Does This Depression Make Me Look Fat?

I think it has been a bittersweet couple of weeks. There needs to be more activity here, and so I should provide it. The bitter part is staring down the barrel of Winter. However, the sweet part was seeing my high school friend and his wife in Madison, WI a weekend ago. Grass always seems greener when you walk off your property, which is usually used (I’ve noticed) to discourage you from doing something new. I think it’s better used as fair warning, to really make sure you’re making a calculated risk. Anyone travel anywhere recently?

The other sweet part is I have written some more. The sentences aren’t strung as cleverly as I enjoy, but I’m trying to keep Kurt Vonnegut’s advice in my head:

Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven’s sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possible can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.

And a chunk of what I’ve been writing:

We stop near a large portcullis and even larger pegged wheel, and I stare at Molvin until he wiggles out of his nest in the back. Grabbing the moist boards of the wheel, he cranks and grunts for the better part of a minute. The barely-lit sewer painted a lively picture which entertained me as I listened to his incessant bitching. Water reflected movement all around me, and slid across the walls of the sewer from the manmade river underground. The long pools wave in strange formations.

Inside and out, the moving wall mosaic had a pleasant rhythm, exciting and returning for encore. The grunting mule behind me was too busy to observe anything. Balancing himself horizontal to the ground by his stomach, he crunches his stomach a few times in a fruitless wiggle. The best that comes of it is a clinks of the chains wrapped around the wheel.

Two tunnels down, the lights stop. It shimmers momentarily and stops again. Staring made the made the light return. Returning my attention to Molvin, I whip my head back to the same spot. Black. “Move,” I mutter, “move, move, move, please move.”

“Ye git dan h’re an’ help den, Jesh!” Molvin’s ruddy face cranes from its parallel position to shout profanity at me and I jump out of the driver seat.

“Damn the gods, Molvin, do I have to do everything myself?” Maybe that was my anxiety getting the better of me but there’s no retraction after that.

“I s’pose ye do, now help!” Quitting the acrobat routine Molvin crouches at the rotten straw near the mechanism.

“Fine, if it gets us closer to the bath house.” Sliding down the seat my approach to the wheel is quicker than I would normally perform. Waiting for Molvin to stop his intermittent bitching, I dig my feet hard into the rocks. The portcullis moves in screams as we strain to roll the wheel in motion. A feeling of nausea tingles in my nose as I close my eyes softly and whimper but we continue until a pawl prevents it from falling at the top. The halls return to the quiet display it once was. Swallowing hard, little prompts me to press on through the gate.

Copyright © 2016 Corvidae in the Fields

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Sunday, May 25th, 2014 – Why Do You Write?

It would seem bad form not to tell you the results of my letter writing campaign to the Ohio House of Representatives. Out of 99 representatives contacted, only 4 had replied with an actual response. There were 5 others who had the auto-response system set up, but that’s not really acceptable. Of those 4 representatives who took the time to respond, only one was longer than two sentences. Even though he wasn’t my district representative, I enjoyed our conversation. Funny how ten sentences can brighten one’s day.

Now, on with the blog hop as requested by Laura Lynn from  Cancer: My Journey Back to Health-Kicking & Screaming the Whole Damn Way. Yeah, it’s a chain post and I’m not huge on them, but it’s Laura Lynn. She has been nice to me for as long as I’ve known her.

What am I working on?

In the short-term nothing. I’ve picked up a new organization (BNI) in April, which has some elements of Kiwanis/Rotary International without the community outreach element. I think of it as a business dating service where the “dates” are referred business. You get to know and trust the people in your group and refer clients in need of member services to them. Most members are local merchants anyway. So, you’re helping out people in your community get more business to stay in business. This has taken much of my time in the past five weeks, and I don’t regret it.

In the long-term, I’ve always got My City by the Bay, which I haven’t finished. It’ll need a new title (sorry, Steve Perry). I stopped when I hit a logic gap in a pursuit scene. The back of my mind has been telling me that no seasoned detective would let the suspect drive off after he visited his girlfriend’s apartment. They could question the girlfriend later, if they lose him but they need to follow the suspect further. Personally, with all of the writing improvements I’ve learned in the past year, I’d like to rework the entire story including a VERY edgy part that dealt with bigotry and racism in the non-lofty, street-level, day-to-day sense.

Too many Americans want to take this topic and make it all lofty, when the application is so flawed we [Americans] can’t even see straight. I like the overall premise of the chapter and the ending, but there’s an even harder uppercut I need to swing. I felt like I was gingerly dancing around the point, even though I jumped straight into the lake.

Aside from that, there’s the flash fiction that I’ve become somewhat adept at writing. While I have practiced at it for a few months, it seems the most natural of all types of fiction to write. I do want to be a novelist. I love developing stories and characters and starting fresh in a new book. I don’t like sequels. I think that’s the author’s way of being lazy. If my work ever goes public, the powers-that-be would have to be very convincing for me to write a sequel to any of my non-existent books.

Although I’ve never mentioned it here, there is another novel idea I’ve shelved months ago. I’ve desperately tried to keep it away from the Young Adult genre, but in a late-night cabal of wannabe writers another has said “yeah, that has YA written all over it.” Damn it!

How Does My Writing Differ?

At this point in time, does any current writer have much difference? We’re all variations on a theme. Millennia of authors pouring out pages upon pages of stories have covered so much, it’s difficult not to be seen as a writer who came before. Is there really much anymore to differ? I suppose I could say I have a better knack for coming up with people’s names than I’ve seen with others writers, but that’s not much. I’d leave the identification of difference to the reader. I suppose that’s why they’d read my material? They’d know better than I would.

Why Do I Write What I Do?

Mostly because I don’t want my life to be a “series of beige incidents” as coined by Patton Oswalt. I want something to be here when I leave. I don’t want to wake up 85 and have nothing to show for myself, except an oxygen tank and tears. Hell, even if it’s mediocre prose that’s something. It’ll make Vonnegut happy.

Do you hear that Bukowski?! I am trying!

How Does My Writing Process Work?

I wouldn’t call it a “process.” Most people won’t understand how ironic that statement is, until they realize I’m a classically-trained accountant. I’ve dealt with creating processes for the better part of fifteen years, and I can’t even control a pet project of mine. How funny is that?

Some of the time, it starts with a trip to a bar or a later trip to a hash house. Waffle House is the best place to write at 3:00 in the morning. Why? It’s open, and the people aren’t intellectuals. Non-intellectuals make for great people watching, because they act out more often. It’s a funnier story when the drunk guy is singing to his penis in encouragement to urinate.

I keep a mole skin journal and a mechanical pencil in my car, Falcor. No, it’s not a sports car or anything flashy. It’s a Honda Accord. I can name my car whatever I damn well please. Over a glass of cheap red wine or “luxurious” cup of Arabica coffee, I scribble sentences. More often than not, they turn into stories. I’ve yet to figure out how that happens, but it does. So, I don’t argue with it much.  After I have a “starter,” as I like to call it, I take it home to be written in a WordPress post.

Recently, I’ve also been posting them in the writer’s prompt section of Reddit, but have found it less rewarding. The people on Reddit are of low caliber, and aren’t really as mature as they need to be to discuss writing. Often times, it seems like wasted effort.

——

This is where I would pass the writing duties of the blog hop to two other bloggers. Guess what? I’m not going to do that. I don’t believe in chain posting. Good night, Seattle. We love you!

Tuesday, March 25th, 2014

I’ve done well, I think, in the past week by providing more material to read. This is decidedly because I’ve worked on Reddit writing prompts for eight days now. Do I always end up with something that fits the prompt? No. Yesterday’s story went far off into left field, but so what? So what if I use prompts in general? An art class can look at the same still life and come up with no two pictures exactly alike. I’ve been there.

I’ll have you know I scared off two groups of three people at a bar while writing that last piece. It was so much fun to get into the flow, I get all sorts of “weird” and make “odd” faces. There’s nothing more than that, but others don’t want to be around people like me let alone say anything. I’m sure this is one reason I haven’t met anyone yet. Maybe it’s the population around here? Maybe it’s just better I stay single and die young? I’ll be sure to buy a part from James Dean’s car.

Regardless, what is important in all of this is that I haven’t stopped. The engines have not been cut and I haven’t drifted for too long. The longer one drifts, the easier it is to give up. I don’t want to give up. When I find a second job, I don’t want to give up. After battling depression, I don’t want to give up. Why? Because it’s something to hold on to. Right now, it’s the only thing I’m holding on to.

On a different note, there’s nothing inside of me that desires a “Freshly Pressed” logo on my blog. I’ve determined this as my phone decided to thrust the front page in my face Sunday. Why? That’s not an easy questions to answer, but it can be done. An easy take is that I’m not looking to compete with others. That makes life in America a tad more difficult as there’s always the Ayn Rand jerk off that thinks they’re allowed to step on you. No, you’re not. Not now; not ever.

Other reasons aren’t so clear cut. In a way, I’ve despised trophies in the past. Maybe it’s because acceptance speeches aren’t my gig, but there seems something else to it. That’s not my reward. My reward isn’t that tangible. Notoriety is one thing, but I’m not looking for a gold star to show off to others. Would a best-selling publication be awesome? Sure! However, I’ve lived life long enough to know there’s a plethora of interference between me and that success.

Accessibility seems to be part of that problem from time to time. Often do I get the whole “I don’t get it” routine from the public. That’s not saying everyone doesn’t get it, or that sometimes I don’t get others but people do miss the more subtle things I put into my writing. Maybe I’m wrong and they just don’t care, but that’s not what I’m picking up from of them.

Speaking of stepping, I’ve decided to acquire some new work boots as my Sketchers decided to fall apart after a year. These boots were expensive, but if I polish and oil them they should last a long time. That’s what I’m counting on, at least. Boy will I be upset if they get ruined.

Promulgated

The song “Black Sunshine” was apropos as Marissa floored it down the 10. She couldn’t let a freak storm impede the progress of her Shelby Cobra on its way to destiny. This was her date with death, if it came down to it. Traffic had to go. All this weaving was making for an even more miserable experience. Was she trying to stop a catastrophe for these people? Sometimes she wondered its worth, especially with all the persecution.

Being a manipulator of the forces around her was still a problem for those raised on too many fairy tales. Good and evil always begin in a neutral state. Those who use their mystical attributes take them down that road. Her father, Hogan, would often prance into her study with, “Oh-hoo-hoo, are you a good witch or a bad witch?” Such was his nature to be cheeky, and often used common society to irritate her to no end. Teenage angst, being what it was, would always seem to give him the satisfaction of a reaction to his facetiousness.

Those were easier times for the young sorceress, up in the Superstitions. It was a veritable paradise compared to the current state of affairs. Time was endless and there was always a centuries-old book to crack open. Scribbles could dance with the touch of her fingers even when they were much older than the country she called home. “The trade was eternal,” Hogan would say.

He left when she was 20. It may have been just a matter of independence, a going of one’s own way. That was understandable to a certain extent, but to never get back in contact? She couldn’t think of anything she did to turn him away. A second pair of hands would be well received right about now. There were countless, terribly dangerous users on the isolation planes that could peel the crust off this planet as if it were an orange and with little effort.

Signs were everywhere, but usually explained away with science and reason. Two new moons, sinkholes everywhere, the Flight of the Phoenix, and this unending thunderstorm meant something more sinister than mere traditional explanations. A male member of the tribe was resurrecting himself from suspension. This was a serious Council infraction and whoever it was needed to be put down like a rabid dog. She read no one was willing to return to their assigned dimension.

Turning off on a county road, she skidded left of center and back in time to miss a rig driver laying on his horn for all it was worth. Slick as the road was, it wasn’t nearly as perilous as the destination. A steadiness came over her as she pushed the needle past 80 mph. Everyone she knew, including herself, would be shot to Hell without doing all in her power to get there.

The reception square lay in a remote part of Arizona. Inconspicuousness favored sparsely populated areas. Convicted members would have to rest and regain their strength from such a brazen move. More than likely they would hole up in a cave or derelict house for a few days with their thoughts and motives.

Surrounded by sagebrush and sand, the platform disguised itself as slate rock partially buried in the Earth. Saguaro and yucca obscured it further from the road, but the inter-dimensional charge gave it a light white halo for the trained eye. Marissa was in the right spot; she’d soon find out who she risked life and limb to stop.

The Council of the Dogs was completely unaware of the happenings in Arizona. A New York committee spent that time arguing over the regulations of their charter, which have been known to take years on more than one occasion. She was the point of contact for the desert southwest, which meant little to nothing in the eyes of bigger fish. After three ignored missives, she decided to enforce the will of the Council herself.

 A tall cactus made for the best impromptu cover she could afford. Holding on to the relief of arriving early, rain beat down soaking her to the bone. Through stringy pink hair she surveyed the landing site intently, even though she wanted to fly far away from it. It was too late to have a change of heart.

The glow ceased and the rain gave way as a peal of thunder ripped a hole in the desert before her. A white eye with large black pupil shimmered and curls of darkness gracefully slid out into this world as the passenger came close to the exit. Marissa thought of the old 1950s horror films with their excessive use of dry ice and water. Someone’s science fair project won first place.

A sinister sight emerged from the portal and fell to the ground. Such was the way of  forbidden rituals. Even the most powerful of magicians would be weakened by it. Some fare better than others, but there was always a negative impact on the user. This was her best chance to gain the upper hand. Shouts as good as any law enforcement came forth as she charged the spent figure on the ground.

“In the name of Alexia Oroyo and the Council, I am here to enforce the rules set forth in the tribal charter. Your sentence was to be served as promised, and reintroduction is a clear violation of said promise. No exile is to return from their suspension unless granted explicit permission by the Council itself. Under these conditions, I must either escort you back to your imprisonment or destroy you. That choice will rest with your actions.” It sounded authoritative enough, even if she had no experience with either.

“Are you a good witch?” Inquired the fatigued warlock, “or a bad witch?” He couldn’t quite raise himself up off the floor, but was trying regardless.

Marissa knew that voice. So long had it been, the sound of her father moved her to tears. This was the last person she’d expect to meet at a charter breach rendezvous. Why was he in limbo to start? It certainly would explain his disappearance, but the new question was a little harder to answer.

“Dad! Why are you here? Why were you there?! What’s going on? Tell me! I don’t want to kill you, but that’s not saying I won’t.” Patience wasn’t the strongest of her virtues.

Swallowing hard and gaining moisture back in his mouth, Hogan tried to explain. He wanted to lay out the whole story, but could only manage “needed to see you.” With this he took in slow deep breaths and looked at her for a reaction.

No amount of training could prepare a member for this situation. Sifting through her thoughts she lifted her father and supported him on the way to the car. Many people make poor choices; she was willing to gamble this time. The Council certainly wouldn’t approve.

© 2014 by Corvidae in the Fields, all rights reserved

Reciprocity

rec·i·proc·i·ty (n): a situation or relationship in which two people or groups agree to do something similar for each other, to allow each other to have the same rights, etc.

——–

This is one of my favorite words. It rolls off the tongue in a circular motion which coincides with its meaning. The definition also has importance in my life, as its something I wish to employ at times.

To be frank, I consider this WordPress account an invention of isolated creation. That is to say, I create stories that I like reading. I post them here for various reasons of taste (i.e. organization, documentation, affordability, etc.). The blog posts are a way of making sense of the world around me, and I do feel better at the end of the day if I can articulate my problems well. However, that is not to say I exclude an element of display. There is the idea of display in any blog, isn’t there? Some may say it’s the primary purpose.

This is very much in contrast to my business review account (private, not professional), in which that relationship is between me and the business. Any other reader is very much a distant third party, in my mind. Woe be it to the person who drags me in on their review. It’s never because I’ve written something they’ve liked; I can assure you that. In fact, a few weeks ago I had a delightful woman from Florida suggest I eat at home because all my reviews are terrible. Once I stopped laughing, I told her to get her nose out of my business.

It didn’t occur until recent that there might be a sort of tacit exchange going on here I wasn’t considering. People want to be a part of a community, albeit digital, and obtain that satisfaction through checking up with others from time to time. I suppose I realized this to some extent, but not necessarily with this lens.

With that in mind, I would suppose this post be less of a forced writing exercise so that I may not lose steam, and more a post to provide something here as a way of letting people know I’m having a bit of a fit. It includes the trashing of entire ideas and drafts, along with the distractions everyday life. I could certainly create something out of thin air and call it a story, but then again, I wouldn’t enjoy reading it. I want to enjoy my stories.

Should I Stay, or Should I Go?

I love The Clash’s popular stuff. Sometimes I get the notion to dig into their catalog for the rest of the story, but then I get distracted.

Aside from my muscles screaming in four different languages on Monday, I had mental block about what to post. I spent the weekend doing all sorts of physical labor, including helping my sister paint her house. Apparently, mortgage underwriters are sending out shady inspectors to be capricious with their repair recommendations. The paint was peeling too much for Bubba’s liking and he wouldn’t give the green light to the underwriter until it was repainted. Super.

Of course, she was carrying on about it, because she had to fork over another $450 and wasn’t used to getting in and doing the job. It would have chewed up her whole weekend. She’s a public employee. Those people don’t work unless they really need to do so, you know. I keed! I keed, public employees! Not really. I’ve had to work with several Federal, state, and local departments for 14 years. I’ve had more help from a chocolate chip cookie.

What it brings me to is a post that I’ve been meaning to write over the past five and a half months. That’s about as much time as I’ve been on WordPress. I’ve read a lot of other poster’s material, and can say I’ve seen some great stories from some great people. On the other hand, I’ve seen some rather childish posts too. It’s a grab bag of the good and the bad, which I somewhat expect from a world-wide website.

Simply stated, I’m a white, American male with a masculine set of traits. That, apparently, makes me the Devil around certain parts and I didn’t even have work for it. That’s a little disheartening, as I earn my reputation. Someone has denied me the opportunity of burning down a village in Bangladesh or stealing candy from kids in the projects. Mmm… tastes like the sorrow of impoverished children. Does anyone really think that’s a viable point of view, or are they screaming to feel justified? I’m going with the latter, because the former is too hypocritical to even be discussed.

Getting to the point, if I sense a lack of discretion in you, then I will be less motivated to interact with you. Many of these posters on WordPress don’t seem to be willing to write with this understanding. It is also why I don’t follow anyone screaming blanket rage over men. I’m with everyone else that rape’s vile act, but not every man’s a rapist. I’m not sitting on the chocolate suede, my beloved couch of 10 years, reading fiery feminist posts thinking “wow, you’re right. I’ll have to cancel those rapes I was planning for the weekend.” Why? Because I wasn’t planning anything of the sort.

This is where “knowing your audience” helps. The people that are going to commit criminal acts will not be reading your WordPress blog. In other words, you’re insulting a section of your readership big time. They don’t have to put up with your crap. You’re a dime a dozen, and they have plenty of options.

Does this mean you’re to wrap yourself up in heteronormative stereotypes? Not even in the slightest, but you’ll go farther by being a friend. That’s why I don’t follow blogs that scream or act like a little brat on every single post. We all have our moments of anger, and I get that you’re frustrated in your position, but the lack of cooperation gets you nowhere. You do realize I don’t have to bother with your opinions, right? After society pretty much said I was on my own, it’s not difficult for me to go it alone. It’s a blessing and a curse, but one that’s not going to benefit your single-sided view on life. I’ll be off to help the people willing to work together. Sorry, Charlie.

I like you for who you are, as long as you’re comfortable in being who you are.

Be Careful of What You Ask, WordPress

There has been a recent change to my WordPress experience: the introduction of survey questions. I hate being solicited for surveys. They’re next to the visit from the Latter Day Saints. If I wanted to do something for you, I’d seek you out. I had Intuit, the mega-corporation that delivers us QuickBooks, provide me with a survey so I could talk up the fourth customer service representative I had because she actually got what I needed done. I run an account on a review website because I write about restaurants I feel strongly about (good or bad). Point is: I will make the effort to give you feedback. Otherwise, I’m real busy and need to be left alone.

In the spirit of being impish, I’ve decided to answer any survey question with a very unique answer. It may not be exactly what corporate wants, but at least the employees will get a laugh out of it. I’ve only had two so far, but I swear I will not fail to answer every, single one of their questions!

*******

Q: How could we customize your WordPress site?

A: By giving me designer gnomes to do my bidding!

Q: How do you feel about our themes?

A: First, I look for my glasses, as I can’t see a thing without them. After I’ve effectively knocked and lost them off the nightstand, I proceed to determine that which is in front of me. When patting the snout and fluffy ears, I determine that it is a WordPress theme I’m holding. So, in a roundabout way, I would say “with my hands.”

*******

Maybe we all should show WordPress how imaginative we can be with their questions? After all, this is a place for create writing.

The Read Good Hits of the Summer

As I was tooling around WordPress today, I caught BookPeople and Book of Words posting their list of Summer reading. Since I’m no longer in school, and haven’t been for some time now, below is my current reading list. It just so happens to be Summertime. There is a very high possibility that some of these titles will end up on my Fall and Winter reading lists. The chances very greatly on what home repairs I decide to do, changes in workload, and other adulthood matters that get in the way of everything.

I’ve just finished Black Water Transit by Carsten Stroud per the request of a good friend of mine, and now have the decision of choosing my next read. There are priorities not mentioned on this list, such as finishing Don Quixote by Cervantes AND Ulysses by James Joyce. I can’t leave an incomplete book lying around forever. It drives me nuts. How people can drop a novel indefinitely is beyond me.

These titles are in no particular order, as I usually make up my mind on the spot:

1. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain
2. A Man Without a Country by Kurt Vonnegut
3. Mother Night by Kurt Vonnegut
4. The Invisible Man by H.G. Wells
5. The War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells
6. Diptych Rome-London by Ezra Pound
7. Steinbeck: A Life in Letters edited by Elaine Steinbeck and Robert Wallsten
8. Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald
9. Swann’s Way by Marcel Proust
10. The Federalist by Alexander Hamilton, James Madison, and John Jay
11. The Jungle by Upton Sinclair
12. Aesop’s Fables
13. The Origin of Species by Charles Darwin

I noticed more unread books in my bookcase tonight, which are from shopping sprees long ago. It would be to my amazement, if I could plow through half of the above mentioned during the season. In light of that, I left the rest off the list. They’ll have to wait. For outside observers, I’d imagine the Twain would come as a surprise. Wouldn’t have I already read that by now?

There’s a simple explanation for it, really. In American compulsory education, there’s a limited amount of time dedicated to reading books. Since my earliest recollections in the early 80s, that curriculum has changed to compete with not only a multitude of authors but digital fluff. Iconic works get cut from the courses just as easily as anything else, and who wants to read books anyway? That’s for, like, old people or something.

Anyone else care to share the Summer list?

Gratitude and a Cabbie

Gratitude

I live, for better or worse, in my own sphere of life. It can be as large or small as I’d like, but I do enjoy the room to grow. Being in said bubble, I don’t always think of the little extras to acknowledge the people around me. Showing gratitude is one of those “nice to do” actions, as people don’t often read minds. I’m one to show my appreciation through action. I might fix a door, or paint a window, or whatever. People don’t always pick up on this I’ve noticed. They need to be addressed directly.

When my blog follow count passed 50, I will tell you straight up it took a few days to remember the previous observation. I’m often Hell-bent on whatever piques my interest at the time. So, in this moment of clarity, I will say it: thank you all very much for your interest and feedback in my work.

When I came to WordPress in late March, I had left a fairly unappealing forum. There were a small number of quality people willing to engage in my interests, which I appreciate immensely. It wasn’t all bad, no. On the whole, though, I found it a fairly unrewarding experience. I spent the better part of three years trying to make sense of my life on there with little to show for it. I said adios to that place, and closed that chapter in my life.

For the last two months, I think I’ve had a better response in volume and quality of feedback from you all. There is also a greater shared interest with other bloggers. We all love to write, and that brings us closer together. I like visiting other people’s blogs, too. If I can throw in my two cents, I usually do. It’s all about interacting with one another. I wanted a community, and this is the best thing I’ve found so far. It certainly beats my hometown.

For this, I shall sing “Nothing’s Gonna Change My Love for You,” a la Glenn Mederios:

Just pretend I’m singing. It’ll work out better for the both of us.

 

Taxi Driver

Reading this series by Andra Watkins made me recall a situation that happened earlier this week.

My relatives from Pennsylvania were here over the weekend to visit an even more distant relative. On Monday, I decided I will take them back to the Columbus airport. On our way, my aunt was discussing her interest in genealogy. With little to provide on the topic, I drove the car and listened. Our family is fairly loose knit, and we barely know a thing about one another. Apparently, my great-grandmother’s surname was adopted by her when she was a child. We now have no clue what her real family name is. Oh, noes! My aunt wanted to know my thoughts about not really knowing my heritage.

I was quite comfortable with it.

People find this sad for some reason, but I’m not too bothered by it. I’m still here, aren’t I? It wouldn’t change my life too much to know that I had a couple of dead kinsmen build a church out of the boat in which they arrived over in some one-horse town close to Hooterville. Whoopie! Wow, I’m so complete now.

In fact, I don’t want to know much more about it. Instead, I declared I’ll make it all up as I go along. I’m quite serious about this. Sometime in the near future, I shall tell you about my family. They may not be remotely real, but I’m sure going to enjoy it.

A Funny Thing Happened to Me on the way to the Literary Jamboree

Being the good-natured person I am, I like taking an interest in what people do around here. Visitors read my work, then I visit their place and interact. I think that’s one of the premises behind WordPress. What joy came over me, when I saw a writing pow-wow on a visitor’s blog. It was a flash fiction writing “contest,” although I don’t think it was anything competitive.

So, wanting to show my appreciation, I spent some time putting together a piece. Granted, it wasn’t super original, but “originality” on such occasions is based on the time you log in and how quickly you can write. If separated from each other’s work, I’m sure there would be plenty of unwitting overlap.

Regardless, I put together my piece and submitted it last night. Eagerly I went back this morning to see if it was posted and what replies were made. Sadly, it was not to be found. I searched by time, and searched by words… nothing. No post. No feedback. Nothing. I was puzzled for a while, as I didn’t have much to go on. It was my first time at one of these, and I wasn’t sure where to start.

Then a thought came to me a few minutes after reflecting upon the situation. I put my standard copyright information on my work. People get funny about copyrights, but the Master of Ceremonies (if you will) put one on his work. I like the way my copyright looks, and will use it on all of my stuff.

I think I’m a pretty lenient person and will give permission for non-commercial usage of whatever I create. I like sharing my work, and if it inspires others to go in different directions, then I’m all for it. I would, however, like a slice of the pie if anything were to go commercial. I think it plenty fair.

There is a small problem, if that’s what the MC is thinking. For better or for worse, any original content written by anyone is automatically copyrighted whether they display notification or not. This is a rather recent decision (1989, it think), but valid nonetheless. If he’s worried about copyright infringement, he’s doing it anyway.

However, who’s to know? Nothing was said, and quite frankly, it’s too late now.

Below is the piece I wrote for the contest. I enjoy it still. Gary Larson, cartoonist of The Far Side, called all of his drawings his “children.” As someone who creates, I can absolutely see his point. They are my children. Yes, sometimes they aren’t what I expect them to be, but I still love them anyway.

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Gutter

A miserable complaint was made by a gutter to its drain. Water splashed, pollution danced, and dirt came along the way. What was the poor drain to do but make it go away?

© 2013 by Corvidae in the Fields, all rights reserved