Ideal for singalongs at nursing homes, senior residences or just at your own home. Bound in a loose-leaf binder of durable vinyl, unsnaps for access to pages. (To see a photo of the book, click 
The colloquy
Today we welcome back one of the first writers to inquire about publishing his work on R&W Blog — and the first to ask why in hell he should do it in the first place.
So welcome back to the colloquy, Ian Spitzig. We present the second poem you’ve submitted to us, ‘Oh Mathilda,’ in our Works section.
Colloquy. I like the sound of that.
That’s what we seem to have become — a colloquy. It sounds less formal than a symposium. Friendlier, too. Yet a bit more serious than a bullshit session.
Of course, what sounds good to me may be a good question in itself. After our blog entry Thursday in which I exposed my musical tastes for all to see and hear, some of you may not be reading this anymore.
For those of you still here, Ian James Michael Spitzig is a struggling writer in Ontario, Canada, whose introduction to us came pointedly last November in the following email, which we quote in its entirety:
Hi Sid,
I don’t see the point of publishing if not for money.
Ian Spitzig
My response was:
Some people don’t see the point. Maybe many people don’t see it. But there are some people who write because they cannot not write and need to share that writing with others, regardless of money. Those are people I want to read, and I think others do, too.
Because have you looked at what gets published these days for money?
What then followed was an exchange of lengthier emails in which Ian and I considered the merits of writing, the difficulties of getting published and the frustrations of young writers who would like to do it for a living.
Actually, much of what was said has been expressed rather well by other writers who have since volunteered their work to R&W Blog and are now contributing as well to our comments section.
We have become a colloquy.
According to my Webster’s New World Dictionary, the 1980 edition, one of the definitions of colloquy is “a literary work written as a dialogue or conversation.” That’s a little too fancy — shades of Plato and his dialogues involving Socrates and other classical Greek philosophers. We prefer to think of our colloquy as a conversation about, yes, reading and writing.
One final note: While a symposium is now generally defined as a series of knowledgeable speakers who may also interact with an audience or as a collection of essays by knowledgeable writers, the archaic definition of the word comes from the ancient Greek symposion — “a drinking party at which there was intellectual discussion.”
Sounds like a bullshit session to me. My, how far we’ve come.
And speaking of long trips, today’s offerings in Works include:
• The final chapter of Steve Karmazenuk’s science fiction novel The Unearthing. In the conclusion, titled Finale: Shiprise, some 200,000 humans, including some scientists who finally managed to communicate with it, rise with an alien ship above the sands of New Mexico on a voyage through space and time to the ship’s home world.
As they begin their new trip, we end ours — a good trip through life on Earth after War Three. Thank you, Mr. K.
• Again, there’s Ian’s latest poem, ‘Oh Mathilda,’ which joins his earlier work, ‘One way to steal beauty from the city,’ published last November.
• Chapter Three of R.J. Keller’s novel Waiting for Spring. Tess Dyer moves to New Mills, Maine, a tiny community no longer with mills but with a growing gentry, where she begins to yield to an attraction for one of its native sons, a young carpenter named Brian LaChance.
• Chapter 15: Boulder Creek of Gerard Jones’ nonfiction novel Ginny Good. Gerard moves ahead to the Christmas of 1964, which he and Ginny spend at her father’s house and where Gerard concludes that Ginny’s father has no idea what to do about her, either.
– Sid Leavitt
NOTE:
The image at top is a stone sculpture, ‘Colloquy,’ by Rosie Musgrave, a sculptor in Dartmoor, England. Her work is featured in the art section of the website Atkins Law Solicitors.
Posted in Uncategorized |
May 26, 2008 at 9:28 am
“He is proud, knowing nothing, but doting about questions and strifes of words, whereof cometh envy, strife, railings, evil surmisings, perverse disputings of men of corrupt minds, and destitute of the truth, supposing that gain is godliness: from such withdraw thyself. But godliness with contentment is great gain. For we brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out. And having food and raiment let us be therewith content. But they that will be rich fall into temptation and a snare, and into many foolish and hurtful lusts, which drown men in destruction and perdition. For the love of money is the root of all evil: which while some coveted after, they have erred from the faith, and pierced themselves through with many sorrows.”
“No man but a blockhead ever wrote, except for money.”
“It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of heaven.”
May 26, 2008 at 11:40 am
Wow, talk about your colloquy. Nice going, Gerard.
You know, it’s shameful that a frequent dictionary user like me wasn’t familiar with that Samuel Johnson quote about blockheads and money. I guess I can understand why Johnson felt that way. He was born into poverty and had to make ends meet while working on his dictionary. It’s a tribute to the Age of Enlightenment that he survived to finish it and a number of noted biographies, poems and essays, but even after the dictionary made him famous, he still had to depend on the generosity of aristocrats to support himself and his family.
And yes, the quotes from the New Testament — Timothy and Matthew, I believe, the former quoting Paul and the latter quoting Jesus — reaffirm my belief that the fundamentalists have the early Christians all wrong. If ever there was a group of socialists . . . well, enough of religious thought, an expression that truly is one of the great oxymorons of all time.
We’re here for a colloquy, and you, Gerard, are one of the best participants I could imagine for it.
Thanks.
May 27, 2008 at 8:43 am
Consider the lilies of the field…or a mustard seed, for that matter:
“If you have faith as a grain of mustard seed, you shall say to this mountain, remove hence to yonder place; and it shall remove; and nothing shall be impossible to you.”
Writing for money’s tricky…oxymorons make the world go around. G.
May 27, 2008 at 10:35 am
Yes, oxy- and the regular kind.
May 27, 2008 at 8:38 pm
Wow; I hadn’t realized the run was ending. Somehow I’d managed to forget how few chapters there were to “The Unearthing”.
As to the question of “Why publish if not for money”, it’s simple enough: to be read.
Given that author royalties range somewhere between 2 and 7 per cent depending on the genre, there are few published authors who actually make a living off their writing. If someone is writing to get published, or trying to get published to make money, they are going to be sorely disappointed.
J Michael Straczynski, creator of Babylon 5, once said that we should write the stories we want to read. That’s the most important thing, I think: to write for ourselves. If we want something we’ve written to be read, then we find a way.
At the risk of sounding like an elitist, real writers don’t care about making money.
That’s not to say real writers wouldn’t enjoy being able to earn a living through their writing…but the universe doesn’t always allow for that.
To everyone who may have read The Unearthing: thank you for your time. Whether you liked it or not, please feel free to let me know.
There will be other stories from me, some even soon. I promise, if Sid will have me, that you’ll be able to see them here.
May 28, 2008 at 12:18 am
Well said, sir, and thank you again for The Unearthing.
You’re always welcome to publish here. And we also appreciate your commentary.
May 28, 2008 at 7:20 am
Like the widow in the temple, I’ve come forth with my two cents. Given the recent outbursts towards writers from literary mag editors in the blogosphere, you can toss aside the idea of ‘prestige’ coming with being published. Or I suppose I should say that I’m tossing it aside. I’ve seen more intelligence and restraint shown by fans at Fenway Park when the Yankees come to town.
May 28, 2008 at 8:25 am
Your two cents is always worth a nickel with us, R.J., and an unplugged one at that.
And yes, as a Yankees fan, I’ve always been impressed by the intelligence and restraint shown by Fenway fans.
May 28, 2008 at 8:52 am
I didn’t realize you were a Yankees fan. I guess that highlights your own considerable restraint in posting my very pro-Red Sox novel.
May 28, 2008 at 9:11 am
The rub is if you’re so smart, why aren’t you rich? Value is worth in money. The more valuable you are, the more influence you have. Warren Buffett has twice as much money as all 26 million people in Afghanistan put together, that makes him fifty million times more valuable and influential than some goat herder in Kandahar. There are lots of good writers around but nobody’s gonna pay any attention to the ones who don’t make money ’cause they’re inherently worthless. Ah, humanity. G.
May 28, 2008 at 10:19 pm
Gerard, your irony is noted — and shared. This money/value thing has always angered me. My stepfather — who was a real father to me for more than 30 years (my biological father died when I was just a kid in the 1940s) — was an independent logger, not the most prosperous occupation in northern New England, and probably never made more than $5,000 any year of his life. The idea that some people would consider him worth only 1/200th of some other guy making $1 million a year used to stick in my craw. Especially when the other guy may never have put in one day of the honest hard work my old man did every day.
Ah, humanity, indeed.
May 28, 2008 at 10:35 pm
R.J., I haven’t always been a Yankees fan. In fact, as a New Hampshire native and longtime resident there and in Maine, I was a Red Sox fan for years — until the Bill Buckner game in 1986. I was driving back to Maine from Connecticut, listening to the game on the radio, pounding the steering wheel with joy when the Sox went into the bottom of the 10th inning with a two-run lead — “Yes, yes, they’re finally going to win the World Series, oh my God in heaven, yes, yes.” Well, that lead quickly evaporated, and then the ball went between Buckner’s feet, and the winning run came in. It was only game 6, but they blew another lead in game 7, and the series went to, of all teams, the goddamned Mets.
That was it — the one that broke my back. All those years of hopes and dreams, each of them so inevitably crushed. They were hopeless, and so was I. Well, this time, I was done believing.
I was without a team for years. Then I moved to New York and gradually drifted into the pleasant fold of the Yankees. Not so pleasant this year, of course. Fact is, they’ve been stinking up the Stadium, but I’m immune to that stuff. After all, I had all those years with the Red Sox.