persecuted by those who were jealous of his success. And to prove his point, Jim’s doing many of the same things he did before. Just no Jessica Hahn this time, at least not yet.
I mean, the gall of this guy.
And that, my friends, is why I watch. I just cannot believe the ever-loving gall. The mystery is how Jim Bakker gets away with it, over and over again.
Have you ever been addicted to a program you hate? I know, that makes no sense. If one has an injection phobia, does one volunteer to give blood weekly?
I have a hard time explaining to people why I used to be addicted to the PTL Club and why I now record and watch some of the Jim Bakker shows. But the explanation is simple: Bakker is so outrageous, I just cannot turn him off. First with PTL, Jim was selling partnerships in Heritage USA, a huge family oriented ― or so it was claimed ― project, now in ruins. Now it's Morningside, which I predict will be in ruins in a few years.
Heritage was fraudulent, and rubble is often what happens to hopes and dreams that are based upon fraudulent claims.
Morningside? Tune in and you be the judge.
Jim’s good at selling. He lays down a façade of ministry, a cover, when what’s really going on is a sleazy sales pitch. After an eight year stint in federal prison ― it would have been much longer but his appeal resulted in a reduced sentence ― Jim’s back doing what he did before, selling what looks to be cheaply made condos under cover of providing a religious program. It’s called the Jim Bakker Show, and this time, instead of the now deceased Tammy Faye to laugh at, we have Jim’s wife, Lori, a busty blonde with a lurid past, and a brain that might fill a thimble.
This time, Jim’s selling units at Morningside, a five hundred sixty acre development in Branson, MO, owned by his friend Jerry Crawford. Jerry brought Jim and Lori out and put him up and on the air, so Jim could sell his cheap Bibles, tiny swords, Jesus pictures, “partnerships” and CDs at inflated “Love Gift” prices, and so Jim could spend most of his programming hour pushing Morningside units.
My wife and I were in Branson, and we drove by the complex. We laughed out loud. The “village” had a roof, a big one. Long, black I-beams provided a three story structure that stretched for several hundred yards. So what now looks like a strip mall is Jim’s Village of Morningside, which is nothing more than a television set, a few shops selling trinkets and plastic or coated religious stuff at inflated prices, a bakery, a general store, maybe something of a restaurant, and of course condos, apartments, a hotel and building sites. If you want to watch the Jim Bakker Show from the tiny balcony of your postage stamp condo, one or two stories above a fake street, you’d like Morningside.
I’m sorry, but Jim’s show is so outrageous, I just cannot turn it off. So I watch, angry, cussing, seething inside at all the old people ― the group Jim’s always victimized ― who fall for his blather.
And you should see Jim beg. He’s got all the tools. I don’t think a show goes by where Jim doesn’t cry. Or pretend to do so. Jim’s lip will quiver, and he’ll talk about how much money he needs to do one more program, and then he’ll beg. And after the beg, comes the threat, that God won’t like you if you don’t support Jim’s church. And Lori just nods, a hollow look in her eyes, like someone’s just reached in and scooped out her brains.
It’s better to give than receive, you know? So says Jim, as he encourages everyone to feel good about themselves by giving to his ministry.
Oh sure, Jim mentions Jesus once in a while, usually in a loud, practiced stretch-syllable Southern Baptist way, like speaking the name Itself will provide enlightenment and salve all his sins. “Yes,” he’ll say, “Jeeeeeezzz-us loves us,” as if this makes the sales pitch a holy one.
But while the guy can sell, he’s not very smart. Jim’s a preacher, right? I thought it was enlightening, and not particularly bright, when Jim said during one sales pitch that he’d never read the Bible until he was sent to prison.
Huh? Never read the Bible? Then what was PTL all about? You don’t think PTL was just a money grab, do you?
Of course it was. And so is Morningside and the Jim Bakker Show.
Recently, Jim announced that Jerry Crawford, the Morningside developer, had called him in to say development [read sales] was slowing, that Crawford would have to forgo a promised million dollar payment to Bakker. Jim took the high road, at least he appeared to, and instructed folks on the need to be altruistic. Then he asked for special love gifts.
C’mon, you knew that was coming.
And Lori’s a peach, too. Tammy Faye, at least, could sing, and her eye makeup was always entertaining. But Lori just sits there and makes inane comments, comments that are so right field that Jim turns and stares at her, as if he’s a catcher and the pitcher just rolled the ball to home plate.
No, Lori doesn’t have much to say, but that doesn’t stop her from saying it. She’ll say something like, “Oh, Jim, everyone should know that God is always with us.” And Jim will turn, and he’ll stare.
Like me. I’m dumb-struck, too.
But then they’ll talk about Lori. Jim loves bringing up Lori’s sordid past: how she was addicted to any number of drugs; how she slept around, trading sex for drugs; that she had a number of abortions. And Lori will sit and nod and grin.
This is great soap opera.
My wife thinks I’m nuts to watch this stuff, and of course she’s right. But my sister watches Nancy Grace, just because she finds Nancy Grace so irritating. And it’s the same with me. I cannot stand what Jim Bakker does. I think the guy is a crook, and that he’s bilking little old ladies. And he infuriates me so, I have to watch his show a couple time a week. That’s how mad he makes me.
I mean the show is so obvious. How could anybody be fooled? If there’s any mention of the Bible or Jesus at all, it’s usually connected to a pitch for money. The Bible says we must support the church; Jesus wants our support, he needs our support, and Jim needs our money to spread this message.
It should come as no surprise that The Jim Bakker Show has almost no audience. It’s on at various times during the wee morning hours, at about the time teenagers are painting the old water tower. In fact, when I tell people that Jim Bakker is back on the air doing the same old thing, they’re shocked.
But Jim looks good. He’s had so much plastic surgery, he looks about forty-five, although his face has that certain smooth and shiny plastic texture that comes with having skin stretched too tight across facial bones. I can’t tell if Lori’s had plastic surgery. I can’t get past her lipstick. With Tammy Faye, it was the eyes one laughed at. With Lori, it’s the wind blowing through her ears and the spooky high gloss clowny lipstick.
Despite the title of Jim’s book, it’s apparent from comments Jim's made that he doesn’t think he did anything wrong at Heritage USA, and that he was persecuted by those who were jealous of his success. And to prove his point, Jim’s doing many of the same things he did before. Just no Jessica Hahn this time, at least not yet.
I mean, the gall of this guy.
And that, my friends, is why I watch. I just cannot believe the ever-loving gall. The mystery is how Jim Bakker gets away with it, over and over again.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Touching Up
By Pat Browning
Whew.
My reissued book is ready to launch. An E-mail from the publisher says he got the final proof copy today, and it is “gawjus.” Looks like I’ll have books for a group signing at the local library Dec. 4.
It’s been a hell-bent-for-leather project, but one of the nice things about a small, startup press is that it can turn on a dime, and Krill Press has done that a couple of times. ABSINTHE OF MALICE will be listed in Books in Print next week. It takes a little longer to get it up and running at Amazon and other online bookstores. Soon to come – Kindle.
I read once about an artist who was never entirely satisfied with his paintings. He went around to museums and art galleries, touching up his work when nobody was looking. I can identify.
Re-doing my book was a chore, but I got rid of a lot of ellipses and dialogue tags. I completely rewrote a couple of scenes, at the publisher’s request. It’s the same book, but it’s a better book. Yet even as I signed off on the manuscript I saw a couple of small things that should have been changed. Ah, well. At some point you have to let it go.
The web site for Krill Press is still under construction, but it’s at www.krillpress.com.
Writing and publishing today is a Medusa’s head. A sense of humor is essential, so I’ll sign off with a chuckle for the week. This is an item from Leah Garchik’s column in the San Francisco Chronicle online, Nov. 13:
(Quote)
Mary Patrick Kavanaugh, who says she spent seven years “writing, editing, revising and even refinancing her house twice to underwrite the costs of this dream,” has declared her novel officially dead and is throwing a funeral to mark that reclassification. The service and party will be Dec. 6 at the Chapel of the Chimes, and she says the event will be open coffin so that guests can dispose of “remnants of their own dead dreams to bury with the author's dashed hopes.”
Kavanaugh will sell self-published copies of her novel in the lobby to help pay for the refreshments. “Pity purchases are welcome and encouraged.” She invites guests who can’t show up in person to watch via Webcast at mydreamisdeadbutimnot.com.
(End Quote)
What a great marketing line to steal: Pity purchases are welcome and encouraged!
Whew.
My reissued book is ready to launch. An E-mail from the publisher says he got the final proof copy today, and it is “gawjus.” Looks like I’ll have books for a group signing at the local library Dec. 4.
It’s been a hell-bent-for-leather project, but one of the nice things about a small, startup press is that it can turn on a dime, and Krill Press has done that a couple of times. ABSINTHE OF MALICE will be listed in Books in Print next week. It takes a little longer to get it up and running at Amazon and other online bookstores. Soon to come – Kindle.
I read once about an artist who was never entirely satisfied with his paintings. He went around to museums and art galleries, touching up his work when nobody was looking. I can identify.
Re-doing my book was a chore, but I got rid of a lot of ellipses and dialogue tags. I completely rewrote a couple of scenes, at the publisher’s request. It’s the same book, but it’s a better book. Yet even as I signed off on the manuscript I saw a couple of small things that should have been changed. Ah, well. At some point you have to let it go.
The web site for Krill Press is still under construction, but it’s at www.krillpress.com.
Writing and publishing today is a Medusa’s head. A sense of humor is essential, so I’ll sign off with a chuckle for the week. This is an item from Leah Garchik’s column in the San Francisco Chronicle online, Nov. 13:
(Quote)
Mary Patrick Kavanaugh, who says she spent seven years “writing, editing, revising and even refinancing her house twice to underwrite the costs of this dream,” has declared her novel officially dead and is throwing a funeral to mark that reclassification. The service and party will be Dec. 6 at the Chapel of the Chimes, and she says the event will be open coffin so that guests can dispose of “remnants of their own dead dreams to bury with the author's dashed hopes.”
Kavanaugh will sell self-published copies of her novel in the lobby to help pay for the refreshments. “Pity purchases are welcome and encouraged.” She invites guests who can’t show up in person to watch via Webcast at mydreamisdeadbutimnot.com.
(End Quote)
What a great marketing line to steal: Pity purchases are welcome and encouraged!
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
A Date In Iraq
By Mark W. Danielson
Monday, I had the pleasure of riding from La Guardia to Newark during rush hour traffic. While that may sound like an oxymoron, it truly was a pleasure, thanks to my Iraqi driver. He has resided in the United States for twenty-three years, and before that, lived in Russia and Sweden. Among the many topics we discussed, the most enlightening concerned dates—as in the fruit.
Not so very long ago, Iraq raised 350 varieties of dates. Compare that to the four or so you find in the United States and it gives you some idea. My driver said they fed their cattle the type of dates they sell here, which is believable, considering our date trees came from Iraq. But while Iraq may have raised the tastiest dates on earth, the dates are only part of the story. You see, the shade from these date trees provided idea conditions for other fruits to grow; fruits found nowhere else on earth, such as a hybrid orange/lemon/lime that was used for juice and seasoning, and ultra-sweet, finger-sized grapes. These revelations didn’t surprise me, though. Contrary to what many may think, Iraq’s land is quite fertile. Combine good soil with plentiful water from the Tigris River and filtered sunlight from the date trees and you have miracles from the earth. Also remember that these modern marvels evolved over thousands of years of cultivating.
Whenever I fly over Iraq, I’m always amazed at how “normal” everything appears. Its lush fields and clear air give no clues to the troubles that lie below. I fly within forty miles of Baghdad on my route from Paris to Dubai and have yet to see more than a few military aircraft and an occasional burning oil field. But my view from thirty-five thousand feet hides one of Iraq’s greatest losses—the destruction of its ancient date trees. When these trees were burned from conflict, so went the other succulent fruits.
I pray that this war will soon end and that one day these wonderful date trees will thrive once more. And when this happens, I hope Iraq will share their luscious bounty with the rest of the world.
Not so very long ago, Iraq raised 350 varieties of dates. Compare that to the four or so you find in the United States and it gives you some idea. My driver said they fed their cattle the type of dates they sell here, which is believable, considering our date trees came from Iraq. But while Iraq may have raised the tastiest dates on earth, the dates are only part of the story. You see, the shade from these date trees provided idea conditions for other fruits to grow; fruits found nowhere else on earth, such as a hybrid orange/lemon/lime that was used for juice and seasoning, and ultra-sweet, finger-sized grapes. These revelations didn’t surprise me, though. Contrary to what many may think, Iraq’s land is quite fertile. Combine good soil with plentiful water from the Tigris River and filtered sunlight from the date trees and you have miracles from the earth. Also remember that these modern marvels evolved over thousands of years of cultivating.
Whenever I fly over Iraq, I’m always amazed at how “normal” everything appears. Its lush fields and clear air give no clues to the troubles that lie below. I fly within forty miles of Baghdad on my route from Paris to Dubai and have yet to see more than a few military aircraft and an occasional burning oil field. But my view from thirty-five thousand feet hides one of Iraq’s greatest losses—the destruction of its ancient date trees. When these trees were burned from conflict, so went the other succulent fruits.
I pray that this war will soon end and that one day these wonderful date trees will thrive once more. And when this happens, I hope Iraq will share their luscious bounty with the rest of the world.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
By Chester Campbell
Some of my colleagues here have been expounding on hot topics of the day, like elections and gun control. But nothing is hotter these days than the economy. Unfortunately, the guys in Washington and on Wall Street don’t seem to get it that our problem is we’ve been addicted to debt for far too long. They want to add more. The question for writers is what’s the fallout going to be for us?
I’ve been following a financial advisor who paints a scary picture of what lies ahead. He says American consumers have the right idea about the problem. They want to get rid of debt, curtail spending, and save more. But when they do, our leaders in Washington scream:
“No! Don’t do that! Borrow and spend more so we can keep the economy going.”
He says most investors realize the error in their ways. They got involved in risky stocks and new-fangled securities, and their response is to head for safety. But Wall Street’s reply is:
“No! Don’t do that! Stay invested, support the market, so we can keep the party going.”
He says bankers are getting the same push from government authorities, who say:
“Sure, you want to stop making loans that look risky. That’s being prudent. But now you need to create more cheap mortgages for high-risk homeowners, keep those credit cards rolling out, and make cheap commercial loans to whoever asks.”
So far, the U.S. Treasury and Federal Reserve have loaned, invested or committed nearly $2.7 trillion to bail out our troubled financial system. But that’s a drop in the bucket compared to the $51 trillion of outstanding interest-bearing debts in the U.S., or the estimated $596 trillion in worldwide derivatives (no one knows how much because there’s no one minding that store).
This financial analyst points out the Treasury has announced plans to borrow a record $550 billion in the fourth quarter, but Goldman Sachs estimates it will soon need to borrow $2 trillion to finance the deficit, fund purchases of bank assets and roll over $561 billion in maturing securities.
The government can’t print money fast enough to get out of this mess. If it tried, investors and lenders, fearing currency debasement, would dump bonds and loans on the market, pushing their value down, making Uncle Sam need to borrow more.
He says the government will ultimately have to wave the white flag and admit it cannot prevent the unpreventable. The scary part is that so far he has been right about what will happen. He called the housing collapse ahead of time and the subprime loan debacle. His position is that we should let unsound businesses fail and provide funds for promising new companies to grow and hire workers and get the economy moving again. In the end, he contends, America should come out better than ever.
So where does that leave the market for mysteries? He makes no predictions on that, but I think the conventional wisdom is that in perilous times, people want to escape reality by reading fiction in which the world is set right in the end. That’s where mystery writers come in.
We have a corner on that market.
Some of my colleagues here have been expounding on hot topics of the day, like elections and gun control. But nothing is hotter these days than the economy. Unfortunately, the guys in Washington and on Wall Street don’t seem to get it that our problem is we’ve been addicted to debt for far too long. They want to add more. The question for writers is what’s the fallout going to be for us?
I’ve been following a financial advisor who paints a scary picture of what lies ahead. He says American consumers have the right idea about the problem. They want to get rid of debt, curtail spending, and save more. But when they do, our leaders in Washington scream:
“No! Don’t do that! Borrow and spend more so we can keep the economy going.”
He says most investors realize the error in their ways. They got involved in risky stocks and new-fangled securities, and their response is to head for safety. But Wall Street’s reply is:
“No! Don’t do that! Stay invested, support the market, so we can keep the party going.”
He says bankers are getting the same push from government authorities, who say:
“Sure, you want to stop making loans that look risky. That’s being prudent. But now you need to create more cheap mortgages for high-risk homeowners, keep those credit cards rolling out, and make cheap commercial loans to whoever asks.”
So far, the U.S. Treasury and Federal Reserve have loaned, invested or committed nearly $2.7 trillion to bail out our troubled financial system. But that’s a drop in the bucket compared to the $51 trillion of outstanding interest-bearing debts in the U.S., or the estimated $596 trillion in worldwide derivatives (no one knows how much because there’s no one minding that store).
This financial analyst points out the Treasury has announced plans to borrow a record $550 billion in the fourth quarter, but Goldman Sachs estimates it will soon need to borrow $2 trillion to finance the deficit, fund purchases of bank assets and roll over $561 billion in maturing securities.
The government can’t print money fast enough to get out of this mess. If it tried, investors and lenders, fearing currency debasement, would dump bonds and loans on the market, pushing their value down, making Uncle Sam need to borrow more.
He says the government will ultimately have to wave the white flag and admit it cannot prevent the unpreventable. The scary part is that so far he has been right about what will happen. He called the housing collapse ahead of time and the subprime loan debacle. His position is that we should let unsound businesses fail and provide funds for promising new companies to grow and hire workers and get the economy moving again. In the end, he contends, America should come out better than ever.
So where does that leave the market for mysteries? He makes no predictions on that, but I think the conventional wisdom is that in perilous times, people want to escape reality by reading fiction in which the world is set right in the end. That’s where mystery writers come in.
We have a corner on that market.
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