Blasting the hell out of first publication rights... Because I can.
Name: Sian
I paint, write, and dance. Also cook vegetarian food.
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I am still working on that novel. In fact, I've added about three thousand words since the end of Nanowrimo. I'm also working on finding the agent of my dreams. I looked up information aboutwho agented some of my favorite books, and the good news is that I now have names. The bad news... Not one of them admits to looking for new clients. Then again, they do admit that they read everything they get, so that's a start.
Here are a couple more, with horrible formatting, just because I've been neglecting you all shamelessly lately.
History Teacher
Roaring through the still open door
Into the now silencing room
All fury, and grumble, and flash;
There’s the first jarring boom.
Bellowing, Puffing, and darkening,
Blows past the students,
Lightning, now, and thunder and rain
In hard driving torrents.
There’s flooding in the low-lands,
And still the waters pound.
In the wind, in the gale force wind,
Trees bow to the ground
Today walk away trembling,
Today, they shudder in fear.
But they’ll remember forever,
And later they’ll ask one another,
Still in awe, “Remember Miss Mackey?
Forever Sleeping, snuggled under soft blankets, snoozing, with the Saturday morning funnies on TV, my lover and I lie, waiting for the sun to warm our chilly toes. Bugs Bunny bounces in eternal youth across the TV screen. We are always young, together, never old, never sick, or dying, never unhappy… We are complete, together, wrapped around our selves, and tucked in, where the world is not. We are, and that is all, two, and one, and forever, and enough for both… For sixty-three years, we have been young, watching Bugs Bunny with kids, and grand kids, and then their children, too. Now, it is always us—and only us--but never alone. We will be young forever, forever, forever, with eternities to spare. This has always been Heaven.
Goody, goody... It seems that this week, I would be one of the two poems which are being "selectively discussed." I'm not sure how much of that's because I truly deserve it, and how much of it's because I'm the only person in the class who actually wrote an "extended metaphor" poem. So, does this mean that I'm allowed to say "the poem's absolutely perfect exactly the way it is. If it weren't, I wouldn't have written it that way?" The assignments aren't all that bad--not entirely horrible. I mean, I still haven't been ordered to writes a poem entirely based upon any Frieda Kahlo painting. (I actually did have an instructor who made us write about "My Birth" once, (google it, people) so I'm incredibly, incredibly grateful.
History Teacher
Roaring through the still open door
Into the now silencing room
All fury, and grumble, and flash;
There’s the first jarring boom.
Bellowing, Puffing, and darkening,
Blows past the students,
Lightning, now, and thunder and rain
In hard driving torrents.
There’s flooding in the low-lands,
And still the waters pound.
In the wind, in the gale force wind,
Trees bow to the ground
Today walk away trembling,
Today, they shudder in fear.
But they’ll remember forever,
And later they’ll ask one another,
Still in awe, “Remember Miss Mackey?
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The End
We always had our own world---
Scarlet and crimson
Like sunrise sparkling
Shining through mist on a like
There were trees, and hammock springs,
And old, eternal breezes whispering
Fallen pine and campfire smoke.
While we lay on mossy grassy ground
Watching pterodactyls fly,
He reached across the gap,
Touched my shoulder
Sore sunburned from our day.
I looked back at him…
Blinked twice.
Then, even he was gone.
Okay... So, here's the deal. I'm taking a creative writing class by distance learning this semester. I'm evidentally supposed to write about ten poems during the course of it, with the final project being preparing a manuscript for publication. The problem is that every time someone says something about preparing a manuscript, what they wind up meaning is, "We're going to be submitting manuscripts this semester."
The problem with that is that I'm a firm believer in intellectual property rights. A professor has no more right to tell me to submit a poem than he has to tell me that I have to auction off my purse, or sell my house.
I'm going to publish said poems, on the internet, of my own volition.
Yes, I know that publishers pay for "first publication rights" and I'll probably never see any money for any of these, but given a choice, I'd much rather give them to you guys than sell them at three cents a word anyway.
I'm going to post them after I get the grades back, just to be sure there are no issues with that, and then, if you want them, take them. So, I'll e-mail said the professor, and give him a heads up, and then we'll get moving.
