Friday, September 18, 2009

Glenn Beck is Unspooled!

By David Kearns

This was Friday, last. His horrific show, a montage of innuendo laced with cult-leader tactics and near slanders. He's got a tree drawn on a chalkboard.
"Look at it!"
In the bottom left hand corner, he has a picture of Che Guevara. In the center of the roots is a picture of Woodrow Wilson (Really?)
All the way to the top of the tree is a picture of Barack Obama.
"Look at it."
Glenn I am looking! What is it I am supposed to see, Glenn? Help me, Glenn, help me help me, HELP YOU! I'm here for you buddy.
He also has a giant acorn above Che's picture. A few words scribble scrabble. It's like an infomercial for the insane. Connections as lasting as the dusty chalk branches of the tree they are scrawled on. You have to wonder is FOX really doing that bad they can't afford better graphics than a chalk board?
Examples, the murderer of "Milk" ?? (I takes a moment to decifer, decryptify, that what he actually means is Harvey MILK, gay activist ) The murderer, "... snuck into a town hall through a basement window." Is he channelling an old Beatles number? "She came in through the bathroom window..."
Twinkies? He mentions twinkies here: "And do you know how the guy (Harvey Milk's murderer) got off? The twinkie defense, too much sugar from junk food. "
Okay and? Never mind, Beck is moving on to something random and unrelated. He drifts into little ditty about Kool Aid: "Another radical and communist...he was a bad dude. He went to Jonestown Guayana. ..."
Jim Jones? Where is he going with all this? We suppose his fan base, conservative grannies don't care, all the pieces are there if not in a disjointed, Picasso sort of way: Barack a black man, acorn, (prostitute-video sting!), gays, twinkies, shootings, communism! What else could a reactionary ask for other than a cauldron stew of "what's wrong with this country!"
Now he wraps it all up for the reason: boiling it down to why; the real reason Sen. Nancy Pelosi cried on television.
"If I lived through Harvey Milk, the Twinkie defense and Jonestown, I would tear up too!" yes, all the fault of them they, that them; those Milk Loving. Koolaid drinking, communist, drug taking, homosexual, hippy scumbags. Is this it Glenn, what you're trying to say, blink twice for "yes", once for "no." He looks right into the camera now, he means it hard; nearly a tear in the eye.
"Nancy, I too share your fear. Please, Dear Lord keep us safe, but there are nut jobs... "Meanders through a rambling essay that goes nowhere, here. Yes, Glenn, there are nut-jobs alright!
Across the bottom of the screen is the ticker. Stories, totally unrelated to the White House, Nancy Pelosi, or the President, scroll through. They are of course, about violent crime, drug arrests etc.. etc. An item about Trafficante, a digraced democratic name from the past; another about a "call girl."
The evil hiss of inuendo here, like backwards Latin in a film about demonic possession, and indeed, Glenn looks as though perhaps his head might do a 360 swivell any second. Glassey-eyed babbling. A bad joke about unicorns. On it rolls.
He points again to the monstrosity he has birthed on the chalk board, wildly gesturing. A mad man in the wilderness.
Oh, here comes a theory of Beck's, but, after the commercials!
(whew, a break in the madness, a commercial about some form of medicine with the calming disclaimers "consult a physician if you report feelings of suicide or pending doom" Oh yes we're there without the first dose.)
Ahhhh! We're back! A rollercoaster, I tell you. His big eyes knifing me. His mouth a froth of spittle.His guest, an expert of some sort, an ambassador named John Bolton (Nevermind, it's a blur! Consult Google later for details!), has had perhaps eight seconds of uninterrupted silence to get anything out of his mouth.
Beck has fear in his eyes, he seems to be channelling the thought to the masses, knee-jerk almost on a reflex "Do they know, I am off my rocker? Do they know? Can they tell?"
Back after this! Another break.
Promo for Beck's book Arguing With Idiots. Oh, there are idiots alright, Glenn, and they are closer than they appear! Yes, we get a mental image of one of those oceanic explorer maps from the late renaissance "here there be (idiots.)"
He's back. Paraphrases Obama administration "so....Poland Screw you!"
On it rolls, scary like train wreck, and yet you can't tear your eyes and ears away.
Exit stage nuts!

Thursday, September 17, 2009

Tommy Bahama-fication of Modern Thought

By David Kearns

What if all you ever wore, was Tommy Bahama? That particular brand, that particular style from the top of your head to the tip of your toes, Tommy Bahama, Tommy Bahama all the live-long day?
What if the only place you ever ate was Carrabba's? Breakfast, lunch and dinner, Carrabba's, Carrabba's, Carrabba's.
Doesn't make much sense, does it? It would be a rather bland existence after a while, wouldn't it? If this regime were imposed, or forced on you through some sort of monopoly, or legislation, you'd likely want to stay inside your house eating granola bars in the nude all day, wouldn't you?
I know I would.
And yet reading and writing - that is to say modern thought itself - has but one home today; the big-box superstore.
We have taken thought, and expression, two sides of that most sacred coin in a free society, and relegated it to a Tommy Bahama sort of existence. A commodified compfy zone, tamed, controlled, packaged like processed cod.
Just look at my boy in the photo: yeah, we're swinging now. That's us, put that in a picture to describe how we think: yeah baby.
Now it is a very subtle thing; this kind of oppression, this sort of big-brother intrigue aimed at the human mind, but it is there, alright. It's there! Right in your face.
Have you ever noticed how many surveillance cameras are inside the big box superstore? The number is actually greater than in the electronics store which is chock-full of high-priced electronics. Most books are $25 on average; about the price of a modern computer game. So why do they need soooo many cameras covering every single aisle, every single book purchase?
Why do the managers of these boxes have to call corporate when you want to take a photograph of your best friend buying a book inside the store. If you think this is BS, walk into one of these places take a camera out and try to take a photo; see what happens? It's damned spooky.
God forbid, men, that you use the book store as a way to meet women, right? It used to be fair game; an alternative to the bar scene, but not anymore. Big frown, from the staff. Big frown. They'll send plain-clothes store detective to follow you around if you even look like you're shopping for hotties. As always, women can do whatever they please.

Have you noticed there's a sort of dress code that goes with the book store too, isn't there? Hey wait, it's Tommy Bahama, baby, and Old Navy, with a dash of Tommy Hilfinger? Am I lying? If I am lying I am dying, son! You know I'm right.
Very subtle. Almost unspoken. Shhhhhhh, children.
But when you want a shirt, you don't have to go to Tommy Bahama or Old Navy every single time do you? No. If you like you can go somewhere else; to a tailor, for instance, if you have the bucks. If you want a steak you have all kinds of choices from Golden Corral to Nick and Tony's; it's not all Steak and Ale corporation, is it?
Yet with thought we do this to ourselves, or someone does it to us: the big square building. We walk in, the same old names. The same content.
They say "Dan Brown" and we are supposed to fall to our knees and worship. What the hell is that? In all honesty? I have been able to finish one Dan Brown novel, Deception Point. In my honest opinion it was utterly ridiculous, especially toward the end, as ammatuerish as anything I have ever written and had rejected - with prejudice. Don't get me wrong, I have had some of my stuff re-jec-ted. Oh they rejected the hell out of it till it bled like a broke-dick dog, for sure, so maybe this is all sour grapes too.
Yeah, maybe it was sour grapes when the writers of Holy Blood Holy Grail, sued Dan Brown for lifting their content and placing it in his block buster The DaVinci Code.
When those nutty Englishmen came out with Holy Blood Holy Grail back in 1980, I read every word, just as I read Von Danniken's Chariots of the Gods; just as I read Charles Berlitz's Bermuda Triangle. I loved that stuff, ate it up as a kid. What happened to all that?
Now they tell us, it's okay children, read it as a silly novel which will be piped straight to the screen starring Tom Hanks. Shhhhh, go to sleep. Don't think; don't really question. No serious speculation about anything.
Tommy goddamned Bahama, buddy.
And you can forget about certain types of works. More unwritten rules, no speculative non-fiction AND NO SPECULATIVE FICTION EITHER.
Okay, but no speculative FICTION?
Certain subjects will be released in the controlled environment APPROVED BY THE MINISTRY OF BOOKAGE, teens may read paranormal topics if they are properly Disneyfied.
The whisper sounds "twilight, twilight, twighlight..."
I actually don't even think these kids are reading the books; just watching the movie. (You know what my 14 year old daughter read this summer and loved it? Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment AND she understood it, AND she can argue themes and allegories pointwise, so you and your Twilight kid can go suck on that, bitches!)
My nephew calls these Twilight fiends, the "Twilight Nazi's"; they actually get in fights at this school of his in Gwinnett County, Georgia over the relative virtue, overall societal good, of this thing called Twilight. He, of course thinks the whole phenomenon is a ton of shit. His girlfriend, a member of the Twilight Nazi's of course, dumped him, as was a requirement of continued membership within the shock troops.
But what's movie? And what comes from reading? We read in my family. Speaking of my 14 year old, do you want to know what her favorite book of all time is? A Separate Peace by John Knowles! (SOIBs!! Hahah!) Oh, and when does the movie come out? Who's in that? Is it Ashton Kutcher? Or some knew guy, some spanking new dweeb who looks like death warmed over with pallid skin and heroin cheeks? You know she never has asked this question.
Clearly my kid is in a minority here but, that doesn't mean there aren't others out there yearning for a real read.
Do us both a favor, go up to the information desk at the Big Box and ask where they keep A Separate Peace and see what they say? Ask them if they have any Ken Keasey, or "where would I find Yeats? If you pronounce it correctly you certainly will delay the proceedings considerably.
Now, ask where they keep the Tommy Bahama cook-book and see what happens?

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

War of Raging Assholes

The Gang Bang of Six is getting ready to sell out on health care reform. South Carolina Rep. Joe Wilson is now on double-secret probation. Jimmy Carter gets slammed for stating the obvious. What’s wrong with this picture people?
It’s called America, our country swirling down the damned Johnny-pot.
My mother calls me. We chat. Conversation drifts into politics like it always does.
“Mom, you’re watching Hannity and O’Reilly waaaay too much,” I say.
“You bet your ass I am. This man is DANGEROUS. He’s trying to break down a country two hundred and fifty years in the making. He wants to replace capitalism with something else!”
And did I see the Acorn video? Did I see it? Did I? Did I? Did I? Did I? Did I see it?
See, the workers in the Acorn video, who were essentially duped by an episode of Punk’d, are black, and they don’t come off real well in the video in that they are helping an alleged prostitute and her pimp find ways to hide income (Hey! They were helpful to the young couple and they weren’t racist which is a lot more than we can say about some republicans), and of course Obama is black too, see? See how that works? And if we listen to Glenn Beck and that crowd all day long, we come to learn that this Acorn business; that is to say, everything Acorn, an independent non-profit does falls on Obama, see? Why? Because he’s black too, don’t you get that? You heard?
These sore loser republicans are sooooooooo fucking steamed at having lost the general election to a black dude, they would do ANYTHING, UP TO AND INCLUDING destroying this country with their bare hands, to get back at the democrats.
These razor-brains loathe democrats more than they hate the Taliban. They go to the heartland stirring up old hatreds. Nothing is beneath them. Dredge up revelations to the religious crowd. Black man, (check) eloquent (check): and the correct answer is?
“Our survey says, Antichrist!”
This would all make excellent comedy if it weren’t for the fact our situation right now, couldn’t be more precarious. Folks, we have enemies on the outside. Did you forget that?
Other nations would love to see us tear ourselves to pieces right about now. A couple of these other nations claim to be our allies! Oh yeah. I have it on great information that one of the nations on planet earth engaged in the most dangerous sort of hacking into our information systems, claims to be a friend of ours.
Republicans and Democrats in the pay of foreign lobby obviously keep these fires of hatred stoked for the benefit of their foreign masters. And we buy into it.
Play both sides against the middle, a nation divided cannot long stand, divide and rule. Have you heard of these concepts or did you fall asleep in history class?
And don’t get me started on religion…

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Collective Jackass

By David Kearns

A buffoon, a doltish oaf, a blundering loud garboon. A witless dundering dullard.

Loggerhead, thickhead, lardhead, dummkof.

A nudnik, jerk, numskull, hardpan, dim-baggins, bonehead, stupid, nincompoop. A dunderbum, a boor, a botcher, a boner, a bogtrotter, a galoof, a palooka, a hayseed, a lummox, a hawbuck, and yes, at long last, the bottom rung, a jackass.

He has the unfortunate honor, and will go down in history, as the man to whom the President of the United States had this to say, "what a jackass."

Poor sod. In middle school years the teachers surely warned him "this will go down on your permanent record." And now the worst sort of nightmare in this regard, the Presidential seal of "Jackass," is upon him.

When historians sieve through the Obama papers, while compiling what will and what will not be contained within the Barack Obama Presidential Library, they will come across this little snipet of sound "... jackass" and it will apply to Kanye. Not Diddy, not Dre, not "F'ity" but Kanye. The first black president, no less. All your life you listened to the stories about MLK and Andy Young, and Jesse Jackson. All your life you aspired to something greater to make momma proud, and what happens?

One word: jackass!

Hey, who hasn't done something stupid on Couvoisier?

A little sympathy here: wake up from that hangover, slap your hand to your forehead and ask yourself, "did I do something on television the other night that resulted in the President of the United States calling me a jackass?"

Live that moment with him. Did you like it? Or were you ashamed and terrified.

Let's admit it: he didn't run over a child while drunk driving. Okay? He didn't blast off on Jews and Israel after being arrested for DUI. He didn't shoot anyone, didn't hit anybody, didn't commit a crime, didn't head-butt a guy in a club in NYC, didn't flash his junk to the paparrazi.

No, he walked up on stage at the VMA's and ruined the moment for another artist, a younger artist, a scared nineteen-year-old kid who might not ever get that moment back.

Actress Megan Fox said it best, it was like watching Kanye step on a kitten. Horrific, strangely funny, bizarre, grotesque, drunk, street theater insane and yes, it was a pure unadulterated, disturbing jackass moment.

He's had his. Done. We move on.

What about the little bit of jackass in all of us? Admit it, that beast is down there, waiting to get out. Release valvues for him or her?

I don't know, go to a gala function while swilling cognac straight out of the bottle. That might help bring him out. Go off your meds for three days and guzzle Red Bull and vodka, all the while downing bee-pollen supplements and linseed oil drops.

Think you can judge? Dare yourself to explore your own inner jackass. Days later, when the storm has passed; days after you fall asleep in your front yard with your underwear on your head and your shirt tied around your ankles, take a look at your neighbors across the way, smile and wave. Did they wave back? How did it feel?

The great part about all this jackassery of our young stars is, the whole world is watching what they do.

So their buffoonery becomes our buffoonery, on the world stage. They speak for us, following every sip of tequila or 151. They sing for us to the cameras, as they slam petulant fists into the steering wheel outside the home of their stalking victims, their last beau or gal-pal. They bring Americana into homes all across the world through the lense of TMZ and other tabloid outlets. The world hates us, through them, and we pay them for this service.

Handlers too intimidated, too bought by the cash, simply let it go, let it slide, do damage control; an apology on Orpah or Leno, take your pick.

So we can understand, then, a president's ire at all this, when the country seems bent on a course of self destruction, seems like that movie where five-hundred-years into the future everyone's IQ has dipped into the double, or ever single digits, going "Brondo's got what plants need!" We can understand him calling a young black man a jackass then, because he was acting like one, and should not have been. Because if Kanye's momma had been alive, that's exactly what she might have said to her boy, to help him straighten his ass out.

Let's hope we all can too.

All Platform No Substance

What fool in his right mind doesn't like Robin Meade?
For me every morning with HLN is like a fantasy moment from homeroom come to life: the hot cheerleader with the big smile, the huge pretty eyes and that sexy voice is talking DIRECTLY TO ME! She's talking to me, like OMG!
This week she's on vacation touring her book; so I have these other people to watch who are decidedly NOT Robin Meade. Uhhg.
Like Chuck Norris, there is only one.
That said, is this woman Mother Theresa? Is she a former member of the UN? Is she even Tony Robbins, who is in fact a motivational speaker?
No. She is not. She's just sooo damned pretty, and she reads the news real nice. But let's face it, that's it as far as we know TO DATE. It is important to qualify that remark. She may be capable of great things in life, but her beauty perhaps is overshadowing, and CNN certainly is overpaying, thereby delaying whatever those things might be. That is to say, to date, other than her stunning beauty, what could she TELL ME about in a book, that I'd want to read?
I'm not pulling a Kanye here: and I have all the respect in the world for her getting this book deal and off you go to the races with the success thing. You go girl!
The question becomes, when is it obvious that publishing anymore is 100 pecent platform-driven and 0 percent content-driven? And when do publishers wake up and realize, that this is not a good arrangement for the future of the business? That it's not working, otherwise celebrity cook books would be selling like electronics in Singapore. But they are not, children. They just aren't.
In a weird turn of events, that only a stalker would think of, today Mrs. Meade will be at the Ashford-Dunwoody Borders, less than four miles from my old high school. (Okay just stop it!)
So while I am bitching, would I go see her if I were still living on the north side of Atlanta? I have to admit I would. I would do it and I would tell NO ONE. I'd smile, try to catch her eye, wave as I walked in, get me a coffee, do all of the above while lying about it to the wife over the cell phone until the managers and her husband tossed my ass out of there, but would I actually buy Robin's book even for the autograph?
No, aside from bringing home incriminating evidence, you see, there has to be something compelling inside the book in order for me to purchase it. Just the way I am built, I guess.
I am hunting and pecking all over the net this morning trying to find out how much she got, up front in the advance, and how much The Hatchet Group paid in publicity for her tour of Morning Sunshine! The buzz I am getting from this little box over here called television is, this book is sort of a motivational how-to guide for perkyness? Do I have it right? I dunno.
There is bupkiss on the web. Galleycat et al we suppose are too busy touting the latest gadget designed to "save publishing".
Agents always ask, what is your target market? And you damned well better have one in mind when you answer.
Okay, fifty percent of the population is out. Why? Men won't purchase this book, not even for the pictures because, hey, when all this foolishness is over she'll be back, you'll see. And why buy the cow when....right... I think even gay dudes won't buy it for this reason. We all love Robin. Gay,straight, in between, black, white, Asian, Inuit. Men all over earth think she's faaaaabulous! But read a book she wrote? Not the men, I believe.
So the argument becomes, well, women will buy it!
Some people were born perky. They shine like a bright bulb no matter what. Look at that picture! Damn she's perky. But ladies, I don't think this is anything Robin can actually TEACH you, I am sorry to say. I think women, who are not already seeeething with jealousy about being born into this life as not Robin Meade, are smart enough to realize that. You can't teach perky and cute, you just can't.
And what might her stories be? Has she served as a war correspondent ala Christian Amanpoore or Anderson Cooper? Nnnnnnnnnope. Did she survive a plane crash and fight her way out of the wilderness?
Could she do those previous things? Hell, probably do a damned good job at it if she stretched. She's no dummy, let's face it. But there's that overwhelming beauty again getting in the way.
If I were her handlers at CNN I'd want her right where she is; safe, sound, smiling, reading the news, not uncovering it, not risking life and limb to bring it home. When someone is engaged in those latter, risky behaviors, their story, the content of their memoir, becomes waaaay more interesting. Am I missing something when I say that? Am I wrong?
So whose head is on the chopping block over at Hatchet Group?
Will a million Aunt Sarah's across the nation, who are convinced Robin is their television daughter, come out of the woodwork to buy this book?
They better!
If they do, I'll eat a hat.

Monday, September 14, 2009

Letting the Agent Down Nicely

Dear Wonderful Prospective Agent:
I have not been totally honest with you. You would have learned my true identity, if you had simply reached the end of the novel I sent you but, that's okay.
My name is David Anthony Kearns. As I tell you on the last page (about the author) Declan Fitzwilliam is an alter ego: a pen name I am using for my Irish novels, and there are three of those now.
I did this pen name business because there are also at least four David Kearnses found on google all of whom are relatively famous but yet not world famous authors. Agents and publishers get confused, and miss a chance at something great by making snap decisions. I didn't want that to be based on sales numbers from David T. Kearns (former president of Xerox) or David Kearns (expert in primary education) or Dave Kearns (Linux master and networking guru) Now I simply don’t care about all this, but I keep the name Declan for this novel anyway.
I, David Anthony Kearns, am the published author of "Where Hell Freezes Over: An Amazing Story of Bravery and Survival" (Thomas Dunne Books 2005) a non-fiction account of my father's plane crash in Antarctica in 1946/47. You can still find it on the outline of a beautiful aircraft barely discernable in the giff on the page.
Back to people making snap decisions: I am not about to find a publisher using my own name even in fiction when someone has but to check on Amazon and see that my current title isn't exactly tearing up the charts.
I also suspect I am on a blacklist somewhere for some unwritten infraction or other (and there are so many for us, especially male writers sans diva-diary these days), some failure to be a good little boy in my past dealings with agents, publishers et al. I only acted in the best interest of my project, my one published credit, which would still be locked in contract limbo, had I not made a break with certain parties.
To that end I am amassing everything I have ever written in this crusade of mine to become a successful publisher author, and I am putting it on the web; bare-assed naked for all the world to see. I have not just the one novel, I have more than six now, along with a novella or two. Plus a non-fiction proposal under my own name about marijuana grow houses.
Now, no one can see the viability of this project which I find extraordinary but then, maybe someone will steal this project and give it to a “platformed writer” which what can I do? I did not invent marijuana nor grow houses, so whatever. At least the story will out which is very important.
I am not really sure why I do all this at this time; putting everything on the web in blogs, that is. I do know it makes me feel better. I know that since I began this quest, right about the time my last novel The Wizard Earl; found a resounding gong of silence from your agency, I have received more than 1,000 bonafide hits, and nearly 700 visits to my profile since late July. I gain followers on this amazing new toy called, Twitter, every day. It is, as they say, a start.
I have the first novel in a trilogy concerning UFOs is called Monster Hole. I am working on the second book despite repeated warnings from those in the know that UFO even in fiction is a no-no (tssk tssk another rule you were unaware of naughty boy).
I have a wonderful black comedy, as total coincidence would have it, about a writer whose project gets locked up in contract limbo by a non-performing publisher, and an arrogant lit agent. He flips out in a major way. This work 3/4 of the way posted on the web, is called The Dead Agent. Rest assured I am quite sane, or at least reasonably so, and the novel is so outlandish it should not be an indicator of my mental state but more, to that of my character and second pen name, Gary O'Brien. Gary is waaaay more impulsive than I am in and we all are thankful for that.
I have a supernatural novella underway also called Red Dancing Bear Red Dancing Bear is a Seminole Indian also found in the novel Monster Hole.
I have a site also, for my comedy, commentary, general kvetching and whining which I do a lot of , called There, you will find this post, if you are interested.
It is the beginning in a four part series, which details what precisely, without naming any naughty names, happened to Where Hell Freezes Over, formerly known as Highjump: The Story of the George 1 which I will also be posting on the web, as an uncut version, complete with photos NOT SEEN in the book as it was presented in book stores.
The Wizard Earl, which I thought was an excellent fun novel, given with a minimum of controversy, should have been a no-brainer for the system and your agency. As I said in my lengthy, pleading, begging email to you, and only you, no one else got that presentation, Savannah and this business of Irishness has not been touched by the book industry and it should be.
When I informed you I had someone approach me for it, understand that it was Declan’s alter ego, David Kearns, who did so. He wishes to get this novel posted on the web along with all the others before the idea, concept and so on, either vanishes or is randomly stolen from him.
You told me, in your last curt email, that I wouldn’t hear from you for a month and that you had assigned the book off – without checking with me first – to a “first reader”. Two months later no word, and I send to you to let you know “I have been approached” Wham. You are immediately interested again and you really want me to tell you who that other party is.
(yawn, smile)
You know, I have been pitching things to agents for years now. Here are the road signs that a prospective agent doesn’t like me, respect me, or want to deal with me even handedly. 1. They make me sign a contract that says they can’t be sued if their agency “just happens” to work with someone else on a project nearly identical or completely identical to the one I have pitched to them. You didn’t do this, for which I am happy. 2. When they inform me, after the fact, that someone else, an unknown third party, who may or may not work for their agency, now has their hands on my manuscript. 3. When they ignore the project I have sent them, right up until the moment, someone else may be interested in it. 4. When,3,2 are in place simultaneously AND they immediately email back wanting to know who that other party may be?
Here’s the scenario. You ignore the project UNTIL someone else may be interested. This is THE ONLY criterion, for which you REOPEN the dialogue with the writer. And people actually go for this? People actually tell you who that other party is? Amazing!
I am reminded of the scene in the film Get Shorty where Travolta thwarts an effort to get him thrown in jail and then is told he must give the locker key back. Remember that scene? What did Travolta as Chilli Palmer say?
“I can’t believe this is how you people do business!”
Well, no need for recriminations here. We have not signed any paperwork but I have our emails back and forth should someone mysteriously have my project published under their name. I also fully intend to have this project posted on the web within 24 hours.
This little exchange is a prime example of why I must post my stuff on the web, all of it, and now. I mean, who really knows what you people are up to these days? I certainly don’t.
But I thank you for your efforts, such as they were, regarding my manuscript. We recall that communication is the cornerstone of any successful relationship.
David A. Kearns AKA Declan Fitzwilliam