Renee Miller's Blog, page 28

A Writer’s Thanksgiving Prayer

Dear
all-powerful, benevolent being that may or may not be out there watching over
us puny mortals, but that is most assuredly unconcerned about what we do or how
we fare if he or she does exist;



Today is
the day that Canadians give thanks that many years ago, some foreigner realized
that the natives of this land had it good, and he wanted some of that. And we
give thanks that said foreigner had no qualms about stealing from a peaceful
folk, because if he didn’t, well we wouldn’t be able to call ourselves
Canadian, now would we? Also, no poutine, and that would truly suck. In honor
of this Thanksgiving holiday, I’d like to recount the many other things I’m
thankful for.



First,
thank you for my kids. Without them, I’d probably be lounging on a beach
somewhere, my still-perfect bikini body encouraging me to do sinful things with
someone half my age. Nobody wants that kind of life. My kids make me want more
than meaningless sex and short-term satisfaction, and for that I'm a better person.



I’m thankful
for stupid people. Without them, there would be no inspiration to spark this
writer’s imagination. Thank you, stupid people, for doing what you do.


I’m
thankful for technology, without which I’d be forced to write 300 pages by
hand, or plug it out on a typewriter. First, second and third drafts take on a
whole new meaning when you have to type or write the entire fucking novel each
time you make a correction. Thank you, technology, for saving my delicate
hands. And also, I’d like to thank you for electricity, running water, and the
miracle of the flush toilet. And soap. It’s unfortunate that some folks don’t
appreciate the value of soap.




I’m
thankful for bacon.



I’m
thankful for horribly written novels. They keep me striving to do better,
because I don’t want any of my novels to end up in one of those GIF illustrated
reviews. Though, they are hilarious, aren’t they?



I’m thankful
for doors with good locks, because sometimes that’s all that keeps people
alive. A girl needs to be left alone occasionally and hanging out is highly
overrated.



Booze. Thanks for that.

 

I'm also thankful for
the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the
things I can, the wisdom to know the difference, and the audacity to try
anyway.



Garbage
bags. Thank you to whoever invented those.



It would
only be appropriate to give a nod to the Internet, without which I could not
work from home. Most days I’m thankful for that. Although, my office could
stand a bit of upgrading. It’s okay Internet, I know your power only stretches
so far.



I’m
thankful for my family, because without them, there would be only the stupid
people to spark this writer’s imagination. My stories would lack depth and character
without my family, so thank you for doing what you do too.



I’m
thankful for small towns where everyone knows everyone, and whatever we don’t
know, we make up. I believe that Tweed, and small towns like it, are part of
the secret to writing good fiction. They mold the brain in such a way that it
can craft the most plausible story out of nothing but a whisper and a wink.
Thank you, Tweed, for making me unstable enough to use that.



Thanks for
bras. It’s unfortunate some folks don’t appreciate them more.



If there is
an all-powerful creator up there, I think thanks should be given for
intelligent, sexy men with British accents. I simply cannot give enough thanks
for them. And Jake Doyle (aka: Allan Hawko). Thanks for him too.



I’m
thankful for gun laws. Without which I’m not sure how many people I know might
have a bullet lodged somewhere in their body. I’m also thankful my parents
raised me to be a law-abiding citizen with a functional guilt button. Without
that, well I’m not sure how many people I know might have a bullet lodged
somewhere in their body.



Speaking of Mom and Dad, thanks for not allowing your shit to become my shit. In forcing me to make my own shit, you made me a better person.

 

I’m
thankful for my friends. Friends are the family you would have had if you’d
been allowed to choose, and I think I chose well.



Thanks for
pajama pants. Without those, who knows what folks would wander around town in?



I’m
thankful for microwaves and television. This mom isn’t going to pretend you
both haven’t made her life much easier.



Hair dye. It’s
a good thing too.

 

I'm thankful for humor. Without the ability to laugh at myself and at others, I'm certain bad things would happen.



Finally, I’m
thankful for passion and impulsive decisions. Without it, I wouldn’t be here. Not
as a writer or anything else. Sometimes you just have to follow your gut, even
if it’s telling you to do something completely insane.



What are you thankful for?

And Now A Story....

 



Remember when that one time I did this thing called "Circle Time" on the Edge and then completely abandoned the idea? Yeah, well it's back. Sit down, grab a drink, don't touch Clive, and I'll tell you a story. 

 

Trash Talk

Once upon a time.... *cue wavy shit that segues into an opening scene or something like that*

 

"Hey, you take out the trash?"


He wasn’t seriously asking me that. I folded the page I’d been lying in bed
pretending to read and stood. Not like I could focus with the pings and pows coming from his side of the room anyway.



"Are you crippled?" I asked.



"No, but I'm busy here. The garbage truck comes in like ten
minutes."



Busy? I knew exactly what busy meant. It meant that Mr.
Video-Game-Freak had almost finished level three of that stupid-as-shit game he
bought last week. He’d keep playing until he beat it, or I broke the fucking
thing in half. Mr. Thirty-four-year-old-jobless-loser, who plays online with
ten-year-olds all day long while I went to work—twice—to support his sorry ass.



Like a good wife, or a giant moron, take your pick, I walked to the kitchen, stepping over the pizza
box left in the middle of the living room floor on my way. Flipping on the
light, I blinked, groaning at the mess I’d have to clean before I went to bed.
The red formica countertop dripped white goop from a jar of mayo that tipped
over. In the butt-sweaty humidity, it had turned to a whitish liquid nightmare.
Next to it, the loaf of bread I brought home that afternoon lay open, a couple
of slices peeking out of the torn plastic bag, slowly going stale so that I’d
have to toss it and buy another, wasting more money because of that fucktard in
the bedroom.



What the hell did he do all day? I opened the door under the sink to
grab the overflowing little bag that he'd never change not even if his life
depended on it, and cringed. "Ugh."



The smell made my eyes water and my stomach revolted, pushing a gag
up to my throat. I slammed the door closed and turned around. Enough was
enough. I had to work in the morning, and again after dinner. Twice. Two jobs.
Every damn miserable day. What did he do? Not even one. He couldn't even put
the damn trash in the bag.



I reached down, yanking a goopy mayo covered drawer open, and picked
out a large black bag. I’d take the trash out all right, motherfucker.



Stomping through the kitchen and to the living room, I rounded the
corner to the bedroom, where the jackass would be playing his stupid game,
oblivious to the world around him. I pushed the door open, and stood for a
moment, adjusting my eyes to the semi-darkness. He wasn’t even wearing pants.
Jesus.



"Hey, baby." He looked up from the computer, his brown
hair stood on end and he arched to scratch his boxer clad ass.



I didn't trust myself to speak. Instead I walked across the room to
the corner where my husband's world plugged into a rectangular power bar.
Bending, I tugged each cord from the bar and tossed it.



"Hey! What are you—?”



I held up the trash bag and pointed at him. "Not a goddamn
word. Hear me? I don't mind making more than one trip."



I picked up the keyboard and stuffed it into the bag. He said nothing.
I picked up the modem and shoved it in as well, and still he remained silent. I
couldn't fit the monitor in so I left it, but I grabbed every cord, wire, and
attachment I could find, breathing heavily as I stood to glare at him.



His eyes widened, but he sat in his chair, not attempting to take
anything from the bag. He smiled then and shrugged. "So, your laptop is in
the spare room?"



I swung the bag. Twice.



Trash problem solved.




** I feel I should clarify before beginning that this story is in no way about Kurt. While sometimes

I'd love to swing a bag of electronics at his head, he's not much of a gamer and he never, NEVER touches my laptop.

Dear Diary:

I used to
keep a diary. In fact, I had several. Once upon a time, these journals were
safely stored in some boxes at my parents’ house, but then they vanished during
a move. I often wonder if someone read those journals, then I try to recall if
I used any real names…



Anyway, The
Edge is my new diary, just not a secret one. I kind of like that better. You
all might not enjoy the ramblings, but I’m amused and really, that’s a good
thing. I’ve been horrible at keeping it updated lately and I apologize.
September has been a rough month and I suppose I just got lazy. But fret no
more. Here I am updating you on the exciting drama that is my life.



So during the
first part of this month I lost a few friends and—funny how we say that; ‘lost.’
I mean, they aren’t lost. No need to send out a search party or anything. They’re
exactly where they’re supposed to be, right? What I should say is I alienated
or offended folks and thus pissed them off and they will never speak my name
again because they hate me and spit on the ground I walk on and curse my
ancestors and whatnot. Yeah, that’s more like what I did. No matter. The point
is that started September off with a pile of bullshit. Live and learn.



Moving on.



The washing
machine broke around that time too. That’s all I have to say about the washing
machine. I’m to blame, and that’s all that we all need to acknowledge. The
little whatchamahoosit in the hot water tap for the tub is busted too, but it’s
been busted for a couple of months. Not my fault. So for the past month or so
we’ve had to shut the hot water off when we’re not using it, or it just pours
out of the tap. When we’d like to shower or wash dishes or whatever one might
use hot water for, we must go down to the basement and turn the tap on. Then
you’ve gotta do whatever it is you’re doing right away. With the tap constantly
running, you’ve got about 5.7 seconds of hot water so use it wisely. When we’re
done with our hot water activity, we must go back down to the basement and shut
it off.



I think we’re
fixing that this weekend. And by “we” I mean Kurt.



Speaking of
hot, when school started I realized, as I walked the kids up the hill on those
chilly September mornings, that I had no real shoes. I’m not naming names *cough—Court* but someone wrecked the
only real shoes I had left. So it’s flip-flops and freezing toes for me every
morning. I think we’re getting shoes this weekend too. And by “we” I mean me. I’m
getting shoes. I don’t even care what they look like. I just want to put socks
on and you can’t do that in flip-flops. My mom calls them thongs, and that’s
just wrong. Just saying. I have other shoes, like heels and shit. But those aren’t
sensible and they don’t look right with a hoody. You know, I like living the life
of a writer, but the life of a poor writer who can’t even buy shoes is not good.
But it’s not that I can’t buy shoes. I’m not that poor. It’s that I haven’t gotten around to it because you can’t
buy shoes in Tweed. You have to buy them online or travel somewhere else that
has stores that sell shoes. Winter is coming. I need real shoes.



Speaking of
school (yes, I just did like a paragraph ago), Kennedy comes home last week, barely
two weeks into the school year, and she’s all snotty and fevered and I’m all “Fuuuuuck.”
because she’s sick and I know she’s going to pass it on to me. (It’s all about
me) And by “going to” I mean she’s passed it along already. So now we’re all
snotty and fevered and it’s really quite gross. And at the school, a friend was
waiting for her kids and she looked really pissed when I arrived. She explained
that she was trying to fight the urge to punch one of the Breeders. (Never
mind, it’s a long story) Turns out this other woman was all angry and offended at
the school’s policies on sick kids and such. She’s like, “They sent my daughter
home today because she had a fever. I had to come pick her up and take her
home. For a fever! Well, my son is way sicker than she is. I sent him to school
with green snot coming out of his nose. I don’t care what the fucking school
says about it.” Or something along those lines.



Well I
wanted to wipe my snotty nose right across her face. What does she have to do
all day that she couldn’t keep them home? Work? Pfft. Not hardly. I understand
taking a day off work is not possible for some parents, I’ve been there. So
unless the kid isn’t breathing or there’s an appendage hanging off or massive
amounts of blood, they kind of have to try to send them to school. But when you
do nothing all day long but have kids and bitch about school policies and how
inconvenient not getting other people’s kids sick is for you, I think you could
manage to keep your kid home for at least a day. I kept mine home. Two days. I
work at home. Do you know how much work I got done those two days? None.
Exactly. And what about her poor kid? Green snot? He probably felt like shit.
How about Mom thinks about him for five seconds? Jesus woman, a day in bed
would make him so much better. And I don’t think his presence for a few extra hours
would kill you or put a damper on your busy fucking day.



Anyway,
amid all of this nonsense, I am writing. Stuff mostly. A little bit of such too.
I saw that one of the Harper Collins imprints is having an open submissions
period in October and I was all “Yes!”
but then I looked at my files and the glitter wore off my glorious enthusiasm.
Just a little bit. They really only want fantasy or sci-fi (I think…was sci-fi
listed? Don’t know. Doesn’t matter because I have no sci-fi) and I have one
manuscript that’s paranormal. Well, I have three but only one is worthy of
reading. They say in their guidelines we can submit other genres, but we have
to check “other” in the submission form. Now I’m thinking as I read that, I
could submit the other stuff and check “other” but then what happens? What if
checking “other” gets you a one-way ticket to the junk pile? What about that,
eh? So then you’re doing all the filling out of forms and getting your hopes up
for nothing. But if you don’t submit the stuff, and other folks do and they don’t
get sent to the junk heap and get the contract you should have had, well you’ve
just missed an opportunity because you’re a lazy asshole.



I’ll submit
anyway. Well I might. Depends on the submission form. If it’s like an hour long
filling out of nonsense, I may change my mind. That’s how I roll sometimes.



Moving on.



The Harper
thing is fantastic news. I’m happy to have the opportunity. Might be another
dead end, but I’m okay with that. Just another rejection for the collection and
I do so love those. Like getting punched in the face. Who wouldn’t go asking
for that? Did you know that the other night when I was trying to sneak out of
Kennedy’s room, I ran into the edge of the open door? Of course you didn’t.
Well, it hurt. The edge of the door is far worse than the front or back. It’s because
I can’t see in the dark. Not the worse part, the running into the edge of the
door part—that happened because I am dark-impaired.


Anyway, the
next day I was reading more bullshit on this sock puppetry stuff. I truly do wonder
at the common sense of anyone who puts too much faith in subjective opinions, but
anyway, it is what it is.  Personally I
think the “I’ll review yours if you review mine” shit that’s gone on forever is
just as skeevy. But maybe that’s just me. Did you know there’s talk of burning
Fifty Shades of Crap books in the UK? I mean, it’s bad yeah, but shit. Why you
gotta go burning stuff? It’s not THAT bad. You should all just stop that
nonsense now. You don’t like it, then don’t read it. Burning shit makes people
curious. Now sales are going to be nuts. Honestly…put the matches down and get
a life.






So back on
the home front, every time my dad goes to the doctor, they find worse news to share.
Yes I’m sad, but life is life and cancer is a bitch.



Moving on.



The other
night this strange number kept calling and I never answer those. Actually, I never
answer anything. So they finally left a message as I was in the garage trying
to ignore everyone. Kurt comes out and he’s all, “That was the Heart and Stroke
foundation. They’re looking for canvassers.” I’m like, “And? I’m not doing it.”
Kurt’s like, “It’s just River Street.” So I say, “Um…no. You can do it.” He’s
all, “But think about it, you can go meet the neighbors, and make new friends.”
I’m like, “I don’t need friends. Definitely not friends who live close enough
to irritate me.” And he’s all, “That’s what I thought.” and he leaves. So
whatever that meant. I’m all for the Heart and Stroke foundation and the good
that they do, but I am not a canvasser. Nope. I’ll donate but I am not the
door-to-door, nicey-nice type they need. I’m pretty sure most of my neighbors
don’t like me anyway. I don’t know, but it’s possible. I don’t talk to most of
them. Just like a handful. They’re all very nice people, but I don’t think
asking them for money is going to make us all closer and I don’t want to be
closer anyway. I like that they stay in their yard and I stay in mine. It
works. You know?


Speaking of
yards, that reminds me of the little asshole present we got in ours last year. Buddy
the Satanic Bastard cat still shits on my floor regularly. We’ve discovered he’s
found a way into the crawlspace—aka: his own private litter box—again. It’s not
the cleaning of the poop that’s so bad; it’s the fact that the crawlspace is
all of three feet high. I’m six feet …do the math. And that cat has giant
mutant shits. It’s not right. A little cat like that shouldn’t push out logs
bigger than the dog.






Yet, I
still can’t let myself allow him to escape to the mercies of outside. What the
hell is wrong with me? One open door and all of my problems are solved. Right? The
dogs, the cats, a kid or two…think of the possibilities. Except, they’d all
come back. I know it. And they’d probably come back with something terrible
like rabies. No I don’t need that thank you very much. I haven’t kept the kids
updated on their rabies shots.



Yes, moving
on.



I’ve
queried a few agents with Jack, and the frustrating general consensus is that
the writing (when I send sample chapters) is good, and the story is appealing,
but the concept just not marketable in their opinion. One of them even said
something about “overdone.” Gasp! What the fuck happened to taking risks,
asshats? Eh? Jack will sell. I know it. Frustrating so-and-so’s. I’ll show you.




Right now,
as I type this, there is much screaming and crashing and general chaos in my
house. I don’t know what’s going on because I’m in the garage. That’s where I “work”
and avoid things like the kids and the dogs and housework…anyway, it’s
troubling and something else might get broke. So inside I’ll go…



…and the
dogs pulled a box of vegetable crackers off the table. Bear is wearing it like
a muzzle. Nice. It’s all his now. The cats are on the table watching him. Cats
on the table. Sigh. The crashing wasn’t from that though. That is a mystery. Perhaps
I’ll find out later.



And speaking
of mysteries, can anyone explain how one loses a whole dress? I suppose a half
of a dress would be weirder…but that’s not important. I’ve lost a dress. Not
like you take it off in some random place and forget to put it back on because
you’re drunk or trying to escape, but like you took it off in your own home,
late at night, because you came home from a wedding, where you didn’t even get
drunk, and you were going to bed and so you took it off nicely and put it
somewhere, but that place obviously wasn’t anywhere in your house. Yeah, like
that. I’ve looked everywhere for this dress because it’s awesome and it was
expensive and I plan to wear it again someday and I really hate not knowing
where the hell it went, and I just can’t find it. It’s not in any of the
closets or under anyone’s bed. It’s not tucked under the couch or in the
garage. It’s not in the dog crates or stashed in the laundry room. It’s not
hanging or lying in the closet and it’s not in any dressers. Where did it go? I’ll
let you know when I figure it out. If anyone ate it, I’m opening that door.
Swear to God. I am.



So it’s
time to take the kids to school and I think that’s all that’s happened since my
last post. Sure, there were odds and ends, but those are boring. Not exciting
shit like I’ve just shared. What’s new in your world?

Should Authors Just Shut Up and Write?

Okay, back to books and fiction and
the publishing industry. You know, the stuff that frustrates me, but in a good
way. Today author Christopher Moore mentioned on Facebook that he’d posted political comments
that seemed to anger folks. When he announced said discontent on Twitter, he says
he realized that some readers expected him to voice no opinion. “Just give us
another book,” one Twitter follower told him.



Does anyone else find this insulting? Moore is a rather outspoken
author. He likes to sprinkle f-bombs liberally in his writing and he’s got more than a pinch
of snark in his tweets and Facebook posts. But he’s fun about it. Most of his
tweets and Facebook commentary is humorous and sarcastic, but it’s also
intelligent. What’s not to love about that? Even if you don’t like his books, I
think that his honesty and realism is refreshing. I started reading his books
because of his attitude. (A friend retweeted his tweets and I became an instant
fan. Then I bought his books.)



After finding out that his opinion wasn’t welcomed by some readers, Moore
had this to say:

“Do people actually think that you can become an artist by not having a
point of view? Do you actually think that being ambivalent is the way you get
good at comedy? A lot of writers don't talk about their political side, because
they think it will hurt their readership, and I get that. I'm sorry it comes to
that, but I get it. You have to make a living first, but trust me, even your most
beloved young adult author of the most friendly stories has a point of view or
they wouldn't be able to do what they do. (Also, if we were the kind of people
who responded well to being told what to do, we wouldn't be doing this either.)”

We’ve discussed before how authors shouldn’t pretend to be something we
aren’t. This is an interesting topic, because there are many readers and writer
that disagree. Many believe an opinion is dangerous, and “taking sides” on an
issue is going to hurt sales. But why would you want readers that don’t accept
your views on something? Surely you don’t think they’ll enjoy your work if they
can’t at least relate to your opinions. We should never try to please everyone
because eventually that act gets too exhausting to maintain. Yes, politics is a
sensitive issue, especially for Americans, but should someone refrain from discussing
issues that are important to them simply because they have a public image to “maintain?”



Can you imagine never voicing your thoughts or feelings to your readers
because you’re afraid someone won’t buy your books? A by-product of writing (if
you’re doing the research you should be doing) is that authors have a vast
store of knowledge, which Moore pointed out. How can you know about so many
subjects and not discuss them? How can you not form an opinion?



I don’t see anything wrong with a public figure, be they author, actor
or whatever, voicing an opinion. In fact, I respect them more for it, even if I
don’t particularly like their views. At least they have views. At least they
think about something beyond image and sales.



Of course, my opinions and my humor have gotten me into hot water
before, so perhaps I’m wrong. What do you think? Are you willing to remain
silent about your opinions, never pick sides and such, to ensure your books
sell?



If you want to check Moore out, he’s on Twitter of course, but
he’ll be tweeting his political opinions under the Twitter name, @NOX10US.

Chris Moore and His Big Mouth: Why You Should Love It

Okay, back to books and fiction and
the publishing industry. You know, the stuff that frustrates me, but in a good
way. Today author Christopher Moore mentioned on Facebook that he’d posted political comments
that seemed to anger folks. When he announced said discontent on Twitter, he says
he realized that some readers expected him to voice no opinion. “Just give us
another book,” one Twitter follower told him.



Does anyone else find this insulting? Moore is a rather outspoken
author. He likes to sprinkle f-bombs liberally in his writing and he’s got more than a pinch
of snark in his tweets and Facebook posts. But he’s fun about it. Most of his
tweets and Facebook commentary is humorous and sarcastic, but it’s also
intelligent. What’s not to love about that? Even if you don’t like his books, I
think that his honesty and realism is refreshing. I started reading his books
because of his attitude. (A friend retweeted his tweets and I became an instant
fan. Then I bought his books.)



After finding out that his opinion wasn’t welcomed by some readers, Moore
had this to say:

“Do people actually think that you can become an artist by not having a
point of view? Do you actually think that being ambivalent is the way you get
good at comedy? A lot of writers don't talk about their political side, because
they think it will hurt their readership, and I get that. I'm sorry it comes to
that, but I get it. You have to make a living first, but trust me, even your most
beloved young adult author of the most friendly stories has a point of view or
they wouldn't be able to do what they do. (Also, if we were the kind of people
who responded well to being told what to do, we wouldn't be doing this either.)”

We’ve discussed before how authors shouldn’t pretend to be something we
aren’t. This is an interesting topic, because there are many readers and writer
that disagree. Many believe an opinion is dangerous, and “taking sides” on an
issue is going to hurt sales. But why would you want readers that don’t accept
your views on something? Surely you don’t think they’ll enjoy your work if they
can’t at least relate to your opinions. We should never try to please everyone
because eventually that act gets too exhausting to maintain. Yes, politics is a
sensitive issue, especially for Americans, but should someone refrain from discussing
issues that are important to them simply because they have a public image to “maintain?”



Can you imagine never voicing your thoughts or feelings to your readers
because you’re afraid someone won’t buy your books? A by-product of writing (if
you’re doing the research you should be doing) is that authors have a vast
store of knowledge, which Moore pointed out. How can you know about so many
subjects and not discuss them? How can you not form an opinion?



I don’t see anything wrong with a public figure, be they author, actor
or whatever, voicing an opinion. In fact, I respect them more for it, even if I
don’t particularly like their views. At least they have views. At least they
think about something beyond image and sales.



Of course, my opinions and my humor have gotten me into hot water
before, so perhaps I’m wrong. What do you think? Are you willing to remain
silent about your opinions, never pick sides and such, to ensure your books
sell?



If you want to check Moore out, he’s on Twitter of course, but
he’ll be tweeting his political opinions under the Twitter name, @NOX10US.

What Your Favorite Game of Thrones Character Says About You

So after the nightmare that was reading Fifty Shades of What the Fuck is this Industry Thinking, I cleansed my brain with a little Game of Thrones. I’m
obsessed with this series of novels, and yes, I admit it, I have favorites.
Most of them are characters I wish I’d thought of, others I just like because
the HBO actors are tasty. What? I’ve noticed that everyone that reads the books
has a favorite character, and why shouldn’t you? Martin made sure there was
something about each character that spoke to something deep inside his readers.
What did they say to you? Whatever it was, your favorite character says a lot about
you.







Lord Eddard Stark
You’re
bored with life, but you believe that you can find meaning in the monotony.  You should be the star, the center of attention, but you can't seem to find the energy to demand what's rightfully yours. You
are fiercely loyal to your family and thrive on responsibility and hard work.
You believe that as long as you do the right thing, then no matter what happens
you’ll be fine. (bit of an idiot in that way) You prefer to live minimally, and
shun the latest modern conveniences. You don’t even own a cell phone. Your
friends respect you, but you suspect that one of them is not what they seem.
You keep a close eye on your back, because folks like you seem to always find a
knife poised to stab it.






Catelyn Tully
You're proud, strong, and honorable. Some might describe you as cold, but only those close to you get to witness the fire inside of you. You have a generous heart with those you love, but can be downright cruel to those you dislike. You follow your heart, rather than your head and this causes you endless grief. You love deeply, but you tend to hold a grudge. You admire beauty, but don't see it in yourself. Sigh. You could be great, if you'd stop worrying about whether your loved ones would approve.













Jaime gets a big pic because--well look at him!

Jaime Lannister

You’re a
doer, with a healthy appetite for everything. You are very close to your
siblings, and there’ve been rumors….but no matter what your eccentricities, no
one can deny you are an exciting friend and a nasty foe. The opposite sex is
drawn to your powerful personality, and members of the same sex are desperate
to be allowed in your inner circle, although they secretly hate you. You know
the difference between right and wrong, but when it comes to getting what you
want, you tend to step into the grey area between. I think you’re an asshole,
but I’d do you in a heartbeat. Oh…we were talking about you. My bad.
















[image error] Tyrion Lannister
You’re
insightful, curious, lusty and ambitious. A brilliant combination if you ask
me. You probably have a mediocre job, although you’re definitely deserving of a
more prominent position. You’re willing to do whatever is necessary to achieve
your goals, and there is nothing you’d consider too reckless if it meant getting
what you want. You know that no one gets to the top without leaving a few
bodies behind. You don’t feel guilty about that either. It’s just business as
far as you’re concerned. PS: Tyrion is near the top of my list, so….








Robert Baratheon
You’re a
tough but selfish person who likes to have what you want when you want it. You probably
have all you could possibly need and then some, but you are bored. Life at the
top isn’t as thrilling as you’d thought it would be. You’re about to
self-destruct, and the yes-men you’ve surrounded yourself with are only too
happy to let you do it.









Stannis Baratheon
People
think you’re a boring, anal asshat, and you know it. You feel the world owes
you something, but aren’t sure how to get what you feel is rightfully yours.
You let others do your dirty work, because your conscience won’t let you do it
yourself, but you’re neither bad nor good. You want to do the right thing, but
that requires you to take responsibility and you know that always ends in
disappointment. Sigh. You’re pathetic really.




Renly Baratheon
People
adore you. Without any effort, you draw them toward you and once they reach
your inner circle, they’re desperate to please you. The problem is, you don’t
realize how loved you are. You’re happy for the most part, but hide a dark side
that craves more. Given a bit of power, you’d be a force to fear. Too bad no
one takes you seriously. Or perhaps that’s just the way to get the power you
need.











Joffrey Baratheon
You are
fucked up. You probably tortured small animals and weak friends as a child. You
spend your days in a shitty job, making yourself feel better by plotting against
almost everyone around you. You’re an Internet troll, leaving racist, sexist,
or just plain obnoxious comments everywhere. You hate anyone more successful
than you, and probably hide out in your basement watching weird snuff videos.
You should just lock yourself up and save the cops the trouble of coming for
you.








Daenerys Targaryen

You’re a
spoiled Paris Hilton type. You think the world revolves around you and your
needs. In terms of career, it’s unlikely you work at anything more challenging
than Taco Bell or the Bikini Hut, but you don’t really like work anyway. You
have parents and lovers to take care of you. You’re a diva and text things like
“RAWWR!” to your BFF. On the other hand, people just seem to follow you despite
your empty head and shallow personality. They’re mentally and emotionally
challenged idiots, but they’re your
idiots and that’s all that matters.










Theon Greyjoy
No one can
trust you. You used to be a nice guy, but at some point you realized that was
getting you nowhere fast. Once you got that first promotion, you became a total
dick. You’re the guy that tells the boss what your coworkers are really doing
when they call in sick. You ratted out your siblings as a child and now, you
can’t wait for the chance to steal someone’s glory. You’re also a whiner. And
that’s annoying. It’s very likely someone will fuck you up at some point. And I
mean physically, like hospitalization or death fucked up. You need to find your
nice guy again, because seriously, we all hate you.
















Yes, Jon gets a big picture too. It's my blog.

Jon Snow
You’re shy,
but not weird shy. You have strong opinions, but don’t offer said opinions
unless asked. You’re intelligent and curious, and probably the smartest person
on the planet, although everyone underestimates you. Later, when they least
expect it, you and I shall take over the world. But shhh, for now. You come off
as distant and cold, but you’re a freaking animal in the sack. Don’t worry, we’ll
keep that between us for now.

















Cersei Baratheon (Lannister)
You’re
probably one of those nauseating soccer moms who rave over Fifty Shades of Crap
and go for facials and pedicures weekly. You own a minivan and knife your
friends in the back without blinking your perfectly made up eye. If you’re a
male Cersei fan, you’re one of those annoying mid-life crisis-types. You shout
a lot, tailgate cars ahead of you, and make good use of your middle finger. You’re
probably in a position of power, but not direct power. Think vice president and
assistant to the CEO. You’re probably divorced, and your love life is a fucking
nightmare to behold. People don’t really like you, but they pretend to just in
case you put your nasty target on their backs.




Varys
You’re
weird. Just weird. And also, you scare me. Get help.



















Brienne of
Tarth
You’re that
dependable, loyal friend everyone likes to take advantage of. You’re annoyingly
“proper” and hard-working. However, you’re the bitch I want beside me in a bar
fight or a divorce. Fiercely dedicated to those you care about, you’ll annihilate
anyone who crosses them. You’re into badass shit like parachuting or extreme weight
lifting, and probably work in a manual labor-type job. You just can’t let shit
go and have fun, and that’s seriously putting a damper on our friendship.














Sixteen, my ass.

Robb Stark
You’re
awesome. Loyal and just, you believe that folks will eventually get what’s
coming to them, be it bad or good. You’re up on current events. By that I mean
real events, not which celebrity filed for divorce, or what folks are prattling
on about in reference to the latest fad. Everyone likes you because you’ll
defend anyone you believe has been wronged, but you won’t back down from a
tough decision. Your ultimate goal is the top of the ladder, not the middle.
You’ll dump friends and walk over bodies if you must to get there. You know
what you want, and you aren’t afraid to take it. Rawr.












Sandor Clegane (The Hound)

You’ve
never been the most popular, and you don’t give a shit. You don’t want to be
popular, you want people to just leave you the fuck alone. Moody, angry and
sensitive; not the most stable combination. You remember every wrong done to
you, and odds are you’ve got a list of folks that need to get what’s coming to
them. As a friend, you’re loyal and protective, but your untrusting nature
makes it hard to stay friends. When someone crosses you, you don’t get mad. No,
you get even. Hey, we should hang out sometime.




Samwell Tarly
You’re so
fucking adorable I could just shit. But being squeezably cute has its
drawbacks. You see, you never seem to get laid. Your best friend is way better
looking and more interesting than you, so you always seem to get his/her
leavings, which aren’t usually up to your high dating standards. You don’t seem
to realize a little running and a lot less snacking would move you from
adorable to doable. Also, visit the dentist, lay off the beer and soda, and
stop that stuttering. Get a friend that is less attractive than you too. Here,
let me look after your ex-friend.














Hot damn, I wish someone would force me to marry this.

Khal Drogo
You’re probably
in a gang of some sort. Maybe bikers? You’ve got friends, but only because they’re
afraid you’ll kill them if they don’t hang out with you. You’re unpredictable,
moody, but pretty skilled in the art of lovemaking, although you like sex to be
your way all the time and that can become boring. You like to terrorize the
weak, and you idolize the strong. Secretly you hate yourself, but you’ll never
admit that. The opposite sex is terrified of you, yet they can’t seem to stay
away. You lucky psycho bastard.












Viserys Targaryen
You’re an
asshole.



















[image error] Ayra Stark
You’re the
underdog, but you keep fighting. You’re energetic, curious, but somewhat of a
loner. You don’t care for belonging in any group, but you want to find that one
true friend you can trust above all else. You’re naturally suspicious, and
trust isn’t a familiar feeling. People underestimate you, and that will be
their last mistake.














Sansa Stark
You’re naïve
and not a little bit spoiled. You enjoy the finer things in life, and believe
that everyone is inherently good. You try to be nice to everyone, because you
think that as long as you give them no reason to, people won’t harm you. You’re
a moron. Sorry.











Littlefinger

You crafty
little bastard. You’re not in a position of clear power, but you control
everything and everyone around you in some way. You’re shifty, cautious and
probably brilliant. Too bad you’re also insane. But that’s okay, insanity is a
form of genius, right?













I'm aware that I haven't listed Gendry or that disturbingly hot wierdo that kills people for Arya, but I don't have all day. Plus, if they're your favorite characters...well all but a tiny fraction of the stories must be immensely boring for you. So, who's your favorite? Am I right?

Did I just read that shit?

From the cover of Fifty Shades of Crap--Grey



When literature
student Anastasia Steele is drafted to interview the successful young
entrepreneur Christian Grey for her campus magazine, she finds him attractive,
enigmatic and intimidating. Convinced their meeting went badly, she tries to
put Grey out of her mind - until he happens to turn up at the out-of-town
hardware store where she works part-time.



The unworldly,
innocent Ana is shocked to realize she wants this man, and when he warns her to
keep her distance it only makes her more desperate to get close to him. Unable
to resist Ana’s quiet beauty, wit, and independent spirit, Grey admits he wants
her - but on his own terms.



Shocked yet thrilled
by Grey's singular erotic tastes, Ana hesitates. For all the trappings of
success – his multinational businesses, his vast wealth, his loving adoptive
family – Grey is a man tormented by demons and consumed by the need to control.
When the couple embarks on a passionate, physical and daring affair, Ana learns
more about her own dark desires, as well as the Christian Grey hidden away from
public scrutiny.



Can their relationship
transcend physical passion? Will Ana find it in herself to submit to the
self-indulgent Master? And if she does, will she still love what she finds?



Erotic, amusing, and
deeply moving, the Fifty Shades Trilogy is a tale that will obsess you, possess
you, and stay with you forever.




Obsess, possess and stay with me forever? Only because I can’t
get those hours of my life back. Where the hell do I begin with this one? Oy. I’ll
warn you now, there will be spoilers . Not that the book holds any surprises
anyway. But some of you might want to experience the horror fresh as I did.






Believe it or not, I do not like giving a negative review to
any book. I’ve resisted this series because I knew from the first lines I
wouldn’t like this book. But I had so many fans of the series saying “Oh, if
you’d just read it. You can’t say a book is crap unless you’ve read the entire
thing.” So, in that spirit, I read it and I’m personally offended that anyone
would think this is the kind of erotica a normal, grown woman would enjoy. It’s
not hot and it’s certainly not scandalous. The orginal intent was to review this for OFW’s Spotlight, but I
just can’t. The Edge is the better place for what I have to say about Fifty
Shades of Grey.



Okay, the characters:



Anastasia Steele is an insecure, unbelievable embarrassment
to the female population in general. If you like her, you are also an
embarrassment and I’m afraid we’ll have to break up. I just cannot be in a
friendship with someone who finds this girl relatable. It was nice knowing you.
Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.



But seriously, you expect me to relate to a twenty-something
virgin who has never masturbated? Right. But then again, she believes that
pigtails are a way of keeping a man’s carnal thoughts or something at bay, so I
suppose it’s possible she might believe that pleasuring herself is icky. She
blushes every other paragraph and refers to her naughty box as “down there.” And
while we’re on the subject of blushing, let’s get one thing clear, when you’re
in a character’s POV, said character can’t describe what she cannot see. Second,
she blushes crimson? Blushing the shade of crimson is impossible.



Ana is a useless waste of flesh. She’s indecisive, selfish,
immature, and doesn’t have an ounce of confidence. The only times she stands up
for herself are when it makes no sense to do so. She lets him spank her, but
argues about a new car. She allows him to insult and demean her, yet argues
about accepting a book. In terms of picking her battles, she’s dumb as a box of
hair.



But let’s leave poor, pathetic Ana alone. She’s barely able
to wipe her ass without fucking it up. We’ll move on to someone who can defend
himself. Christian Grey is a misogynistic, abusive, controlling piece of shit asshole.
His only redeeming qualities are that he’s hot (as we’re told ever 500 words or
so), he’s rich, has an enormous cock (although Ana has no frame of reference,
so I’m willing to bet he’s more of Joe Average Dick than Super Cock Man), and
he can make women orgasm on command. “You may come.” Really?! Thanks for giving
me permission. I'd have never figured it out on my own since good girls don't masturbate.



Christian is not attractive or appealing. I will not lay
awake at night touching myself while imagining him and his oversized unit. James tries to sell Christian
to the reader by having Ana go on and on about his charm and how "ridiculously
good-looking" and “hot” he is. The only thing about him that’s worth
dreaming about is his superpower. What superpower? Weren’t you paying
attention? Christian can control a
woman’s orgasm. Every time he orders it, Ana explodes in ecstasy a millisecond
after. When he tells her she’s not allowed to climax, she doesn’t. That is a kickass
superpower if you ask me. If I could just find out the radioactive material he
fell into to get it, I’d have my bikini and diving goggles ready.  Then I’d be on the street ordering every woman
to “come.” World peace would not be far away.


The other part of his supernatural what-the-fuck abilities
is how he’s able to orgasm and five minutes later be rock hard again. Mommies
out there, you know that is simply not physically possible, no matter how hot
you are. Stop dreaming. It’s time to face reality: Penises need time to…regroup.






And the repetition! I tried not to read this like a writer
but how am I to ignore the 80 times she says “Oh my” or the bazillion times she
says crap or holy whatever? I can’t ignore that. Of course, a man who can fuck
a girl so “hard” that he rips through her virginity and makes her climax on
command, only to take her from behind with his glorious erection not ten
minutes later might elicit a few “oh my’s.” Sadly, his “oh my” qualities are
cancelled out by the fact that he’s a total fucktard who I’d rather
neck-punch than sleep with.



Also, he is obsessed with Ana’s food intake and sleeping habits. Um…yeah. In their “contract” he asks that she exercise and be slim and in shape, but then he’s shoving food in her mouth all the damn time and fucking her until she collapses in exhaustion. Goodness I gotta get me one of those.



Mentioning these things once or twice would’ve made it clear he’s got a preoccupation with food, but no, James has to hammer the point home again, and again, and again…kind of like how Christian gives Ana pleasure. Just hammering away at her special place until she’s “shattered.”




Speaking of sex, this trilogy has been
given the tag “mommy porn” so let’s examine the porn factor.




Christian has a playroom. Seriously, he calls it his
playroom. Ana calls it the Red Room of Pain, or something like that. I refuse
to open the book again to check.






Were the sex scenes well written? The sex was boring. I’m
far from a sexual dynamo, but I’ve had better sex than I read in this book. I’m
positively vanilla when compared to some, but even compared to Christian and
Ana’s “kinky” sex, I’m a fucking revolutionary in the sack.



Simply put: The sex in FSOG is nothing scandalous and nothing
new. I suppose your response to the sex scenes depends on your
(limited) experience. For me, it was a lot of slamming, thrusting and spanking.
I mean, come on now. She’s a virgin, and yet she orgasms despite his hammering
her hymen into oblivion? The problem is that it’s just so unrealistic for
anyone who’s had sex with a man. Seriously. You don’t believe me? Let’s look at
a few lines:



“He kneels up and
pulls a condom on to his considerable length. Oh no…Will it? How?”
"Don’t worry," he breathes, his eyes on mine, "You expand too."



How does one "kneel up" anyway? Pulls a condom on. That’s interesting. Just what is “considerable
length” in inches? I’m curious. And yes, my dear Ana, his considerable length
will shred your insides when he slams it into you like the two-dollar whore you’re
so worried about becoming. How? Usually tab A goes into slot B and you go from
there.  And he's right, you'll expand. How romantic, eh? 






“I cry as I feel a
weird pinching sensation deep inside me as he rips through my virginity.”



That’s all you felt? Really, Ana? Ripping through your “virginity”
would not elicit a mere pinching. It would burn like the fires of Hell.



I’m sorry, I can’t buy into the myth that is Christian’s
sexual prowess. He’s a teenager stuck in a man’s body. Considering Ana’s never
had any sexual experience, not even with her own fingers, it’s hard to believe
her assertion that his little Mister is a gigantic beast of an organ.



Also a hand job with a soapy washcloth is asking for
trouble. That’s dangerous stuff to be jamming in your hoo-haw ladies, unless
you enjoy bladder infections and whatnot. Turns out that Ana is a bit of a
superhero too though. She’s got no gag reflex. Can you hear the men fighting to
get a piece of that action? That first ever blowjob is certainly praiseworthy.
She deep throats the shit out of his massive cock and she swallows. Well done, Ana the innocent. I am impressed. Kurt
would love to have your phone number, Miss Steele.




And then there’s the tampon scene. "He reaches between my legs and pulls on the blue string...what! And...gently pulls my tampon out and
tosses it into the nearby toilet."






I imagined it couldn’t possibly be as bad as everyone was
saying, but reading it, I realized that oh yes it is indeed a disturbing and
awful scene to behold. Not because I’m against sex during menstruation. That’s
fine. It’s great. Sometimes it’s fantastic. But keep your damn paws off my
tampon. There’s a line that just shouldn’t be crossed. Tampon pulling is on the
wrong side of that line. And the author must have missed health class in high
school. She’s got Christian all horned up over Ana menstruating because he can’t
get her pregnant so he won’t have to use a condom. How many of you know a girl
who believed that myth about not being able to get pregnant when you had your
period? Yeah, I know a couple…and their kids.



I can let crappy characterization go. I can even let stale,
shitty dialogue pass. I cannot let a shitty plot just sit there being shitty. There’s
no story. They meet, he controls, they fuck, he abuses, they fuck, he controls,
she cries, she runs, he stalks, they fuck, he abuses, she cries, one last fuck,
and they break up.



The message of this novel is that you CAN change an asshole if you do whatever he wants you to do.
We’re talking about a man who is emotionally and sometimes physically abusive.
She doesn’t like what he does to her. She flat out says it—wait, no. That’s not
right. She says she doesn’t like it, but she doesn’t hate it. Much more clear. Christian
is controlling, possessive, condescending, and just mean sometimes. Ana puts up
with him because she thinks if she can give him what he wants she’ll have
control over him. Does that work? Not in real life it doesn’t. This message is
irresponsible. How many women have already wasted their lives on some
emotionally retarded jackass like Christian because they think they’re living
in a fairy tale where their dreams will come true in the end? Far too many. “Oh,
if I could just find out why he is the way he is, I can save him and we can be
in love and have a future and oh my, I’m so fucking stupid.”



To be honest, Christian Grey makes Edward Cullen look good
to me. Yep. Don’t you roll your eyes at me. Ana is about as repulsive as Bella. They're not characters, they're husks.



A bestseller? Ugh.



What I thought as a writer:



The repetition in this book is unbelievable. Ana oh my’s,
craps, jeez’s, holy shit/fuck/cow/Moses/hell/craps, gasps, murmurs, whispers,
bites her lip, inner goddesses and subconsciously this or that’s more than
fifty times each in a single book. Some of these words/phrases appear more than
100 times, folks. 100. Times.



“May I suggest you do
some research, so you know what’s involved.” Christian says to Ana about
the contract and what being a submissive means. Ahem, may I suggest you do the same Ms. James?



I read an interview somewhere in which the James says she
didn’t research BDSM before writing this. Believe me, it shows. Did she research anything? I think
not, considering the WTF moments I experienced while reading. There are also
moments that are not only impossible, they’re inconsistent.





A girl that says whoa, hot and such repeatedly does NOT use
words like taciturn, nor does she refer to her brain as medulla oblongata. (which
for those not wanting to Google it, is the lower part of the brain stem
responsible for autonomic functions such as breathing, heart rate, digestion,
etc.)






Is the actual technical term for a butt plug a butt plug?
And what’s this about “preparing” one’s ass for anal sex? It’s not really a process
unless you’re training for the anal sex Olympics. Seriously, you can do it whenever
the urge takes you. A little lube and some care, and you’re good to go.
Research woman!






You should never flush a tampon. Jesus.






Christian tells Ana that he doesn’t play games. He fucks…hard.
Yeah, real hot, Mr. Grey. Real hot. You make my teeth sweat…and my palms itch.






Ana is thrilled at sucking on her very own Christian Grey
flavor Popsicle. Hmm. Not sure that flavor could take off in the real world.






If I ever hear anyone say “whoa” again, I’m going to shoot
them or myself. Not sure which yet.






PS: Kissing and biting toes is never erotic. Not at my
house. Ick.






And “Aargh?” What place does that word have in a sex scene?
She’s describing arousal and such, and the girl says “Aargh.” Thought I’d
wandered onto a pirate ship.






Laters baby? How about “Fuck off” asshat?






I wish she’d bite her fucking lip right off to be honest.






“Mewl.” Ugh.






If her inner goddess would just die, it would improve the
story immensely.






And let’s address this moth to a flame nonsense. Ana’s inner
dialogue repeatedly likens her relationship to Christian as like a moth to a
flame. First: Moths are not actually attracted to light or flames. It
temporarily stuns them, so they fly around blindly to get AWAY from the source
of their confusion. They are not attracted to it. Look it up.







Everyone is just calling each other baby all over the place
too. Aargh! I be gatherin my crew to make them all walk the plank if they be sayin baby one more time.






“It’s only just not
painful.” What does that even mean?






Her mother is on her fourth marriage, so Ana assumes she
must know something about men. Honey, if you’re on the fourth, you obviously
haven’t learned the basics about men and relationships.





Okay, I’m almost done. Overall the book reads like a teenager wrote it, and that's insulting to the intelligence of almost every teenager I know. I'm sorry, but it's the closest comparison I can make to the juvenile feel of the characters and the story. To top it all off, there's no real ending.
Sure, it’s the first in a series, but there should be some kind of conclusion. This
is just cutting the damn thing off at a convenient place and putting the rest
of the shitty "plot" in the next book.



Worst book I’ve ever read. It will remain Fifty Shades of
Crap—no wait. It has been retitled Fifty Shades of What the Fuck is this Shit and Why Did I Read It?

So You're Writing to Please Others?

Since
beginning this big bad journey I call writing, I’ve written a lot of shit about
a lot of shit. I’ve written posts and articles and stories that folks ate like
I wrapped them in bacon, and I’ve written things that didn’t go over quite so
well. Each time a particular piece bombs, I sit back and wonder, “Should I have
considered who might read this before I wrote it? Did I really want to piss people
off? Would a different angle have prevented a shit storm? Do I care?”



The
answers: Yes and no to all of it.



Like anyone
else, I don’t like to be yelled at IN ALL CAPS. I don’t like to be called
names. I don’t even like offending people. I know that’s surprising to some of
you, because I seem to go out of my way to do so, but I truly don’t enjoy
offending another person. It just seems to come as a package deal with honesty. I've learned to accept that not everyone will agree with me, and they don't have to.
On the other hand, I can’t tolerate whiners or sensitive jackasses who can’t
handle someone disagreeing with him.



I’m
constantly at odds with myself. I don’t want a shit storm, but I can’t write  about shit
and give it a sugar coating. Some writers though, oy. They go around constantly
hurt, angry or offended because someone didn’t like what they wrote. or because they don't like what another writer wrote. Did you
think it’d be all sunshine and roses and people would just love you forever and
ever? Did you think this industry was a big happy incestuous family where we all just oozed affection and positivity? Pfft. I don’t know what planet you grew up on, but here on Earth, folks
just aren’t made that way.



On the
Internet, anonymity makes people mean, stupid and dishonest. They’re out for
number one and they don’t give a shit what you feel or think. This is their
stage, and the comments box is their spotlight. They don't want you stealing their thunder with your kickass writing. It’s the same for everyone.
When we comment on a blog or article, we know any number of people might read
that comment. I’ll be honest, I kind of like that, and I do hope they enjoy
what I had to say in my 50 words of fleeting fame. If I go back and someone else makes a better comment, I'm kind of disappointed that mine wasn't as good. I momentarily hate said commenter for their awesomeness, and I go back to my life.



But I’m not
commenting to get read specifically. In fact, I usually only comment
if I have something to add. Now my blog and my articles are something
different. I write about what interests me. People don’t always like it, but I
write anyway. It might not always bring something new to the table, but that
doesn’t really concern me. I’m writing about these things because they
interest  or amuse me. If you all like it, then that's a bonus.



You should never write anything online to please other people because most of the time you’re
going to get it wrong. Whether you’re writing fiction, articles, blog posts or
tweets and status updates, write what you truly think and feel, and write about
what pleases you. People respond better to genuineness than they do to pretension.
Even if you’re a genuine asshole, it’s better than being a phony piece of shit.
Am I right?



But writing
to please yourself is harder than you might think. I still find myself writing
things I shouldn’t because I’m trying to please the masses and get that much-sought-after
back-patting. I've taken paragraphs out of this post that were a little ass-kissy. I want someone to say, "Great post." It really sucks when you don't get that. *sigh*



But upon editing (believe it or not, I do edit these more than once) I ask myself a few questions and most of the post gets deleted. Fun Fact: Most of my blog posts are twice as long as what actually gets published.




So ask
yourself why you’re writing whatever it is you’re writing before you click "submit" or "publish." 



In terms of
articles, blogs, and fiction, my first answer is always money. Am I going see compensation in some way for this? Why? Because
writing is my day job too. I write about what I love, hate and I write about things
I really have no feelings on one way or the other. If it pays enough, I will
write it. I have bills and hungry bellies expecting me to fill them. I do what
I gotta do to get shit done. I think it’s fantastic that I get paid for “words.” How awesome is
that? People pay me to do what I would do for free. Mind you, I would not be writing about the side effects of mixing cocaine and heroine or the germinating of some obscure plant I couldn't give a shit about, but for the right amount of money, I'm your boring article girl.




So,
hell yeah, I write for money. I don’t care if you or you think I’m full of it
and want to shit-bomb my house because of what I write. I’ll keep writing if they keep paying.



I do write
for free too, obviously. Those ten manuscripts I’m querying were a completely
voluntary effort, but I expect to receive compensation at some point for them.
If not for the money, I’d have had those bad boys posted everywhere for
everyone to read.



So, if I’m
not willing to give my work away, and you aren’t willing to give yours away,
then why are you writing? Money, pleasure, satisfaction…it's all about me. (or you) Come
on. Anyone writing to publish dreams of that paycheck, however small it may be.
Therefore, you write for…you. It’s a completely selfish endeavor. You’re not
writing that blog about writing to help me or the newb behind me. Not really. You’re writing it to
show everyone what you know and what you have to offer that's different than the thousands of others like you. When people see that you’re knowledgeable, interesting, and
trustworthy, they become curious. Perhaps they follow you for a while (online, I
mean) and so you have another little minion to add to your collection who might buy
your work whenever it does get published. I’m writing this post right now
because I hope to spark enough interest in at least one of you to convince you
to click that “Follow this blog” button on the sidebar. One more to add to my little
batch of followers so that when a prospective agent comes over to the Edge, she’ll
see that not only am I a rambling, moody bitch, but goddamn it, people like me
too. Well, at least 114 people like me.



Sometimes
you hit gold and get tons of love in the comments section. Or a brief moment
of inspired genius creates 140 characters that 200 people retweet. Oooh, you’re
so awesome and smart and they adore you! Yeah, well consider that someone
loving you because of a few hundred words written in a flurry of “I’m so fucking
bored I could shit so I’ll write a blog post” feelings is kind of like my
daughter saying she loves chickens because their nuggets are so tasty. I mean,
if that chicken love was true love, she wouldn’t eat their nuggets, would she? If
so, what’s to stop her from tasting the other things she loves? This is why I sleep with a weapon. You never know...



Oops,
totally self-indulgent tangent. Was it fun for you too? No? Oh, that’s too bad.
I rather enjoyed it.



I know we
all have a complex list of reasons for writing each and every piece from novel
to blog comment. It's not as simple as "I'm writing this because I want to." I believe that you want to help people. I don't doubt that you shared a link on Twitter because you think people should read it, and I know that you
truly feel that the shithead that commented before you needs a new asshole torn
for bullying the writer of a particular blog. I get it. I do the same thing.
However, there is always one constant in everything we write and that’s us. We
do this because we want to, need to, love to. We are motivated by our own desires
and goals.



If you
write for the approval of strangers, you’re going to end up a loser every
time. People will see that you’re not genuine and they love to attack that. It
doesn’t matter if your fake persona oozes love and joy, they’ll eat you for
breakfast. The only strangers you should want to impress are publishers,
editors and agents. Outside of that useful love, keep the ego in check by reminding
yourself the true reason you write: To please yourself.

Why I Avoid Social Events In This Town

So the
other night I went to an “author” evening at the Tweed library, where Michael
Ondaatje (squee!) and his wife Linda Spalding (also a fantastic author) were
reading from recent works and speaking. To say I was excited would be an
understatement. Michael Ondaatje is one of my heroes. I absolutely love his
work.




Anyway, the
reading was scheduled for 7pm, so I thought arriving at 6:30 would ensure a
good seat without making me look like a total fan girl. My mom, whom I guilted
into coming along, met me at my place around six. We thought we’d have time to
pick up coffee and then walk back, but as we passed the library, there was a
sea of white hair, the muted colors of fancy “casual” clothes, and Birkenstocked
feet at the side of the building. Well shit. We went to get our coffee anyway
because I wasn’t done my smoke and I suspected I needed the caffeine and the
nicotine together.



By 6:15 we
were inside the building, only to find the front half of the room full. Either
people were seated, or they’d stuck items there to “reserve” their seats. I
instinctively moved to the chairs covered by a scarf. Fuckers think a scarf is
going to keep their seats? Pfft. Then I looked at my mom. Her deer in the
headlights stare warned me that a “scene” might be the end of her. Mom’s been
through enough lately, so I chose a seat behind the scarf seats. I wanted to be
close to the wretch who so rudely kept me from the center of the room, denying
me the perfect seat. Yes, I clench my teeth just thinking about it.



Anyway, I
observed the crowd as I waited. Aside from a couple of teens that came with their
mother, I think I might have been the youngest one there. But that’s okay. I
was also the second or third hottest. What really interested me was the small town
dynamic rearing its ugly head again. Mind you, there were a handful, perhaps two, of people there who were delightful folks. Kind, considerate, honest and truly interested in the arts and Ondaatje and Spalding's work. Other than those few, I was surrounded by the very element of
Tweed society I loathed: The folks who fancied themselves “cultured” simply
because they threw copious amounts of money at anything that might be
classified as part of “The Arts.” The ones that talked down and through their
noses, and only acknowledged my existence after I started living with Kurt, who
apparently has the “right” last name, although they had no clue who he was on a personal level. Hell, I’ve lived here my whole life, and
it wasn’t until then that many of these shits said a single word to me other
than, “Mmm-hellooo, can I have a….” as I worked some cash register somewhere. Fucktards.



Oh yes, the
farmers’ wives, the glorified cashiers, and the bored middle-aged housewives
were all in attendance. Their male counterparts, most of whom I recall spending
many an evening sloshed out of their knowledgeable skulls, hitting on anything with a vagina, during my time at the
Tweedsmuir, sniffed and preened at their
obvious sophistication. I noticed one man, seated next to a woman - was she his mother or his wife? He had that 40-year-old virgin look about him, but she kept touching his back, and he kept shrugging her off, so I wasn't sure. I puzzled this for a while, probably staring blatantly at them, but then I heard a voice behind me, “What’s the author’s
name?”


What’s that
now? Hold the fucking phone. What’s the author’s name?! I took a breath. My mom
started looking deerish again, and I smiled. “Probably can’t read it.” I
muttered, but real quiet-like, so as not to embarrass my poor mother. Then I
slouched in my hair and played with a loose thread on my shirt. I looked down
once or twice to make sure my bra was still creating imaginary cleavage, and
flicked a freckle that looked suspiciously like a flea.




And we
waited, being stupid-ass early and all, so I checked my phone, shut off the
sound and tried to figure out how to shut off the picture sound too. My phone
makes this beep and click sound when you take pictures. No, I didn’t manage to
shut that off. More on that later.



Now the
woman seated ahead of me, scarf woman, sat down and every fiber of my being
screamed “Faaaaack!” I realized I loathed this woman long before the scarf. If
you want a person that embodies every evil, snotty trait a female can have,
while not really being attractive or rich enough to justify said traits, this
is that woman. She sits and looks around, her bird-like face and beady eyes
scanning the room. Once or twice her nose curls as she settles on something
particularly distasteful, but then she stands, replaces the scarf and walks
away. Oh how I wanted to move that damn scarf and sit in one of those chairs. I
wanted to kick her fancy water bottle at the wall and step on her ugly as shit
sunglasses that turned her bird face into a fly face. But for my mom’s sake I
didn’t.



Bird woman
returns with her hubby, a nice enough man if a little strange. But then, to
live with bird woman, one would have to be a bit on the crazy side. She sits in
the seat beside the one she had previously, because the seat on the other side of that seat is
empty. She scowls at the man who would dare sit right next to her original
spot, like his commonness might somehow taint her flabby, snooty body. Yes, I
watched her arm pit flab squish and squash for a long while. I don’t know why,
but I couldn’t look away. She wore one of those hippie-like sundresses that only look good on...nobody. Every time she sat back, it squished out the side. When she
brushed her carefully cut and highlighted hair from her eyes, it squashed out the bottom. I
stared at that until I noticed the stubble at the back of her neck. One should
not cut one’s hair quite that short if one has a monkey neck. Just saying. Also
said neck stubble revealed that her strawberry tresses weren’t as natural as
she’d like us to believe.



Anyway,
Ondaatje and Spalding enter the room and after a long, but sweet intro, Spalding gets up
to read first. The woman has a musicality to her writing and her voice you don't often get to experience. I listened
completely enthralled…until bird woman jerked her head around to give the guy two seats to my right a nasty look. You see, he dared to type into his Blackberry while
Spalding was speaking.  I wouldn't have noticed but for bird woman's violent body movements. He seemed to be taking notes, because he’d look up for a
bit, then furiously type away. I saw nothing wrong with it, because the beeps
were soft and we could still hear the author clearly. But bird woman was
disgusted. She turned around a few more times, reminding me of an ostrich the
way she elongated her neck and pointed her face, blinking big dark, empty eyes
at him. I almost expected her to squawk. She tsked and ahemmed, but he didn’t
stop. I thought to myself "Either get some balls and say what's on your mind, or keep your fucking eyes forward, you distracting bitch." I did not say this out loud. Think of my mother!



I sat on my
hands to suppress the urge to punch her in the neck. Then, when the man hadn’t
even beeped for like five minutes, she turned again and tried to stare him into
oblivion. He didn’t look at her once, much to her dismay.



Spalding
finished, and I vowed to buy her book. I can’t wait to dig into it by the way.
Then Ondaatje stood. As he read from his latest book, I listened to his
beautiful accent, and got lost in the magical storytelling that is Ondaatje’s
specialty. Can’t wait to dig into that one either...okay, I've already started reading it.



Part way
through Ondaatje’s reading, I glanced down and what I saw nearly had me out of
my chair screaming. Bird woman’s husband had removed his shoes. Who does that? You? We're no longer friends.




Seriously, though. He sat there,
not two feet from me, with nasty bare feet planted on the shiny white tiled floor. The
toenails were longish and curled down at the end, and the wrinkles around the
soles of his feet both horrified and puzzled me. The tops were tanned like
leather, while the soles and heel were pink as a baby’s bottom. *shudder* I looked at my
mom and she giggled. Bird lady made to turn, then must have thought better of
it. Yeah, that’s right bitch. Just try to evil eye me or my mother. I’ll fucking blind you for your trouble.


She glanced
at hubby's feet, then to the sandals in his lap. She evil eyed him, but he was
all “la-di-da, I’m so nice and I can’t see beyond my pink happy haze,” so she
looked away. I think he smokes pot. He looks like that type. Not that there's anything wrong with that. I should smoke pot.



Moving on...




Once
Ondaatje finished reading, the floor was opened for questions. Not literally
mind you. We were just allowed to ask the authors questions. The floor didn’t
open up. That would have been cool though. So, yeah. Anyway, I thought it’d be
a good time to snap a picture. “Beep-beep-click” went my camera and bird woman
swung her ugly face around so fast, I could feel the breeze. My mom’s hand
fluttered near my arm, as though to hold me back should she have to. I stared
at bird woman and smiled. “Oops.”



She sighed
a disgusted sigh and turned back around. “Yeah, fuck off.” I muttered just loud
enough to reach her ears, but not loud enough to give her the gumption to
confront me. I might have called her a twat, but I think only my ears heard
that one.



So then a
few questions flew around, and Ondaatje and Spalding gave both thoughtful and
thought-provoking answers. I liked how Spalding described feeling lost after
finishing a novel, not quite ready to start something new, yet needing to let
the finished one go. Ondaatje said he felt plotting the entire novel beforehand
requires an awful lot of faith in oneself. Of course, he admitted writing on
the fly did require more editing, but that’s how he liked to work. I totally
understood how he could enjoy beginning a novel without knowing what the second
sentence would be, much less the last one, and how that is both terrifying and
exciting.



Bird woman
kept nodding, but I think she might have a disorder, because she didn’t nod
when it made sense to do so, just when they spoke. So like…all the time.


Then a
strange looking man stood and asked a long, rambling question  (actually he lost me about half way through his spiel) and told them
they had two options for an answer. Bird woman glared at him, although I’m not
sure why. I mean, no one really understood the question. Maybe that’s what
condemned him. Confusion is pretty infuriating. Ondaatje won my heart when he
said that he had no idea what the man was asking. Spalding, smart as a whip,
clarified and summarized the rambling nonsense into a basic idea: Would self-publishing
eliminate traditional? In short, her answer was no. Spalding didn’t feel that
self-publishing hurt traditionally published authors at all. Traditional
publishing will adapt and change and it will endure. The only people hurt by
the self-publishing boom, in her opinion (and mine) are the readers. When you
have anyone and everyone publishing a book, regardless of whether they should
be allowed to put pen to paper or not, then the reader is left to wade through
the piles of crap just to find that gem. The reader is the one that is
overwhelmed, not us.



Amen,
sister! Amen.




Bird woman
looked confused and angry again. I thought I’d like to kick her right in the
back. Just bam! She’d fly forward, maybe hit her buck teeth on the chair in
front of her, maybe even smash her big nose. Maybe blood would spray
everywhere, hitting the obscure question guy. I’m sure he’s a germ-phobe with a
million OCD tendencies. He’d scream like a girl and run, arms flailing, from
the room. Bird woman’s husband would stand over his wife and say “oh dear,” and
she’d be all screaming, saying something like, “Oh she kicked me.” I’d blink my
baby blues innocently, flash some dimples as I smile shyly and say, “I was just stretching my legs. They are awfully
long, and this space is really tiny.” and the others around us, not wanting a
scene would be all, “Of course you did dear. It was clearly an accident” as
they slowly moved out of my way. Later they’d walk away, whispering about how
this town has gone to shit and how women like me shouldn’t be allowed out in
public. Sigh. But I didn’t do any of that. Jesus, I’m not a violent person. Not
without the proper motivation anyway.



So with
questions over, much laughter ensued and we moved to the library’s main room to
buy books and get them signed. There are two doors out of the meeting room, so
I took the one closest to the book table. I wanted one of each book of course.
We stood in line, third place actually, when a voice from behind me is all “This
line is going to have to move. There is no room to get out the door. Hello, you’ll
have to move.”



I turned to
find a oldish, largish, sourish woman shoving at my friend’s back. I was like,
hell no. This is my limit. But, always in control of my temper, I said, “Isn’t
there two doors? Use the other one…since there is no other place to put the line.”
I might have dropped an f-bomb. I'm not really sure. I don't think I did, but sometimes they drop without me noticing. You know how it is.




Anyway, the woman shut her pie hole, but continued to push her largish tits into my
friend’s back. God I hate how women with big tits get all "I'm gonna push you with my tits." What's that about? Ugh. Also, I'm a little jealous of said tits. I won't lie. Don't go rubbing it in that you've got a built in chest weapon. I get it. I see them. Move along now, you and your pushy tits.




So I bought my books and we went outside for a much-needed cigarette
so that perhaps the signing line might free itself of assholes in our absence. I
hoped old, sour big tits left by the time we got back. I played the kicking
scenario again in my head with her taking bird woman’s place. It wasn’t quite
as appealing without the husband saying “oh dear” rather uselessly. With OCD rambling question guy gone, we'd lose that comedic element too.



My mom went
home, not interested in a signed book apparently, and I returned to the library
with my friend. Oh yeah, a friend met me at the event. Did I mention that? She’s
a writer too and great fun and not at all offended by my bursts of bad temper. Anyway, we got our
books signed, I shook my hero’s hand, my wallet was $44 lighter, and
then we passed the donation jar. While many of the attendees did not buy a
book, they did plop good-sized amounts into those jars. All I had left was a toonie,
and I felt the disgust-filled stares burning a hole in my back as I dropped it
in. I almost took the toonie back just to spite them. But I didn’t. That would be wrong.



We left the
library to the hoards artsy fartsy types, and had a smoke while discussing the night’s activities.
New treasures clutched tightly to my chest, I vowed that unless Stephen King
came, I’d never go out to an “arts” event again in Tweed…until it’s me speaking
of course. I cannot wait to see them turn out for what I have to say.

Arg, I be a Pirate, eh!

Travis McCrea came across my radar because someone shared a
link on Facebook. When I clicked the link I thought this guy is an asshole. To
my dismay I realized he was a Canadian asshole. Jeeze. But hey, he’s got some
admirable skills. I like how he manipulates words to justify his actions. If I
were stupid, I might buy what he’s selling…erm, or rather I’d take what he’s
stealing and then giving away.



Travis runs two sites he calls “a book sharing website and a movie discovery website.”
See how those words sound so harmless? The problem is that legitimate book sharing
sites share books that are not pirated. Same with the movies. If you want to go the honest route, try this Travis, “I
run a piracy site in which I copy books and give them away, thus stealing money
from the writers’ pockets, because they want to continue to write and work
their day jobs. They love working for free. I’m quite proud of myself because I
like to be called a pirate. All morons love to be called pirates. It makes us
feel important and sexy.”



He says his site works like a library, lending books to
folks who have the hardcopy but want a digital copy or lending books to folks
who want to check out a new author. You’re not lending the books. You’re
copying them and then giving them away. Sorry, Travis, libraries don’t work
that way.



If you’re a library, when a user 'borrows' an ebook, the
file is then disabled on the server until one of two things happens: the reader
is finished with it and returns it, or it expires. You, on the other hand, let
hundreds of users download the book and keep it forever. Libraries buy each
ebook they stock. If they stock five copies of one book, they pay for all five
copies. Just as they do with paper books. Does Travis’s site work this way?
Does Travis pay for every book he has on his site? No. He does not. Here’s the
difference between Travis and a library: An author gets paid when his books are
in a library. An author does not get paid when Travis gets his grubby hands on the
book.



Although Travis calls his website the “Ultimate EBook
Library,” it’s not. Permission is not obtained from the publisher or the author
before posting books. We call that pirating. That’s okay though, Travis and his
friends like to be called pirates. They are pretty clear about that on the blog linked to the site:





“Are you
upset by the copyright monopolists destroying the websites you love, or do you
run a website which you are debating taking offline because of the legal or
financial pressure of running a website which could be seen as legally
questionable? Patriots of the Digital Revolution, the organization which runs
The Ultimate Ebook Library and TorMovies.org is looking to expand it’s network
to include another torrent or cyberlocker website and rescue it from being
deleted by it’s admins.”




First, Patriots,
can I offer you some tips? Read the fucking books you’re pirating and learn
some grammar and punctuation, eh? I mean “it’s network?” Try “its network” and
you might be right. Oy. Second, copyright monopolists? You mean the owners of the
shit you’re stealing, right? The people whose hard work and imagination created
what you enjoy? Oh them. Fucking bastards they are for wanting to be
compensated for their work.







“We
believe that sharing culture is a right and is a morally positive thing to do,
and we are ready to take on the lawyers, the monopolists, and any other person
who would like to stand in the way of sharing culture. We have created a
censorship resistant array of servers all over the world; we have made friends
with lawyers, accountants, political figures and some religious figures to help
keep us safe; we have a line of succession as well, so if our leader is
arrested, someone else will be able to take over management duties of the
websites.”





Um…yeah.
Religious friends? They’ll keep you safe? You have far more faith in religion
than I do. Last I checked, they weren’t the ones handing out the handcuffs, but
you never know. You have a line of succession? That’s fantastic! So they’ll
have lots of people to haul away. Maybe you guys can be roomies when the shit
hits the fan. How very typical of assholes to romanticize their illegal activities.





“The
Pirate Bay might be the most resistant resistant website on the Internet, but
Patriots of the Digital Revolution has the most censorship resistant server
array that you have never heard of. We are ready to increase the size of our
network and save sites from being taken offline. It’s time we make our stand
against the abusive laws and powers from the United States and say “This is our
Internet, this is our culture, and you will not take this away from us!”



“Resistant
resistant website?” Interesting and confusing. Censorship resistant? What does
that even mean? It is not censorship
to demand that you pay for a product. It’s called commerce. Heard of that? It’s
called I put in time, materials and energy to make a product to sell, you want
it, so you pay me for my work and the time and materials used to make it. And I
love that ebook thieves try to justify their actions by comparing book piracy
to music piracy. You’re right. It is the same thing. And copying either one is
illegal. You’re stealing someone’s work. You have no moral right to someone
else’s hard work.


What do the
American laws have to do with anything? “Our” Internet? No one can really claim ownership of the Internet. But even if it were "ours", explain how that makes
theft okay? The laws aren’t taking your rights away, Travis. The laws are
there to protect honest folks. And they're not demanding a lot of you. They're telling you to ask before you take something that belongs to someone else. Once you
have their consent, share away. What’s so unfair about that?




Do these guys
even know how much the average traditionally published author makes on a single
book? Cents. Unless they’re Stephen King (and maybe even then) they make a
royalty that works out to less than a dollar per book most of the time. So
because that author was paid less than a dollar for the first copy, the rest of
the copies of his book should be free? It takes an author months, sometimes
years to write a single book. Countless hours are spent writing, plotting, and
editing to put that book on the shelf. You expect to be paid for your hours at
work, why should an author not want the same. Because it’s a book means it
doesn’t have the same value as other work? The reason that some of your
favorite authors aren’t writing anymore is because they can’t afford to. It
costs too much for them to bother. Sad, isn’t it?




On the increasing price of books (both paper and digital), I’m sure I don’t have to explain the cost of doing business and how that reflects in pricing, do I? Oh, in that case, let’s put it as simply as we can. When people shoplift items from stores, the cost of that stolen merchandise is not absorbed by the seller; it trickles down to the consumer. You see, stores price their product with enough of a markup to account for stolen items. Each year they look at average sales, costs and losses (that’s the shoplifted stuff) and they adjust the prices accordingly to make up the lost profits. Same with books, folks. The more books you steal—ahem, I’m sorry—copy illegally, the higher the price goes. Authors have no say in pricing, unless of course they’re self-published. Keep it up and books will be too expensive for even the honest folks.



“Patriots
of the Digital Revolution is proud to announce a new server has been added to
it’s array of censorship resistant of servers. The server name for this box has
been named: “Koontz” after the author.”



I’m sure Mr. Koontz
is flattered, fucknut.



Embracing the digital age does not mean you should have
everything online for free. Jesus, folks, you act like spoiled children
thinking you’re entitled to someone else’s hard work. You’re not. The Internet
and all it contains will not be free forever. Get that through your heads now.
Eventually, thanks largely to idiots like you who think you can just take
whatever you want because hey, the creator earned money once on it and I
shouldn’t have to pay for what’s already been sold, everything online will come
at a price. Everything. Including Twitter, Facebook, Blogger, Wordpress,
Pinterest, and such. Because you think you should have what you want when you
want it at no cost whatsoever, we will all pay in the end. It will happen. It’s
already starting.



There’s a little cartoon on Travis’s Facebook page. It’s
amusing, if you like nonsense and bullshit. What it boils down to is an attempt
to defend his dishonest activity. Copying
is not theft because it makes one more, not one less? What the hell is wrong
with your head? What school did you go to, so I can avoid sending my kids
there. Their math curriculum leaves something to be desired. When you copy my
book, you do make one less. One less sale. One less royalty. One less book for
which I’ll be paid for. You say copying my work should be fine because now you
have a copy and I do too. Actually, I like that math. I’m going to go out
tomorrow and copy all my favorite clothes and my favorite house and…wait, that’s
ridiculous. Exactly.



So what about the
legality? What about the risk of prosecution. Pfft. They’re not at all worried.
No one’s prosecuted them yet. McCrea and his pals like to point out that they don’t
have to follow US copyright laws because they’re based in Canada. Well guys,
Canada has some laws too. We’re not that fucking backward.


Let’s look at
Canada’s copyright law a bit, shall we? As to being exempt to American laws,
take a close look at “e” okay?




“27.
(1) It is an infringement of copyright for any person to do, without the
consent of the owner of the copyright, anything that by this Act only the owner
of the copyright has the right to do.








Secondary infringement



 (2) It is an infringement of
copyright for any person to



 (a) sell or rent out,



 (b) distribute to such an extent as
to affect prejudicially the owner of the copyright,



 (c) by way of trade distribute,
expose or offer for sale or rental, or exhibit in public,



 (d) possess for the purpose of doing
anything referred to in paragraphs (a) to (c), or



 (e) import into Canada for the
purpose of doing anything referred to in paragraphs (a) to (c), a copy of a
work, sound recording or fixation of a performer's performance or of a
communication signal that the person knows or should have known infringes
copyright or would infringe copyright if it had been made in Canada by the
person who made it.



Knowledge of importer



(3)
In determining whether there is an infringement under subsection (2) in the
case of an activity referred to in any of paragraphs (2)(a) to (d) in relation
to a copy that was imported in the circumstances referred to in paragraph
(2)(e), it is irrelevant whether the importer knew or should have known that
the importation of the copy infringed copyright.”



That’s not the
whole law in all its glorious detail. It’s just a section pertaining to general
copyright infringement. But I think it’s rather clear. What they do is not legal in Canada either.


On his blog Travis writes:




“What I am doing is morally right. I am brining joy
and happyness to people. If that breaks a law, then you can lock me up. The
true beauty is that even locked up, you cannot stop TUEBL and you also cannot
stop me from participating in culture. As long as I can write letters, blogs
will go out and I will keep fighting for the freedom of individuals.”



 Last I checked, “bringing”
has a “g” in it and “happiness” is NOT spelled with a “y,” even in Canadian
English. But that’s being petty, isn’t it? If the man doesn't read what he steals, who am I to judge?



The thing is, it’s not morally
right, Travis. Perhaps to your own moral code it is, but not to mine, or the
Canadian government’s, or most readers. The thing is, you speak for the
minority when you say you’re fighting for the freedom of individuals. The
majority of readers out there do not agree with you.



Perhaps our
criminal justice system is more concerned with other types of criminals, but
don’t worry Travis, I’m sure they’ll get around to you eventually. You’re not
afraid of the law though. “Come and get me” you say. I am rather curious to see
what happens if you have to actually do some jail time. You know, like in a
real jail with folks who might not like your little “Arg, I’m a virtual pirate,
don’t ya love me?” act. How much of that swagger will dissipate when Bubba
Convict decides he likes the looks of your tight little pirate ass? But surely
it’ll never come to that. You steal ebooks. It’s not like you’re a murderer. I’m
sure there’s no worry of jail time.



Because I know some out there will regurgitate the free
copies mean publicity argument, let’s address that too. File sharing and free copies do help
authors build a reader base. It’s a good marketing tool when used properly.
However, it is the artist’s decision whether or not she should use that tool.
It is not Travis McCrea’s decision, and it’s not up to the many others like him
who’ve decided it’s their right to just give away shit they’ve stolen. If the
artist does not want to share her books for free, then that’s her right. It’s her property, her work. It’s the reader’s right to decide he doesn’t want to pay
for her books. If he opts not to pay, then he just doesn’t read them. Period. He
can go read the hundreds of authors who choose to list their books for free
instead. See how that works in an agreeable and legal way for everyone?



Embracing the digital age does not mean you should have
everything digital for free. Jesus, folks, you act like spoiled children
thinking you’re entitled to someone else’s hard work. You’re not. The Internet
and all it contains will not be free forever. Get that through your heads now.
Eventually, because idiots like you think you can just take whatever you want
because hey, the creator earned money once on it and I shouldn’t have to pay
for what’s already been sold, everything online will come at a price.
Everything including Twitter, Facebook, Blogger, Wordpress, and such. Because
you think you should have what you want when you want it at no cost whatsoever,
we will all pay in the end. It will happen. It’s already starting.



Look, I’m not
thinking I can stop piracy. I don’t believe I alone will stop the Travis McCrea’s
of the world. I live in reality and I know that’s impossible. It sickens me
that he hides behind the Canadian flag and attacks the American legal system to
defend his crimes. Yes, crimes.



My goal isn't to
stop HIM or anyone like him. My goal is to make at least one reader say, "Hm, I didn't think
about it that way. I'd rather pay for the book, or find an author who offers
her work free of charge. I’d like to be part of the solution, not the problem."