So is this, finally, the death of the book? If so, it may be a death that heralds a rebirth of reading – most people will be tempted at least to dip into those 100 free classics. It’s more likely, though, that these devices will mean a substantial shift in the way books are published. Conventional publishers of treeware will be under pressure to create every title in e-book format at the same time as on paper; they’d be crazy not to. Soon the e-book market may overtake the other. And in that case, who really needs the publisher?

Writer’s agents are the principal quality-filter these days, as well as increasingly responsible for the editing that most British publishers no longer bother with – so what is to stop writers and their agents doing deals directly with (say) Sony/Waterstone’s? And if a few libraries and Luddites and the author’s mum want a paper version, that can be easily arranged in small-run special editions.

Treeware!

Previously here:

eBooks And Pricing
Books 1.0: Where The Money Goes

Unthaw: You can't unthaw something. Well, you could, but there's a better word for it: freeze.

Irregardless: Do you really need this one explained? It isn't even a word.

Nauseous: You probably mean nauseated, unless you're barfing in front of other people.

Lay: You can't lay down. You can lay something down. But you can't, yourself, lay down. You lie down.

Ironic: Most people are better off just not even trying to use this word.

Pristine: It doesn't mean 'clean'. It means 'in its original state.' There are parts of the Amazon that are filthy, muddy shitholes filled with bugs and snakes, and they are pristine.

Enormity: When someone says 'You're failing to grasp the enormity of the situation,' he's not saying something is really huge. He's saying it's really evil and terrible. The holocaust was an enormity. 9/11 was an enormity. An expensive wedding is not an enormity. Well, maybe not at the time, but just you wait.

Nation: You probably use 'nation' and 'country' interchangeably. But you shouldn't. A country is a geopolitical entity. A nation is its people. "We the people of this great nation" doesn't mean "we who live on this particular section of land." it means "we who are linked by citizenship."

Check my links down there to the right for a good general usage page I always find helpful.

PetsWeekly couldn't be more proud to call her a friend and we hope you will congratulate her the next time you see her! The press release is below...

Deborah Wilson, M.D., receives prestigious award for providing sanctuary to at-risk horses, dogs, cats and others

SACRAMENTO, CA (August 18, 2008) – United Animal Nations (UAN) today issued its prestigious Animals' Choice Award to Scottsdale, Arizona gynecologist and surgeon Deborah Wilson, M.D., for her work to rescue more than 500 animals through her non-profit sanctuary.

UAN presents the Animals' Choice Award annually to an individual who advocates for animals beyond the scope of his or her profession. Dr. Wilson established Feathers Foundation and the Circle L Ranch in Prescott Valley, Arizona in 2004 to provide refuge to animals who would have potentially been neglected, euthanized or slaughtered for food. Since then, she has rescued more than 500 cats, dogs, horses, cows and other animals.

UAN Director of Programs Karen Brown commended Dr. Wilson for balancing a demanding profession with the physical and emotional challenges of operating a large and successful sanctuary for animals.

"Dr. Wilson has a rare combination of determination, intelligence and compassion, which she has dedicated wholeheartedly to helping both animals and people," said Brown. "I can't think of anyone who is more deserving of this award, especially as animals are being threatened in so many ways."

Dr. Wilson has also worked to inform women that many of the most popular hormone drugs for menopausal symptoms are made from pregnant mares' urine (PMU) and that horses used in or born as a result of this industry are often at risk for being sold to slaughter. Her 37-acre Circle L Ranch is a haven for horses from the PMU industry and is a registered organization on UAN's PMURescue.org Web site. Dr. Wilson is an outspoken opponent of horse slaughter.

"I am honored to be receiving United Animal Nation's Animal Choice Award," Dr. Wilson said. "I am proud to say that we have saved hundreds of horses from the horrors of the slaughterhouse, countless dogs and cats from euthanasia, one hundred goats from unknown fates, and a handful of chickens and cows along the way. Our two rescue ranches are wonderful, happy places for the people and animals who live there. I only wish we could save them all."

Founded in 1987, United Animal Nations is North America  's leading provider of emergency animal sheltering and disaster relief services and a key advocate for the critical needs of animals.

Anyway, moving on: So school started this week. As you may have heard, my internet card doesn't work in the basement, so I've been doing nothing but math every afternoon for the past few days. Fun, fun.

But as far as my normal classes are concerned - I've got my favorite teacher again, who is completely Professor McGonagall in an actual body. Except not quite as old.

Though now is the time where I rant about OtherDementedTeacherWhoApparentlyHatesMyGuts. (*Snicker* SpellChecker hates that one) Our face-off happened as follows:

***NOTE: IF YOU COULD CARE LESS, SKIP TO NEXT ALL-CAPS***

(OtherDementedTeacherWhoApparentlyHatesMyGuts - hereby known as ODTWAHMG or just ODT - enters classroom)

ODTWAHMG: *Mindless blabber about the importance of her subject*

(ODT hands out papers asking What Our Favorite Subject Is, What We Want Out Of This Year, and If We Are Nervouse or Woried About Something. Actual spelling)

ODT: *Informs class that she's our new guidance counselor. DreamingOfNothing tries not to gag at the very Umbridge-y performance ODT is giving*

ODT: *Proceeds to attempt to teach class, asking DreamingOfNothing five or six times if she understands what ODT's saying, while simultaneously not noticing sleeping student next to DreamingOfNothing. DreamingOfNothing represses desire to murder ODT*

ODT: Why do you ask God for things if you're worthless? DreamingOfNothing, what do you think?

DreamingOfNothing: *Repressing the urge to scream, "I'm not worthless, you jerk!," babbles something about how asking God for stuff is actually praise, because it means that said praying person trusts God to take care of him. It sounds pretty good, for being made-up-on-the-spot and intended-to-suck-up)

ODT: That's very selfish of you.

DreamingOfNothing: *Completely blown away, as ODT hasn't done this with any other student* Excuse me?

ODT: You're basically saying that because God can do anything, we can just ask for anything because, well, he's got a big wallet and we can bum off him.

DreamingOfNothing: That's not what I said.

ODT: *Moves on to next student*

DreamingOfNothing: *Wishes that she had enough guts to stand up and shout at ODT, but doesn't*

(Class finishes. ODT leaves, and DreamingOfNothing attacks her timeline in an attempt to calm down)

Finis.

***YOU CAN COME BACK NOW***

So basically, the teacher hates me and I hate her. It's all nice, cheery, and Barney-like with the mutual feelings and all. Vent done now.

And also, turns out that Ink Exchange wasn't half as good as I had thought. Besides realizing halfway through the book that it contained no plot to speak of, it also lacked climax. And throw in a major character solving his problems by dumping them on another major character, thereby giving us anything resembling a resolution - No. It gets a firm thumbs-down from me. Don't waste your time.

Melissa Marr's other book, Wicked Lovely, was brilliant, if I remember correctly. I really, really liked it. Not so with Ink Exchange. Go for Wicked Lovely instead, even though Keenan annoys me. There's an annoying character in every book.

Now, however, I've got to go:

A. Study for a test on Monday which was announced on Friday (yes, this year you'll still be treated to my going-on about work and tests);

B. Do the history research I couldn't do last week;

C. Read the new books I've just gotten from the library (Havemercy *yay* by Danielle Bennet and Jaida Jones, Identical by Ellen Hopkins, The Center of the Universe (yep, that would be me) by Anita Liberty (which has gotten rave reviews), The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie (ditto) and The Off Season by Catherine Murdock (whose prequel, Dairy Queen, was excellent. No relation to the film of similar name);

And D. Work on my HarperTeen submission. I'm at almost 2,500 words now, which is about half of the requirement. With a little more than two weeks before submission deadline, I'm starting to feel like NaNoWriMo's come early. It's a blast, even though by now I hate my character's guts.

The song I am listening to is very communist. Life for Rent, by Dido, is basically about how My Life is For Rent and I Don't Want to Buy, Because Nothing I Have Is Truly Mine. Nice tune - less popular lyrics. I'll switch to something a little less annoying. (Two songs of the day! Lucky you! *DreamingOfNothing erects sign warning you not to slip in her sarcasm*)

Though the one that just came on isn't much better. This one's about an arsonist. Sunny Came Home, by Shawn Colvin, has slightly less irritating lyrics. So that's what I'll go with for today's song.

In summary, she did jump off a cliff.

17 days. *Growl*

~DreamingOfNothing

I have had two poems published by Political Affairs under my old name (see Self-Interview post numbers 8 & 9).

Political Affairs is a journal that I read as an undergraduate; I studied political science.  I read it to learn more about Marxism in the United States.  I am not a Communist though. 

I do believe in some form of social redistribution ( as peacefully chosen by voters-no militant revolutions) so the subject of my poetry fit what they were looking for.

Do I regret it?

No.

It is just a memory in my life's journey.

I sent them out thinking they would never be chosen and they were.  I really haven't pursued publishing until recently.  I suppose the older I get--the more I want to share with the world.

When hands hold hands
Under silver and crimson skies
They remember sometimes
That summer in June
Never comes to be
And love sometimes
Doesn't put his hand in mine

When skies fail to show
The yellow gloom of hope
Hearts get heavy and sink
Because love has refused
To make me smile anew

When smiles turn into tears
Little children are denied
The joy in innocent playfulness
They grow too quickly too soon
And tragically learn to hate
That which ought to be loved

When singers stay at home
Songs freeze inside the piano
And birds cease to fly
Beyond visible skylines
They sit around all day
Thinking if only it could be
That today a song is sung

When the sun chooses to hide
Behind the grey thickness of the air
Lovers lose sadly their passion
Because finally it becomes clear
That summer in June, actually
Never has it come to be
And walks along Second Beach
Turn into theft of innocence
And beauty is lost forever in time

Summer in June:
It never comes to be

Copyright © 2008 by Fluid Thought. All Rights Reserved.

2. Proceedings of the Second International Workshop on Nude Mice by various authors

3. How to Avoid Huge Ships by John W. Trimmer

4. Oral Sadism and the Vegetarian Personality by Glenn C. Ellenbogen

5. The Book of Marmalade: Its Antecedents, Its History, and Its Role in the World Today by Anne Wilson

6. American Bottom Archaeology by Charles J. Bareis and James W. Porter

7. If You Want Closure in Your Relationship, Start with Your Legs by Big Boom

8. How to Shit in the Woods: An Environmentally Sound Approach to a Lost Art by Kathleen Meyer

9. The Stray Shopping Carts of Eastern North America: A Guide to Field Identification by Julian Montage

10. Living with Crazy Buttocks by Kaz Cooke

Selected choices from the list of current and past award winners of the Bookseller/Diagram Prize for Oddest Title of the Year.

A very strange phenomenon occurred yesterday.

I walk the dog every morning; first thing.  She isn’t a puppy anymore, so she doesn’t wake me at the crack of dawn.  Enjoying a lie-in, she waits for me to get her up.  I stretch for a few minutes, roll out, and throw on my walking clothes.  I find my glasses because it is too early to try and deal with contacts, and we head out.  We take three walks a day, and the first walk is the longest.  The park is only a block away, and we head there first.  We take the path around the outer edge; it is a small park so it doesn’t take too long to walk its circumference, so we take our time.  If there is no dew on the grass, we run a zig-zag across the middle for fun.  She has to stay on her lead, because otherwise a squirrel would distract her and I might never see her again.

Once we are in the park, my mind can drift.  I enter the land of the story I am writing.

The story I am working on right now is partially set in an urban area.  A large city urban area, so you can picture it.  That is also where I live (in real life).  It occurred to me that while I was comfortable living in my story’s urban place, it wasn’t as interesting, as excitingly different and new, as living in Iceland.

In this past week's Write on Wednesday, Becca asked, “How does place figure in your writing?”  Place figures big, and I was missing Iceland.  I was also missing Timbuktu.  Although I have never physically been to either one of these places, I have spent a great deal of time there in my manuscripts.  That means I have looked at many pictures and watched videos, I have talked with people who live there or have visited there, I have read extensively about the current place, and I have also studied its history.

The strange phenomenon I mentioned was that I had this thought early Saturday morning on my walk, before I went to Alterra Café and read Becca’s prompt.  (With a new job, a bit overwhelming, I am rather late with my fun writing.)

On my walk around the park, with wide-open space dotted with trees, I don’t have to worry about crossing streets, oncoming traffic, and other city considerations.  I can easily drop into my story-place.  So I walked around my park with the city surrounding the fringes, and in my story world, I didn’t go anywhere new.  It occurred to me how lucky I am to have an imagination.  How lucky I am to be able to allow my mind to live in a fantasy world when I choose, and I don’t even have to drink any laudanum to go there!

When my hard drive crashed, I lost the computer copy of “Iceland.”  Fortunately, I have a copy in print that I can just retype when I get time.  I also lost the computer copy of “Timbuktu” and there is no printed copy.  It is gone.  I could spend a large amount of money to have a super-geek retrieve it for me, but I haven’t quite justified that for myself, with all of the other monetary needs in the life of my family.

Certainly, I could read another's story about Timbuktu, but it wouldn’t be “my place.”   In Bridges of Sighs,  Richard Russo said, “The loss of a place isn’t really so different from the loss of a person.  Both disappear without permission, leaving the self diminished, in need of testimony and evidence.”  I understood; I have that hollow, empty spot I drop into when I think about that place, that Timbuktu.  My Timbuktu.  The saving grace is that I can rebuild it.... when I have time.

For now I will make do with the place of my current work in progress.  And I will also be thinking about where the next story should take place.  Bali might be a nice place to visit....

"Let me explain how an open reading works," Nadia said, sitting down at the table. "Since Ilona and I are your friends and we are aware of recent circumstances affecting your life, we'll stop and talk about the cards as they turn up. Whenever you feel like talking, or if Ilona wants to add something, we'll stop for a few minutes and talk."

"You can do that?" Meggie said. "That would be great."

They are different from all the poems on this site. 

I'm not sure if they will stand well on their own.  In the meantime, I am still searching for possible publications.

They would best be suited for places like Slate.com and maybe The New Yorker (given their subject matter), but I have a low chance of publication with either.

Still deciding....

I thought about an editor  today that I was kind of rude to several weeks ago .  I sent an apology.

I am not going to submit anything to that publication, but I just felt like apologizing for being arrogant--something I do quite well at times.

Good luck with your writing and publishing goals.

It’s always quiet, you always expect someone to start crying, but there’s nothing. You’re left in a creeping darkness with only the sound of your labored breath in your ear. A steady chill shivers through your veins, numbing your touch.

Once the smog thickens there’s nothing but an endless walk through shadow. You can feel nothing but the cold and hear nothing but your heart pounding in your hollow chest. There’s a stairway in the dark, you feel a railing under your hand. It’s warm and soft, your fingers slide their way across it touching the mournful faces that make the rail.

But the rail is your only bastion of warmth, and the only guide you have. So you clutch it, barely feeling when your fingers pop an eye or dip into a mouth to rattle teeth. The faces make no sound as you claw and poke them; they are as numb as you.

You walk the stair, deeper and deeper. Nothing changes. You walk forever. Hell is nothing, and the stairway leads you forever farther into the abyss. You cling to the hope that there is an end. But there is only the cold darkness, and the solemn beat of your heart.

            In a long essay on politics Robert Frost said, "It should be of the pleasure of a poem itself to tell how it can.  The figure a poem makes.  It begins in delight and ends in wisdom.  The figure is the same as for love.  No one can really hold that the ecstasy should be static and stand still in one place.  It begins in delight, it inclines to the impulse, it assumes direction with the first line laid down, it runs a course of lucky events, and ends in a clarification of life--not necessarily a great clarification, such as sects and cults are founded on, but in a momentary stay against confusion.  It has denouement.  It has an outcome that though unforseen was predestined from the first image of the original mood--and indeed from the very mood.  It is but a trick poem and no poem at all if the best of it was thought of first and saved for the last.  It finds its own name as it goes and discovers the best waiting for it in some final phrase at once wise and sad--the happy-sad blend of the drinking song.  No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader.  No surprise for the writer, no surprise for the reader.  For me the initial delight is in the surprise of remembering something I didn't know I knew."  

            Frost goes on to describe taking things out of their original context and placing them in a new order with not even a ligature clinging to it of the old place where it originated.  Then listen to what he says.  "Like a piece of ice on a hot stove the poem must ride on its own melting.  A poem may be worked over once it is in being, but may not be worried into being.  Its most precious quality will remain its having run itself and carried away the poet with it.  Read it a hundred times: it will forever keep its freshness as a metal keeps its fragrance.  It can never lose its sense of a meaning that once unfolded by surprise as it went."  

            Often I'll skim articles in writer's magazines with formulas for first sentences.  I think we have to assume your readers are more intelligent than that.  Whenever I read a vital piece of writing, I feel the truth of what Frost said, that the outcome though unforseen is intrinsic in the first image of the original mood.  I'm also reminded of an observation by Rod Jellema, a friend of mine who was the head of the Creative Writing Department at the University of Maryland.  He said you can take the first draft of any poem and improve it 80% by lopping off the first and last stanzas.  His reasoning was that with the first stanza we are struggling to get the creative juices flowing; by the end of the poem we are so enamored with what we are doing that we don't want to stop--and we don't.  We hit the reader over the head with the point we have already satisfactorily made.  Of course, in the case of this poem by William Stafford, if he took away the first and last stanzas he wouldn't have been left with much.  But, what do we agonize over most when writing a piece?  The first sentence, the first paragraph, the first scene.  Jump in, don't worry about it; assume you'll throw this part out when you revise, anyway. 

            Just as prose uses sequences of scenes, so modern poetry employs sequences of images--often with extreme alterations of perspective, time, and sequence.  Here's a little exercise you can  do with a group friends or with your children.  It's called a foldover poem.  One person writes an image on a piece of paper in two lines then folds the paper back so the next person can only read the last line.  That suggests an image which the second person writes, in two lines below the ones he or she was given.  The second person now folds the paper so only the last line is shown and passes it to a third party or back to the originator to continue on.  At the end of the page, read it aloud.  Then let each use some or all of the images for a second rewrite.  It's a great exercise because it follows the creative process.  Here's an example.  The first person wrote:

            She runs through the marble lobby

            to grasp her mother's arm

The paper was then folded so only the "to grasp her mother's arm" part showed.  The next person added this couplet:

            The older woman holds her shoulders back

            and keeps moving, head held high

A third, with a inclination to rhyme, adds:

            No one likes a loser, she sighs

            Why am I here, where can I hide?

This continues:

            She looks at a clock on the hotel wall

            in shadows, cast by the last light of day 

And so on.  Not poetry perhaps but fun to do in a car on a trip.  As is storyboarding with your children when they come up with their own ideas.  And these games reinforce natural abilities we all have, but are in danger of losing if we don't use them.  

            Images are pictures we experience through our senses, not intellectual labels or concepts.           Here's a tip to make visuals memorable based on the results of an experiment.  Person A seated in a room is asked to glance around and then, without taking his eyes off his paper, list as many descriptive details as he can.  Person B is asked to walk around the room once, then list descriptive details on her paper.  The walking person averages 80% more than her sedentary partner.  So to create a more vivid scene have your characters (and readers) move through the setting rather than observe it from a static position.

            The following is a poem I wrote that grew out of a fold-over exercise.  One image still leads to the other.    Notice how I conclude by simply going back to the original setting.

            Old Man In The Airport

            The nurse gliding his wheel chair smells of laurel.

            She bathed him early this morning, his eyes

            are still clenched like knots in darkness.

            As a boy he cleaned horse stalls before sunrise,

            bent under the fence hauling two pails of feed.

            The bay nudged the back of his neck.  The dapple

            chewed with a nod, like an old man.  Now he too

            longs to fling back and gallop into the morning.

            The nurse smiles.

Oh, by all accounts and every measure that could reasonably be applied, everything worked precisely as the development team intended. No one above the special team level had as yet authorised human testing, and so the staff wiled away their time by testing, re-testing, occasional changes, cleaning exercises and repeat anew.

The real truth was that anything close to absolute power carried with it the option of convenience: there really was no one standing in the way of those holding power; if they felt any given person was a threat, there were quicker and more final ways to deal with that person.

This experimental equipment was tasked to work on a sub-cellular level, targeting and eviscerating individual genes within each chromosome, changing their function in programmed ways. And it would do this simultaneously to all cells within a body if so programmed.

When the system was used on a living being, the limitless permutations on output inherent in the equipment could be programmed to produce unimaginable and excruciating pain, rearranging the functioning within a cell to produce a slow and agonising death. It was theoretically possible to have each nerve ending in a body signal intense pain to the dutifully gathering and processing brain.

This insidious equipment was the ‘brain child’ of Dr. G’skhar Wrehsx, a self proclaimed brilliant molecular biologist who also happened to be psychopathic. Anyone who came close enough to the doctor to decipher his mental pathology and who showed signs of awareness in this regard faced a marked decrease in life expectancy - this doctor could and did kill.

Vreloran was not aware of Dr. Wrehsx’ mental instability; he was much too concerned with his own personal survival and the welfare of his family. If told to do, Vreloran followed the instruction, so long as he was otherwise employed and left alone he would do what was asked of him or so that was the prevailing opinion of the doctor and his closest associates.

There were a few other staffers – there were 20 on the team in all – who suspected or even knew the truth, but as with Vreloran, they were out to advance or protect their own self interests, and so they dutifully followed instructions and carried out work as instructed.

The system had been fully functional for a full year; behind the scenes, Dr Wrehsx begged the Minister of Internal Security for test subjects. The doctor was not fussy, anyone given over to him would do. He wished to see how the hideous creation of his warped mind could play god and rearrange a human being while causing limitless pain and destruction of their mental capacity. Programmed death finally ended the process, but the death element was not out of some mercy for the victim; it was for autopsy purposes, to study the results.

On this day, the doctor was once again begging the MIS for a live victim. “It is essential that we test the efficacy of the equipment on a human, or else when we truly must carry out orders to process someone, we will have no idea if we can in fact deliver the intended results.

While the Minister supported this programme, he also found it a very unpleasant subject. He had seen the test reports on animals, and the first had caused him to empty his stomach into a restroom toilet; he barely made it in there in time.

“Patience, doctor” The Minister coached, his job continued to be placate the doctor, keeping him interested and productive but in his place. “We will have a suitable subject for you before too long, and in fact, I have some idea as to who this person will be. When the time comes, you will be expected to follow our instructions to the letter, without question, and immediately.”

The doctor smiled at the thought of proving the theory and seeing to the practical application of his equipment. “Yes, I fully understand. It is my honour to serve Brellian and all he intends to accomplish!”

After the doctor left, presumably now thrilled at the prospect of some live being to torture, the Minister turned his thoughts toward the victim. On one level he greatly admired her courage and her ability, on the other he well recognised all he and Brellian believed in and were working toward could be jeopardised if she were allowed to continue agitating for change.

The Minister was unsure when they would act - it might be years - but the time would come when the fearless musician would learn a final lesson about challenging Arrhazonan institutionalised patriarchy.

“The four bachelorettes from 'Sex and the City' live a life of shopping and glamour. But does it mirror reality for most single women?” the article started. The body of text in itself wasn't half as bad as the intro suggested, thank the questionable lord, but nevertheless.

Is this what we call journalism these days? Is this the angle the writer wanted? Is this what the readers desire?

We have seen it since the dawn of online newspapers and magazines; short, snappy articles produced at mass speed. A +500 word item is barely worth 9 dollars these days, if you go freelance. Research is lacking, interesting angles are pushed aside for the blatantly obvious and sentence structure takes a back seat to efficiency, efficiency, efficiency.

It's not all bad, of course. The amazing quantity also amounts to quality now and again. It's bound to happen from a pure mathematical point of view. Though I wonder what emotions arise in educated journalists stuck writing five thousand words of mindless blather a day.

Not that I am one to speak up, having just finished an article on where to find your next sex partner or something useless like that. Talk about feeling utterly redundant.

Oh well. As most idealists have to realise at some point or the other: The People are simple. The People want predictable, easy reads about their every day life. The Individual, however, is far more daring and exciting. Unfortunately, the People outnumber The Individual somehow. Mediocre sells.

-Rhys Alexander

http://www.theromancereadersconnection.com/aotm/authorofthemonth_ranneykaren_sep08.html

This is one of those frequent examples where a film is so drastically different from the book that they are virtually two very separate entities. But what is unusual is, I've enjoyed them both.

Then She Found Me, published in 1990, is written by award winning New England author Elinor Lipman. Helen Hunt, together with Alice Arlen and Victor Levin, wrote the screenplay and turned it into a movie. I can understand why those who have read the book first before seeing the movie are flabbergasted. The only commonality between the book and the film, other than the title, may just well be the two main characters, the quiet and rational high school Latin teacher April Epner and her birth mother Bernice Graverman, the ostentatious TV talk show host who wants to claim back the daughter she had given up for adoption more than 30 years ago. There are almost no traces of the original story in the movie.

The amusing character contrast in the book is a springboard for some creative channelling for Hunt and her screenwriter team, kudos to Lipman's original conception of the story idea. Despite its digression from the book, the movie still works and entertains. What more, it has preserved the spirit of the book and has brought to the screen the basic issues the book touches on, the major one being the meaning of motherhood, and the inevitable debate over the value of the birth versus the adoptive mother. For my detailed review of the movie, click here.

The She Found Me is my introduction to Elinor Lipman, the acclaimed author of eight books of fiction and short stories. The book is almost script ready, for it is predominantly dialogues, witty, intelligent, and incisive dialogues. Lipman's sensitivity and subtle humor effectively bring out the nuances of her characters and their relationships, at times sarcastic, at times genuine, at times poignant.

36 year-old April Epner is a high school Latin teacher, quiet, rational, academic, and single. Her long-sleeved cotton jersey and drop-waist Indian cotton jumper persona hides a kind and genuine soul. The only parents she has known all her life are her adoptive Jewish parents Trude and Julius Epner, Holocaust survivors, who have lovingly brought her up and given her a Radcliffe education. After they have passed away and as she stands in the crossroads of her life, the last thing April needs is to be found by a brassy and impulsive talk show host Bernice Graverman, who claims to be her birth mother. Conscientious April has to match wit with evasive Bernice, with the help of her school librarian Dwight, who happens to be much more than just a supplier of encyclopedic information. Without giving out spoilers, let me just say the story unfolds with sprightly twists and turns, effectively driven by Lipman's first-rate, incisive and entertaining dialogues.

Those who have seen the movie but have not read the book should move right along to savor the source material. In here you'll find the intended closure to the seemingly unsolvable conflict and ambivalence. I can see this as a good choice for book/movie discussion in reading groups and book clubs.

As I was reading, I thought I saw Jane Austen cameo. What Lipman has created here is something close to what Austen would have written today: a contemporary comedy of manners, a likable heroine reminiscence of Anne Elliot, an anti-Darcy male character, albeit with similar height and social ineptness, and through the characters and their situations, dares to explore some serious social issues that are masked by very funny, sharp and witty lines. The result is a tasty concoction of humor and heart.

And lo and behold, guess whose portrait I see when I open up Elinor Lipman's website ?

Then She Found Me by Elinor Lipman is published by Washington Square Press, 1990, 307 pages.

~ ~ ~ Ripples

I'm a muslim. There I said it. I.Am.A.Muslim. Now what?

Believe it or not, that one single sentence, which seems so simple, is, as you may have guessed, very complex. It generates and triggers the most varied emotions from people, forcing them to drop their masks and come out with what they truley feel.

Everyone has an opinion about Muslims. Stop denying it, you know its true. Even you have an opinion. Who Muslims are, what they are, how they act, how they should act, how they live, why they live. And the true reality is that no-one, not even Muslims themselves, have a clear and defined answer on what it means to be a Muslim.

The stereotypical image of a Muslim is some dude believing in some God called Allah, following guidance from a guy called Muhammed, bowing down 5 times a day, not having any fun, hating on women, hating on Jews, Christians and everyone who even dares to question Islam. Okay, let me confess. Its true. No seriously, there are a handful of Muslims who fit that image. A handful. Out of 1.3 billion.

"Bullshit", I hear you say, "What about all of them all that shit I hear on CNN? 9/11? London bombings?"

And you are right. Name one attack, and I can almost, with my eyes closed, guess it had something to do with a Muslim. Either the guy commiting it or the guy dying is a Muslim. But I will get to that in one of my later posts. I promise.

But first I think it needs to be cleared on the most basic things that are actually overlooked. What does it mean to be a Muslim?

All in all, short in short, it means someone who believe in Allah and believes that Muhammed is the messenger of Allah. But being a Muslim is not restricted to that sentence. Being a Muslim digs deeper into the soul. It forces you to question yourself. Being a Muslim means, first of all, being a good human. No shit. No crap. Its the truth. One of the basic meanings of being a good Muslim is being a good human. You cannot be a good Muslim, without being a good human being.

Put CNN, BBC and Fox News (dear lord..) aside. Clear everything you know about Muslims already from your mind for just a few minutes and read on. That's all I ask.

A Muslim is someone who loves himself. Loves his being, loves his soul, loves his appearance and loves his body. Someone who takes care of himself, because in the Quran, the holy scripture for Muslims, it is forbidden for Muslims to harm their bodies. Muhammed said that a Muslim should always be clean, and purity in Islam is considered a virtue. A Muslim is someone who appreciates his presence on Earth and someone who keeps his diet right so his body dosnt suffer.

At the same time a Muslim must be humble. A Muslim must realize that hey, yeah I'm important, but I'm no better than the guy across the street. In Islam, all men and women are as equal as the teeth of a comb. Race, ethinicity, gender (depite many disputes), blood does not make one human superior than the other. Hence, slavery is forbidden. No human can own a human, and all humans are entitled to emotions. A good Muslim must realize that he is not alone on this fucking planet. A Muslim, a good one, will reach out to the poor, because that is an order from the Big Guy Upstairs. Giving to the poor is not only a virtue, it one of the 5 pillars of Islam. You thought about showing off your brand new Audi R8? Sure, go ahead, there is no sin, because in Islam, your lifestyle should reflect who you truley are. But driving that Audi R8 through a ghetto where people can hardly make ends meet? Not very good.

A good Muslim never harms the people, the places and the animals around him. Killing is forbidden, abuse of animals is forbidden and destruction of places is forbidden.

A good Muslim will be hungry for knowledge. For wisdom. The Quran states that Muslims should go out and discover the world. Thus, all this "no education for women" and all other factors which restrict education is all bullcrap. Go out and learn. Go out and discover. Go out and grow. Thats what a good Muslim does. A good Muslim respects laws of the different countries he lives in, respects the people he meets and greets, but a good Muslim also demands to be respected. Speaking with respect and with no swear words is a something all Muslims must do, or in my case, learn to do. 

If a Muslim wants to be a good Muslim, then he should always be on the side of truth, promote truth, speak truth. Sadly, even though this is stated in the Quran, not many follow this crucial advice.

I want to keep on, but a good Muslim also takes othe people's feelings into consideration. So I take yours. You're probably busy, tired, or something else so I will end this blog now. But only for now (new post soon)

I don't know if anyone is reading this, or if they ever will. I don't know if they will like it, hate it, or feel something completely different. But I know, that as a good Muslim, its my duty to inform people about Islam. About what Islam is about. So a few random posts here and there will be around and about that subject :)

So, my fellow bloggers, I say goodbye from here (and I am BUMMED that Rafel Nadal lost the US Open semi to Murray. Argh!) and I hope you got something out from this post.

See y'all around,

Mamashaal

This is what Jilla taught me!

She said, "Always look for the one percent of light even in the worst PERPETRATOR, because it is THERE!" -- it is THERE! And so I have used the Yin and Yang symbol to the left to show you this. See how even in the most "Light" side --there is a black dot? -- imagine that as an "EGG" who is really a good person -- but in a certain circumstance, might steal something from someone -- to feed a hungry child! -- Everyone has that black dot inside them! They do!

On the dark side of the symbol above, imagine an "EGG" that has been so broken, so abused, so hurt, so mistreated that there is only bleakness and despair inside. See that WHITE DOT? That DOT OF LIGHT is inside of EVERYONE! EVERYONE ON THIS PLANET! --- the CURE begins with finding that dot, and, loving it. The theraputic cure begins like that. So, do you recall my experience in that REHAB we were talking about?

You can think of those MEN's SOULS like the dark side of the symbol above. THEY HAVE BEEN HURT SO BADLY, and NEVER HAD any GOOD given to them in their lives. They may have had childhoods most of us cannot even imagine. We could not imagine a world that BAD, because we had lucky lives and GOOD ENOUGH MOTHERS! It's as simple as that! -- the work in THERAPY is about "re-parenting" the person! Using a holistic and Object Relations model. It works every time! Because it starts with LOVE. LOVE rebuilds the DAMAGE done to any SOUL. What happens, is that, that little dot of white starts to EXPAND!

Now, the memories of the BAD THINGS are never really going to go AWAY -- BUT! The NEW MOTHERING is going to PATCH UP all the holes in the SWISS CHEESE we talked about. Remember, how we used a piece of swiss cheese to show an example of a baby? And some babies were coming out riddled with holes just like in that cheese? Well, a THERAPIST's JOB is to help the client start filling up all those empty holes.

That's what we do. That's the whole MYSTERY. So, you don't ever have to be afraid of THERAPISTS, anymore.

Somebody behind the scenes around here asked the question "I think I might be a narcissist how can I get help" -- well, the way that you find a THERAPIST for yourself is by asking people for a referral. Maybe a friend of yours had a good experience with one, and they can tell you about a special person.

Another way, is to try seeing a few different people, yourself. Maybe you will like one of them the BEST! -- that is what we call "A GOOD FIT" -- and, that is the most important THING! That YOU feel comfortable with the PERSON you pick! -- THERAPISTS have RULES they follow. It's an ETHICAL CODE. ANYBODY who isn't following that code is not going to be good for YOU, so here is place where you can learn about stuff over at GOOD THERAPY.ORG. You can read articles there, and you can also read the ETHICAL CODES! For yourself!

No matter what has happened in a person's life story -- each SOUL on this PLANET has that white DOT inside it! NEVER FORGET THAT!

Our lives are made up by a series of experiences and all the different people we meet along the way. So, even if a child didn't get "Good Enough Mothering" at home, maybe one of their friend's mothers or a really good teacher filled in for some of that, along the way! PEOPLE ARE RESILIENT! People can survive the most terrible things in the world, things most of us cannot even imagine, and that LITTLE WHITE DOT is their RESILIENCE!

I have this really great writer friend named Bud White who survived something so awful, and his SOUL IS SO STRONG, he is like a HERO to me. So is JOHN McCAIN! -- remember that EGO STRENGTH we were talking about a few pages back? THESE TWO have so much of that, they are like these HUGE ELEPHANTS! That strong! This friend of mine had this really beautiful film up, and I want to play it for you, over here at my place! Because, I want you to think about that white dot as having an elephant's heart inside it -- something that big, and that strong, and that good inside of you. You know what is in that WHITE DOT?

YOUR HEART!

At the end of this movie, you are going to see THAT WHITE DOT!

This is one of the BEST, MOST FANTASTIC books I ever read! About Childhood! The best man wrote it, and it will explain things in such a simple and beautiful way about what can go right and wrong...

One thing that is of very great concern to me right now is the amount of pills people are taking that they might not really have needed in the first place. At my third and longest placement as a therapist intern had a psychiatrist as our Clinical Supervisor. She told us a story about a two year old that she was putting on {PROZ-AC.} I had a hard time believing that myself, but?

I didn't like that.

Because I feel that person-to-person treatment is the cure! If a person is ingesting a substance they aren't going to be in touch with their feeling and sensate sides. In fact, they will be NUMB in those areas. So, I want you to think now, about the SELF as an "EGG" like we talked about for a minute. If you took away the feeling and sensate parts of the EGG, you would be taking out the YOLK! -- the yellow heart of the egg! -- in other words the SOUL of the EGG! -- because its HEART and its FEELINGS wouldn't be there!

One time I heard the man that wrote this book speak, and he was so great. This is one of the best BOOKS on this subject. The man Kipnis that wrote it had a theory about BOYS being given medications on purpose so that they could FIT in the classroom and not cause disturbances. Well, if you are a therapist like me -- you know "BOYS WILL BE BOYS" -- and they should be! They have a TON of ENERGY to BURN OFF and usually this is done in SPORTS! Or getting in fights, or? Maybe they are going to be like Huckleberry Finn!

One of the best things I like about John McCain is his ETHICAL STANCE about things, because it is just like mine! Plus, we both went to school in a time when the only pill a person took was an aspirin! It wan't that long ago, actually...

I'll be talking more about Kipnis tommorrow-- but this article, that I haven't even had time to read all the way deeply troubles me this morning.  I got it from the Los Angeles Times.  I want to know about the PORKinPHARMA because, I think it's really important to see which people are involved with getting money behind the scenes for promoting things like the psychiatrist above.  I want to know if a montster has been created in an UNETHICAL WAY that perhaps was unintentional?  For profit at the EXPENSE OF ALL THOSE LITTLE YOLKS.  If so, MY MAN McCAIN will be taking care of it.

Drug makers seek shield from lawsuits

He wrote/I typed about 25,000 words this week and I'm really enjoying the history lesson. There is so much that affects us today that was in its nascence in the 1400s.

One example is that woman empowerment was surging in that period. The Taborite wives were a brutal force to contend with. When Zizka and his army completed a siege, and game permission for is residents to live in town, or flee with their lives and all possessions they could carry, the Taborite wives made up their own laws and did whatever they pleased. How they exercised their unchecked freedom, was with great brutality. If families were allowed to flee the city (mostly women and children as Zizka usually let them live while doing away with the men), the Taborite women would attack them, steal their possessions and clothes, and then kill them.

At some point, a national convention was held in the spirit of peace, to unite everyone, and one of the politically intended agreements, was to keep the Taborite women in power in some way. So they were able to break free of patriarchal history and had rights and privileges not held before. They didn't stick over the centuries and womens' equality took another dive, but before the issues went back to sleep, womens' heads poked up above the sands of inequality.

That's the way of many things we take for granted today. Some developments that rushed forward in the past 100 years, appeared many centuries prior, but were just ahead of their time. It takes a certain degree of shared cultural mind share for an idea to grow in such a way that a tree of new opportunity springs forth. But if we look back a bit, we can see when some of the seeds were planted, watered, and then left buried to gestate.

Another interesting piece of history I was made aware of and found very entertaining, was the uprising of the Adamites. Inspired by the Pikhards (today spelled "Picards"), they went against the puritan religious views of the time to profess that earthly pleasures like sex are gifts from God, and should be enjoyed with gratitude. Some of today's scholars refer to them as early hippies. They were very removed from the bulk of the energetic spirit of our recent flower children. For one, they not only had their orgy sex, they were also allowed to force someone to have sex with them just because they wanted to. Man or woman could walk up to an Adamite and say, "want, give" and they were obligated by their own laws to "consent." Moreover, they were a brutal murderous bunch. Viewing themselves as in the right, superior to all, they saw no problem with pillaging homes and killing villagers to get food and supplies for themselves. They didn't earn their resources; they took them, like they did their other earthly pleasures. That wasn' the message of the hippies. They were also quite kooky in that they believed that they were so special in God's eyes (since they deemed themselves the true participants of free-love), that if they were ever attacked, the assailants would instantly go blind.

Well, when Zizka sent his captain and 400 soldiers to eradicate the Adamites, they didn't go blind, and most of the Adamites were slaughtered. Zizka did lose a lot of men however. It turns out that the Adamites were very good at fighting tactics related to using natural elements as a defense (they were on an island that time, using the water as a natural moat.)

So today's new age spirituality is not exactly new. It shows up again and again throughout history, granted with different violence-intended perversions which do not reflect our more modernized understanding. Same goes with religions. Be it Adamites, Hussites, Taborites, Christians, you name it, violence was at the heart of every belief system because the underlying belief that one must kill those of unlike beliefs was more fundamental and obeyed with greater vigor. In that time period, there was no relativity, and therefore no relative truth or tolerance. Everybody believed there was only one universal truth, God's truth, and that each one had the right understanding. When you put a bunch of canon and sword wielding armies acting on behalf together, each with a belief that their universal truth is the only truth, you get wars.

Here we are today, practicing the same nonsense, although to a smaller degree depending on what country you're looking at for comparison. Our eastern brethren are a good 500 years out of date (to be fair to all of history, I should say many millennia), as is some of our north american politicians and clergymen. ;) There's a reason we're still using war. We haven't grown up yet and we're stuck in the past.

Another interesting thing I've learned is that this was the time where short range canons and the like were beginning to be quite good at taking down castle walls. Within a hundred years or so, castle walls would become useless, and personal arms would take over. Since people couldn't be convinced by fear as much any more, because individual defense was a growing endowment, their support had to be "earned", and so the early stakes of democracy were being planted. This is huge. A government system began evolving because power began shifting from leaders of the coerced, to leaders of the respectful, based purely on the mechanism of a city's defenses.

To me it's no wonder that with a resurgence of protecting north american borders, we're having a lot of experiences that threaten democracy, along with declarations of independence (USA) or the charter of rights (Canada). We feel less individually powered, and therefore are looking up to government to build castle walls, all over again.

Oh, the art of doing-not-much, is so sweet here.... But of all the wonderfully literary and cultural things I can be getting myself into, I still have my little magazine-disease. It starts at the grocery store, or the corner "Tabac" shop. The magazines are all laid out in their little rows, with their bright titles, and they're glossy happy faces. I notice when it's a particularly "blonde" month full of blond-headed cover-girls, or whether we've moved into "brunettes". I know the entire history of the death of Jane Magazine, and before I left NYC, I had to lug 3 boxes of old magazines down to the recycling bin.

And in France - they just freakin' kill me - they offer FREE THINGS IN THE MAGAZINES!

Seriously, you don't have to send in a post-card. You don't have to collect UPC symbols. Your free gift is just sitting there in it's lovely little cellophane wrapping. And I can't escape the temptation. (Even though the magazines are in french and NO, I don't understand all of it:):)

I've already gotten a free white bag with sparkly-sequins for only 2 Euro Extra!, a free book on sexy art, and a free scarf. I've been looking desperately for the "Sante" (Health Magazine) with the free travel pillow, but I may fall prey to the new BIBA - which contains a skirt that turns into a DRESS! Dit Quoi? These french people are pretty clever. They know me too well, here.

Okay, but I HAVE now got a library card (cost me 15 freakin' euro!), and I can choose from an entire shelf of books in English. My latest was a recommendation from my new friend Claus who teaches at a German school in Paris. - "The New York Trilogy" by Paul Aster. Yes, I find it's the very best thing to contemplate on your hometown when you're living in another country.

Thanks for the recommondation Claus! This is a detective/mystery/man-ish kind of novel, that I found completely thoughtful and intriguing. My favorite quote -

"City of Glass" P94

Old man Stillman explaining why he wanders around all day collecting junk from the streets of New York and renaming them:
"...For our words no longer correspond to the world. When things were whole, we felt confident that our words could express them. But little by little these things have broken apart, shattered, collapsed into chaos. And yet, our words have remained the same...

But words, you understand, are capable of change...when you rip the cloth off the umbrella, is the umbrella still an umbrella?...Because it can no longer perform its function, the umbrella has ceased to be an umbrella...The word however has remained the same.

Therefore, it can no longer express the thing. It is imprecise; it is false; it hides the thing it is supposed to reveal. And if we cannot even name a common, everyday object that we hold in our hands, how can we expect to speak of the things that truly concern us?"

When I go to school people kill me, I think they do it

because I’m black but don’t worry for some reason

I come

back from the dead every single time’.