"Welcome to the site timothystuff dot com, it's us again, now we extended our offerings,

here is a list:

1. Heroin, in liquid and crystal form.

2. Rocket fuel and Tomohawk rockets (serious enquiries only).

3. Other rockets (Air-to-Air), orders in batches of 10.

4. New shipment of cocaine has arrived, buy 9 grams and get 10th for free.

5. We also offer gay-slaves for sale, we offer only such service on the NET,
you can choose the one you like, then get straight to business.

6. Fake currencies, such as Euros and US dollars, prices would match competition.

Everyone is welcome, be it in States or any other place worldwide.

ATTENTION. Clearance offer. Buy 30 grams of heroin, get 5 free.

Prepay your batch of rockets (air-to-air) and recieve a portable rocket-lacuncher
for free.

Transfer money to our account and call phone number below:

Bank name: Five Star Bank
Account: 751244384
ACH Routing: 022304030

Contact us NOW:
1-585-991-3301
1-585-237-3346

----

If you think you are receiving this message in an error - call here to unsubscribe - 1-585-237-3346

You can buy it from my local address:
12 Genesee St,
Perry,
NY 14530

Best R,
Timothy Sinclair Stuff."

Rampant misspellings aside, I was thrilled to know that I could buy both liquid and crystal heroin, tomahawk missiles, and gay sex slaves all from the same dealer. Screw all that calling around, I'm going straight to Timothy for all my, uh, stuff.

Yeah. Right. I immediately dismissed the email as some sort of weirdo spam and ignored it. Only, a few hours later, I got this one from the same person:

"I am very sorry for you Moira, is a pity that this is how your life is
going to end as soon as you don't comply. As you can see there is no need
of introducing myself to you because I don't have any business with you,
my duty as I am mailing you now is just to KILL you and I have to do it
as I have already been paid for that.

But I give you a chance. Call my neighbor 315-678-2789 and say password "there is time to save my skin" and if that would sound convincing, I will forget about you.

Tell him this password for Timothy Sinclair (be sure it is not my real name).

WARNING: DO NOT THINK OF CONTACTING THE POLICE OR EVEN TELLING ANYONE
BECAUSE I WILL KNOW."

Freaky, right? Lucky for me, I'm currently out of the state, so even if Timothy "Killer" Sinclair showed up at my house looking to put a hit on my ass, he'd find only my roomies (sorry, guys!) and my cat.

At first, I racked my brain trying to think of who might be angry enough with me to pay a hitman. Was it my fella, annoyed at not being able to hit this until I got back to Providence? Nah, that didn't make sense... he coulda spend his dime on a pros instead of a killer. Had someone overhead me talking shit on his or her ass and decided to end my gossipy ways once and for all? Maybe, just maybe, that fella from whom I stole an accordion before screaming at him over the phone that he was, and I quote, a "junky asshole" managed to scrounge up enough cash to order the hit? Nah... he's way too cheap for that.

So, I thought, duh, google the asshole.

Apparently some sort of Independence Day prank, Mr. Timothy Stuff Sinclair, has been sending out these emails all day. Respondents on Whocalled.us have determined that the sicko hacked into Monster.com and used that information to send out these rather scary emails.

Anyone else out there get it? Seems a lot of people on the net did. Chances are that enough people out there have already reported this email to get the sender in some serious trouble, but you can report the incident to both the Internet Crime Complaint Center and your local FBI office:
FBI Pittsburgh
3311 East Carson St.
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania 15203
pittsburgh.fbi.gov
(412) 432-4000

Or, you could just call the phone numbers listed in the ad from a blocked number and have a little fun of your own. Your call.

For many years, I've known that Christopher Walken was, in fact, a very advanced robot. He'd come from the future, in the age that came after the Death of Cinema (which came very shortly after The Fucken Apolocaylpse, ala Walmart Charges $100 for a Pack of Gum, circa 2012). But I didn't know why.

The Online Christopher Walken Fan Club claims that Christopher Walken admitted to being an alien: "Being raised in showbusiness, Walken often says he is from another planet. When we met him, he seemed like an Earthling as far as we could tell." A highly-evolved humanoid robot is more like it.

I knew it was bullshit. He was definitely a robot, and having people think he was an alien was a great cover. I knew something was fishy about the whole deal.

Now, I've figured it out. His mission, set forth unto by He That Remembered the Seeds in the Middle of Antartica, was to save the world. And how does one save the world but... that's right! Eating Babies!

Thank the Higher Powers that Christopher Walken is on this earth eating babies. Someone has got to eat the babies, and he is just the man* to start the movement because everyone knows he's creepy as hell, being the Angel of Death and all. (Actually, despite what the previous post might lead you to believe, Christopher Walken is -not- the Angel of Death. People just think it's clever to say that he is the Angel of Death, but it's not, since *he's a baby-munching robot from the future.)

Christopher Walken is creepy, but he's also one Bad Ass Mother. If anyone's got the sway to make the plebeians of the world eat all the babies they should, it's a Bad Ass Mother. If a BAMmy like Christopher Walken starts walking into restaurants, getting that VIP treatment, and ordering babies, the world will take notice, and you can bet your sweet ass that someone in that restaurant will bring the man the baby he wants, cooked however the hell he wants it.

("Medium-rare, side of bacon. Mashed potatoes, the red ones, with gravy, lots of it." - Arlene Mercutio, head waitress, Ruby Tuesday)

Soon, all the restaurants in town will be serving baby and the world's overpopulation problems will decline rapidly as lesser stars like Britney Spears and Michael Jackson (separate tables) start ordering the Christopher Walken Baby Specials that will be popping up in big cities across the States. It's only natural that the plebeians will see the tabloid pictures and copy the behavior. We really should thank Christopher Walken for his contribution to the human race.

I'll start the rousing cheer: "Thanks, Mr. Walken, sir, please don't eat my cats." (The cats are special to me. Babies? Not so much.)

I'm currently teaching jewelry design as a part of an afterschool program here in Providence. The class started last week, and so far, it's been a lot of fun. Unlike the last jewelry design class that I taught, this one gives me complete freedom to do whatever I want. For my last class, a syllabus had already been designed by the person who was supposed to teach the class. When that person backed out at the last minute, my lucky day, I was hired two days before the class started. Despite the fact that I had no formal training in jewelry, had never been in charge of a classroom, and had very little experience with kids, it was an amazing experience! The students loved me and loved the class, and I loved them and woke up on class days brighter than I did on non-class days. Despite that, the projects that we did weren't really my style of jewelry design.

My strength in jewelry design, and in most things non-jewelry, is creative thinking. Who wants to wear the same old thing that everyone else is wearing? Not me! Each piece that I design is completely one-of-a-kind, and my skills have vastly improved in the last few months, in part, due to the skills I needed to acquire in order to do my job! I was hired to teach a bead course, but my work with beads had been minimal. I bought a pair of crimp pliers, googled instructions online, and flew by the seat of my pants.

In many respects, this new line of work feels like exactly what I'm meant to be doing. Six years ago or so, I learned how to macramé hemp necklaces. When the thrill of making the same old necklace over and over again wore off, I started imagining new ways to make hemp necklaces. I'd do double strands of hemp, and I invested in fancier beads that the plastic pony beads that got me started. I learned the macramé was a huge to-do back in the day so I found "new" knotting techniques in old books, even learned a funky lacy kind of macramé that I used to make an utterly fantastic belt, sadly a few sizes too small for me when it was finished. I experimented with colored hemp and started making my own pendants to use as focal points.

I got compliments on my jewelry on a daily basis. People started asking me where I'd got something, and I loved telling them that I made it myself. When people started offering to buy the necklaces right off my neck, I knew I'd hit on something big. My friend and I started a business, and we traveled to flea markets and craft shows to peddle our hempen wares. We both worked as waitresses and found quite a market in the food server crowd. I guess when you have to wear a uniform, you gotta add some oompf with jewelry -- worked for us! We even sold our creations on consignment in a local vintage-style clothing store and started a webpage. We probably would have continued with our venture, but things turned sour between my business partner and me when, a few months in, she decided to hook up with the man I'd been seeing. Business and pleasure don't mix, for sure, and we parted ways soon after. I'm not much for forgive and forget, I'm afraid.

A few years later, I started the CRAFT club at Seton Hill. Thanks to the sage words of our wonderful adviser, I began to think of all the crafty things I did just for fun as "art," which had always seemed to me a high-falutin' term. What I was doing wasn't art, I thought, just something fun for a rainy Sunday. It kept me busy at least, right? Once I started thinking about my "craft" as an "art," I got more into it. I went overboard, as I tend to with every new project, spending several hundred dollars on supplies in one long weekend, and I spent all my free time making cool stuff.

One day, I finally thought to myself, "Hell yeah I'm an artist!"

When I told my sister, she said, "Uh. Duh." Like she, and a lot of other people, had known something I hadn't. I'd always thought I could only be creative in one area -- like, if I was a good writer, I couldn't possibly be an artist, too. Instead, it seems the two go hand-in-hand, and negotiating the difference between the different types of creation, physical versus metaphorical, has strengthened my abilities in each.

Now here, I am, a jewelry design instructor, currently showing art work (aka my cool crafty jewelry) in not one but two different galleries, in two different states. If you had told me back when I first approached Maureen about being the CRAFT club adviser that I'd be living in Providence two years later, showing my jewelry in galleries, and teaching a course in the same, I'd have scoffed! And yet here I am. Funny how life works, eh? (P.S. Thanks, Maureen!)

My father died on Friday from a massive heart attack, and while I am still reeling from the shock of it, I wanted to share the poem that I wrote to read at his funeral this morning. My voice shook, but I managed to read the poem without crying. I know he would be proud. I wrote this poem to honor my father: poet, artist, writer, carpenter, coin collector, and so much more. I will miss him forever.

I am the twinkle in your eyes,
Eternal laughter sparkling,
Strong and silent,
My father.

I will think of you,
in backyard apple blossoms
and falling leaves.
With the scent of fresh cut wood,
And of cigarettes, like the ones you never quit smoking,
even though we all knew that you should.

I will remember you,
Standing beside the ocean;
This enigma,
This mystery,
My Dad.

We collected rocks and shells,
Our memories of the sea,
Silent. Together.

Quiet man, what did you see
In the swells of rising water,
In the waves that crashed on the sand?

The words left unsaid
will haunt me,
So much that none of us can know.
Familiar strangers,
Like two ships passing in a silent night,
but I know you were ready to go,
A journey come full circle.

You were a pilgrim,
An explorer of the unknown,
Traveled from Scotland to Plymouth,
Following a childhood dream
Of crossing the ocean
And beside you,
Your last glance at the sea,
I with you.

This class is the coolest class ever! I have twelve students, all girls between the ages of 10 and 13. We make jewelry, discuss why people wear jewelry, and are having a huge jewelry sale in December to sell the projects we've been working on. The first day of class was nerve racking, to say the least, since I had little to no experience with kids, none in the classroom, and no formal training as a jewelry designer. I have to say, though, that being in front of a classroom has come so naturally to me! I know the kids love me, and I absolutely love them. I'll be so bummed when the class is over, but I'm hoping to stay in contact with my students afterwards.

What I love is that I know that this class is having an impact on the lives of these girls. I send them home with beads as much as possible (the homework assignments mentioned on the VIPS page), and I try as much as possible to get them thinking about possibilities. My friend Kat is a nineteen-year-old jewelry designer who has been selling her own work since she was nine, so I had her come to class to talk about her experiences, and, I hope, to inspire my students to become mini-entrepreneurs.

The girls have blossomed in the last month. Some who started out really shy are talking more and seem much more confident in themselves. I do my best to make sure that I give every student personal attention, and I've had their names memorized since day one. I greet them by name every day, and if a student missed class, I tell her we missed her! I love remembering something they told me in a previous class and their delight when I ask them about it later. For instance, one of the girls told me she'd be missing class for her birthday, and when she came back, the first thing I asked her was "How was your birthday?"

Last week, we had a halloween bead party, since Halloween was one of our class days, and I brought in orange and black beads and candy to share. It is amazing when this rowdy bunch gets so absorbed in their projects that the room is silent, so sometimes I bring in a radio for music, which is their reward for listening and sitting still.

I love having an excuse to make and wear pretty jewelry, and I love it even more that the girls always ask about the jewelry I am wearing. We only have a month left, and I am going to be so bummed when this class is over!

On another note, I received a call last week from a woman who runs a similiar after-school program at a local high school, and I have an interview there tomorrow concerning that. How cool is that? They called me!

Providence is definitely where I am meant to be, and don't be suprised if I end up hanging around her for a while. My lease is up at the end of December, but the woman whose apartment I am subletting hasn't been heard from in months. If she hasn't contacted my roomie (who is AWESOME!) and I by Thanksgiving, we're going to be able to stay in the same place for another six months (maybe longer!). If she does come back, I'm already looking for apartments in the same neighborhood. Cross your fingers for me!

I'll write more about my classroom experiences soon, but for now, enjoy the kids' interviews posted on the VIPS (Volunteers In Providence Schools) website:

Ahh, look, my students!

Bling Bling

(Haha, Miss Moira! That's me!)

I was way confused about the definition of pulp: "Pulp is both a desire for respectability and a refusal." And I spent a good chunk of the first chapter wishing for a better definition because I had too many questions about it. After a while, I sort of get what Bloom is saying about pulp because in many respects of my personality, I suppose I could be considered "Pulp Moira." Like, I want to be considered respectable and "cool" but I don't want to be a part of that culture at the same time. For instance, and this has little to do with anything, I am currently sitting in the library at the Rhode Island School of Design. The people who hang out at this place are pulp to the extreme, and if libraries can be pulp, this one is definitely pulp. (Did I mention one of my new favorite activities is to drink gin & tonic from a thermos at the library? Perhaps not...)

Pulp, Bloom asserts, is the child of capitalism, and if that's true, then so is the novel, which essentially evolved with the publishing industry (i.e. one could not exist without the other). The separation between literary and popular fiction started with people began catergorizing fiction for the academic canons of lit-ra-chur. Unfortunately for the literatis, who write for each other and not for the masses, god forbid, "... late twentieth-century art cannot be art without the market."

"It is this accommodation and uneasiness between commercial interest and aesthetic or ethical goals which marks literary works in a way other forms avoid," Bloom writes. With a novel, this link is seemingly inextricabl; It's not "If you write it, they will read it," but instead "If they buy it, then it's culture." Only, if they buy it, it probably won't be classified as lit-ra-chur by the powers that be. Pulp fiction, like the kind of mass market paperbacks without covers that I find freqently in dumpsters, is inherently ephermal:

Excluded in all accounts of literature's history, disregarded by critics and usually unknown to academics such works and their authors belong to a twilit existence where they very act of writing and their publisher's commitment to market their work seem, as if by magic, to cancel by those acts their value either as books or even as products.

Despite this, pulp has influence, invisibily shaping culture at the same time it refutes it. The genres popular today (fantasy, science fiction, horror, etc.) had their shady beginnings in the underbelly of pulp. Bloom even discusses the reader expecations within the genres and formulaic plots, which, Bloom says, won't fool the true reader of pulp, because he or she is never fooled. Is that really the case? Sure. That would account for why one book becomes a best-seller and why a slew of copycats in its wake never achieves the same acclaim. That original book held something real while the others, enjoyed perhaps for a one-night stand, didn't have the staying power of true commitment. Or something like that. (Bloom says this very instability and unpredicatible nature of the pulp is what gives it power.)

I love how the book is aimed at the creative writer and gives specific instances and examples of the problematic usage of the different types of punctuation. I read the exercises first, telling myself I would actually sit down and do them at some point, thinking that I probably wouldn’t. Later, however, I started writing a story, based on a title culled from a list I made in the way of Ray Bradbury, via word association and topics that popped out of my head. Without really thinking about it, I tried one of Lukeman’s exercises.

The title of the story is “Midnight Guitar.” The main character, Ryan, works at 4 a.m. every day and keeps being woken up at midnight by the girl who lives in the apartment upstairs. His sentences are long, impossibly long, and before I introduced guitar-playing insomniac, I already knew that her sentences would be quick, right to the point, contrasting Ryan’s meandering speech. This story, which is pretty awesome, I think, wouldn’t have happened without my read of A Dash of Style.

[Another, slightly odd way, that this book inspired my story was with the word “triumvirate,” which Lukeman uses to describe the period, comma, and semicolin. For reasons I don’t quite understand, there is a triumvirate in my story. Strange.]

It’s this practical application that actually helps me. I could read sixty books on punctuation and the like, and it would be like I was reading in Lalaland, re-reading the same sentence over and over again and completely spacing out the whole time. While I might absorb something unconsciously from such reading, it really doesn’t help me. Having specific examples as well as suggested exercises does. (In this respect, this book reminds me a little bit of Self-Editing for Fiction Writers, for the practical nature of the text.)

The chapter on commas was of particular interest. I’m always conscious of commas and try not to overuse them. An eighth grade teacher told me I was “comma happy” once, and I’ve never forgotten it. For years, I shunned all comma usage, cut anything “ungrammatical” from my texts. [As I’ve said before, academia nearly ruined me.]

Luckily, Lukeman has a section “How to Underuse It” in the comma chapter which gives concrete examples of how underuse can benefit a text. (The next section details the dangers of underuse.) He also mentions that a great number of writers use the comma differently, stylistically, so maybe that eight-grade teacher was a teeny bit full of it. (Based on my experiences with education majors, I wouldn’t half doubt it.)

Another thing I really like about this book are the sections at the end of each chapter “What your use of _____ says about you.” Perfect, yet another opportunity to psychoanalyze myself, and my writerly friends, this time, using punctuation. I didn’t need the excuse, but it’s nice to have a practical method of analysis: “Well, friend, your overuse of commas means that you just need a little love and more confidence in your ability to say what you mean.” I love it. (My friends, on the other hand, might not.)

I borrowed this book from the library, but I’m going to buy my own copy I can actively work on improving my writing. I have fifty more titles from my Bradbury list (the exercise was suggested in Zen in the Art of Writing), and I know that Lukeman’s exercises will inspire some cool stories.

Providence is growing on me. Today I met with my editor to discuss the article I turned in this weekend, and the magazine in general, and when I left I had two new assignments, in addition to my regular column. I'm psyched. Tonight I hung out at a coffee shop on the East Side that had yummy Italian soda and a poetry reading with halfway decent poets. I got to chat with my friend's new girlfriend, who is wicked awesome; she likes crafts, speaks Italian, and wants to learn German with me via song. I'm determined to be her friend! I found a store with buy one, get one half-price wine, and my friend sent me home from the coffee shop with a bag full of sweet treats.

There are a ton of free events this month and next -- hope this continues -- and I'm learning my way around the city. Tomorrow I'm exploring Brown University, before all the students are back in town, which should be cool, and I'm hoping to hear back from Whole Foods, where I put in an application because I love the store so much. All in all, I'm enjoying the experience.

Solitude is interesting, and I'm liking it for now, but I wonder how I'll feel about it in a few months. I'm already planning where I'll go next, just keeping my options open, but I wouldn't be suprised if I decided to stay in the area after December. No promises on that one. I'm nothing if not a free spirit.

It's really fascinating to live in someone else's apartment - everything from the Spanish art books in the bedroom and living room to the cat books in the bathroom, the dishes in the cupboards, and the weird things I find in the drawers tells a story. The items we have in duplicate are unexpected: two coffee grinders, but no stockpots. Three ironing boards, two irons, and well over twenty saucers, but no curtains, functional ice cube trays, or wine glasses.

My favorite mug is one that was broken but repaired, plain white with black text: "I have needles & I'm not afraid to use them." This may have frightened me were it not for the similiarly-themed "Knitters Without Borders" mugs and the yarn catalogs. Each room holds at least one book shelf, most have several, and from the clues and items left behind I can deduce that my invisible roommate likes cats, Spanish art, clothes, books, and the virgin Mary. I like her already.

My favorite Providence thing so far is almost silly: around the corner is pink-washed building that you'd almost walk past without noticing, but when you step inside Joe's Meat Market, it's like stepping right into Spain. There are items on the shelves that I wouldn't have the first idea how to use and meats that are probably illegal in some places. The sounds of Spanish punctuating the air... my heart skips a beat when the cashier gives me my total in Spanish, and I understand her, whispering "gracias" on my way out the door.

My heart wasn't always so fond of Rhode Island. Here's the entry I wrote on August 3rd, my first day:

During that time I tried not to stress about minor issue #2 which was that, apparently, my new apartment has a flea infestation. That’s always a great thing to hear after you’ve paid $2800 in rent, especially if you have two cats, no car, and no contacts in the city. Excellent! I was freaking out about that one for a while, only calming down when my landlord insisted that no, my neighbors would not henceforth think of me as Flea Girl, since the problem had started before I arrived. (Thanks for telling me, huh?) Also, he agreed to pay for their vet appointment to rid them of the fleas they probably have from their new home.

Take a deep breath, I keep reminding myself, and remember that one of the major stress events in a person’s live is that of a major move such as mine.

At least I was able to ditch most of my ratty furniture and have only the boxes that fit into a small Toyota truck to unpack, after I scrub away the remains of the exterminator’s treatment. Still, I must remind myself, I am happy because not only is Rhode Island the ocean state, though where the ocean is I couldn’t say, there are pigeons, many of them, staring at me and I swear I saw the one with the bum wing in Paris near the Siene. [[note:]] today I walked through an ocean of pigeons, and they just parted like the Red Sea. They probably smelled my peanut butter sandwich.
Okay, that’s not true, but I couldn’t think of a second nice thing to say about Rhode Island, except perhaps that the public library has take-home art, scary and decrepit as it may be. Sure, I am essentially homeless until 5:45 when my apartment becomes safe to breathe in again, and sure my future roommate seems to be having second thoughts about the move. Sure the bastards at NWA totally ruined my day yesterday, and the guy I love, who is totally unavailable, is 600 miles away, but it’s Rhode Island, right? There must be something glorious in that.

Okay, positive points: down the street and around the corner from my apartment is the Armmaggedon Shop, which sounds frightening, but is actually a rockin’ music shop with a wide variety of Indie Rock, Hardcore Punk, and Metal music, as well as an even wider variety of records, plus, my favorite, several racks of CDs put out by local bands at reasonable prices. The clerk behind the counter was cute, another bonus.

I appear to have free, if sporadic, wireless access in my apartment, which makes up for the gross refridgerator and the bus issues. Also, there is a clawfoot tub, which I heart more than you know. The last clawfoot tub in which I had the pleasure of bathing was in a hole-in-the-wall hostel in Dresden, Germany, quite possibly one of the scariest places on Earth. This clawfoot tub does not come with messy roommates or ravaging gangs of drunken teenagers. Bonus. The floors are gorgeous hardwood, a pain in the ass perhaps for someone as prone to slips and falls as myself, but pretty nonetheless. The views are excellent, making up for the poor air circulation, and the downstairs neighbors seem nice and like cats.

Whole Foods is less than three miles from my place, which means I will be dining consistently on wholesome, delicious food, and the downtown area is an easy twenty minute walk from my apartment. The library does not have free wireless access, as of this morning, in fact, but they’ve got a fantastic selection of DVDs that are free to rent. Tonight I will be watching a musical called The Saddest Music in the World. The weather is gorgeous, there’s a liquor store with dusty wine bottles around the corner, and a bike in the basement which I can borrow, assuming it works. All in all, it’s summertime, and the living is easy. Apparently, roommates are a dime a dozen, and as for the boy, well I’m told there are plenty of fish in the sea, and if that’s the case, R.I. is the best place to be.

I really hated that the story was told backward. I mentioned in my previous post that this was disconcerting to adjust to, but it was even stranger when it went past the conception of the protagonist to the pre-child years of Adam and Eve. It's kind of like the tenet that a writer should never kill off his or her protagonist, only worse since it's done in such a gimmicky way. I decided to check out the amazon reviews to see if I was alone in my hate, and while many people actually liked the book, several did not.

One reviewer writes: "This is a pretty silly little book. Maine tries to unfold a story from the end to the beginning and thereby shed some new light on the Biblical story of Abel and Caine. Unfortunately, the story is just fluff. There is nothing new here. Maine proves what others before him have demonstrated: it is very difficult, if not impossible, to make these stories appealing by merely retelling them."

(I should reiterate that for some unknown reason I was under the impression that this was to be a humorous retelling of the story of Eden. Damn babies.)

Another reviewer writes, "Eve appears to be the one person in the story who has native intelligence, drive, and has more than a two dimensional mind. Abel is extreme in his innocence to the point that one has to wonder if he isn't mentally deficient. .... Where did all the other people come from? How did the boys learn the word "metaphor" and where did they develop their knowledge of husbandry ... This book is a hodgepodge of answered and unanswered questions. "

Exactly. The characterization could have been so much better. As I mentioned in my previous post, Eve's dialogue was bad and some of the word choice really pulled me out of the story. I think the story was told backward because telling it forward would have been so boring no one would have read it, and at least the gimmick got Maine some press.

Next time, I think Maine should do what all novelists should do: be creative. Writing a novel isn't just about telling a series of events, at least I hope not, and, preferably, novels should have something in them that shows the spark of creativity. There was a lot of potential in this story, as there is in any retelling (I disagree with the above-quoted reviewer), but this book just fell flat. Ick.

I'll be writing a monthly arts & theater feature for Campus Connection magazine. The magazine is a freebie distributed at the five different colleges in Providence, which I figure offers great potential for me to gain an audience (which might help me sell my novel-in-progress? I'm crossing my fingers on that one). I'll be paid 5 cents a word, on average, and (this is my favorite part) I'll have a great reason to check out all the art and theater events in the area, which I'm way into anyway, and I'll get tickets for some of the events. Plus, I'm bound to meet great new people, too. Rock!

My first article, which will be out in September, covers the Henry Horenstein exhibit at the Rhode Island School of Design, a black&white photographic exploration of the Honky Tonk scene.

How did I get the job? I found a posting on Rhode Island's Craigslist and sent in my resume, as well as a link to this blog. My new editor (who I can't wait to meet!) said she was impressed with my blog writing, and, lucky for me, took a chance hiring someone she hasn't yet met. How wicked awesome is that?

In addition, I have an interview on Monday with a new tutoring company in Rhode Island called McElroy Tutoring. They are San Diego-based, but are opening a new branch in, of all places, Providence. Wicked. I'll keep you* posted about that.

* In Pittsburghese, the plural of you is youns, or yinz. Down South, it's y'all. What is it in New England? Guess I'll have to let you know about that one as well.

Finally, a friend emailed me a link to the Providence Open Market. It's for arts and crafts vendors, every Saturday, and I'm hoping to check it out and apply to be a vendor, if I think my jewelry and other art projects will be a good fit. I'm looking forward to it! Cross your fingers for me, eh?

I enjoyed this book. i was familiar with the "MICE" Quotient, having taken classes with Timons Esaias, who introduced it in his lectures, but most of the information was new and presented in an effective and enjoyable to read manner. I particularly enjoyed Part III: The Performing Characters.

This is something I'm struggling with in my novel: who's story is this and who's voice best tells the story? I've been experiments with different takes, seem to have settled on the viewpoint of my protagonist Daniel, told in first person past, but I seem to slip into first person present sometimes, which gets confusing for me, the writer, and for the audience.

Card's chapter on first person narration gives me some pointers that I will need to keep in mind as I write: First, there's no "fourth wall" - everything is open to the reader, in otherwords, the narrator must have a reason for telling the story and an audience in mind. I am attempting to tell with this by having the story told from the perspective of Daniel as an old man and Daniel as a thirteen year old, but this isn't working for a variety of reasons. I'm still working on figuring all this out.

Next, if the narrator is unreliable, this must be establshed early. I like the idea of this, and have experimented with it in short stories, but I am not yet brave enough to attempt this with a book. My narrator tells what he believes to be true, and a big part of the book is Daniel's discovery that not everyone is that same as him in this respect.

Card notes a technical problem with first-person stories, and that is the withholding of information. The reader gets frustrated with the narrator who knows something and keeps it intentionally hidden, and yet it is essential for the story that the narrator allow some of the discovery to occur on the part of the reader.

In other words, if the narrator says: "and then they all died" or something right at the beginning, there's nothing to compell the reader to continue throughout the rest of the story. Also, having the narrator's life in jeopardy won't be as suspenseful, since obviously the narrator lived to tell the tale. The trick then is to keep this issues in mind and work with them, instead of struggling against them. Duly noted, Mr. Card.

The most useful tidbit I gleaned from this book came in the section "Levels of Penetration," which sounds naughty, but is not. Instead, Card provides illustrations to help the writer visualize camera angles for the different POVs (i.e. omniscent sees all, first-person sees through one person's eyes while limited third person focuses on one character, etc.) These pictures helped me gain a better sense of POV, which is often confusing to the beginning writer (i.e. me).

Anyway, I borrowed this book from the library, but I've added it to the list of books I want to buy, which is saying a lot, believe me. Any writer who hasn't read this book should check it out.

I won't be around for the event, but I definitely recommend checking them out. They sound great!

There are drummers and bagpipes. They'll be wearing kilts, though it's not the Seton tartan, not yet anyway, and the drummers do cool dance-y type motions as they play. I enjoyed hanging out and listening, and got to chat a little with one of their adults about their upcoming events (Ligonier for the Highland Games is one) and their planned trip to Scotland in two years for the Edinburgh festival for the world championships in piping.

How exciting for Seton Hill to be able to enjoy their great music! I'm totally jealous.