Throat Yogurt?!

Sometimes it becomes difficult to just "let go" of old relationships. As an example, read on about this guy who writes to his old beloved. It will bring tears to your eyes.

Dear Mandy:

I know the counselor said we shouldn't contact each other during our "cooling off" period, but I couldn't wait anymore. The day you left, I swore I'd never talk to you again. But that was just the wounded little boy in me talking. Still, I never wanted to be the first one to make contact. In my fantasies, it was always you who would come crawling back to me. I guess my pride needed that.

But now I see that my pride's cost me a lot of things. I'm tired of pretending I don't miss you. I don't care about looking bad anymore. I don't care who makes the first move as long as one of us does. Maybe it's time we let our hearts speak as loudly as our hurt. And this is what my heart says... "There's no one like you, Mandy."

I look for you in the eyes and breasts of every woman I see, but they're not you. They're not even close. Two weeks ago, I met this girl at the Rainbow Room and brought her home with me. I don't say this to hurt you, but just to illustrate the depth of my desperation. She was young, Mandy, maybe 19, with one of those perfect bodies that only youth and maybe a childhood spent ice skating can give you. I mean, just a perfect body. Tits you wouldn't believe and an ass like a tortoise shell. Every man's dream, right? But as I sat on the couch being blown by this coed, I thought, look at the stuff we've made important in our lives. It's all so surface. What does a perfect body mean? Does it make her better in bed? Well, in this case, yes. But you see what I'm getting at. Does it make her a better person? Does she have a better heart than my moderately attractive Mandy? I doubt it.

And I'd never really thought of that before. I don't know, maybe I'm just growing up a little.

Later, after I'd tossed her about a quart of throat yogurt, I found myself thinking, "Why do I feel so drained and empty?" It wasn't just her flawless technique or her slutty, shameless hunger, but something else. Some niggling feeling of loss. Why did it feel so incomplete? And then it hit me. It didn't feel the same because you weren't there, Mandy, to watch. Do you know what I mean? Nothing feels the same without you, baby.
Mandy, I'm just going crazy without you. And everything I do just reminds me of you. Do you remember Carol, that single mum we met at Mt. Sinai Baptist Church? Well, she drops by last week with a pan of lasagne. She said she figured I wasn't eating right without a woman around. I didn't know what she meant till later, but that's not the real story.

Anyway, we have a few glasses of wine and the next thing you know we're shagging in our old bedroom. And this broad's a total monster in the sack. She's giving me everything, you know like a real woman does when she's not hung up about God and her career and whether the kids can hear us. And all of a sudden she spots that tilting mirror on your grandmother's old vanity. So she puts it on the floor and we straddle it, right, so we can watch ourselves. And it's totally hot, but it makes me sad too. 'Cause I can't help thinking, "Why didn't Mandy ever put the mirror on the floor? We've had this old vanity for what, 14 years, and we never used it as a sex aid." (Some of this I thought about later.)

You know what I mean? What happened to our spontaneity? You get so caught up in the routine of a marriage and you just lose sight of each other. And then you lose yourself. That's the saddest part of all for me.
But I keep thinking we can get it back. I know we can, because I only want this stuff with you. Saturday, your sister drops by with my copy of the restraining order. I mean, Shannon's just a kid and all, but she's got a pretty good head on her shoulders. She's been a real friend to me during this painful time. She's given me lots of good counsel about you and about women in general. (She's pulling for us to get back together, Mandy. She really is.)

So we're drinking in the hot tub and talking about happier times. Here's this hot girl with the same DNA as you (although, let's face it, she got an extra helping of the sexy gene) and all I can do is think of how much she looks like you when you were 18. And that just about makes me cry.
And then it turns out Shannon's really into the whole anal thing and that gets me to thinking about how many times I pressured you about trying it and how that probably fuelled some of the bitterness between us. But do you see how even then, when I'm thrusting inside the steaming hot Dutch oven of your sister's cinnamon ring, all I can do is think of you? It's true, baby. In your heart you know it.

Don't you think we could start over? Just wipe out all the grievances and start fresh? I think we can. I keep thinking that I think if you'd just try it, I wouldn't have to pressure you so much. Because who needs all that bitterness, Mandy? It just tears us apart. And I can't be apart from you.
Because I love you, God help me but I do.

Seven Souls

The ancient Egyptians postulated seven souls.

Top soul, and the first to leave at the moment of death, is Ren, the Secret Name. This corresponds to my Director; He directs the film of your life from conception to death. The Secret Name is the title of your film. When you die, that's where Ren came in.

Second soul, and second one off the sinking ship, is Sekem: Energy, Power, Light. The Director gives the orders, Sekem presses the right buttons. Number three is Khu, the Guardian Angel. He, she, or it is third man out . . . depicted as flying away across a full moon, a bird with luminous wings and head of light. Sort of thing you might see on a screen in an Indian restaurant in Panama. The Khu is responsible for the subject and can be injured in his defense-but not permanently, since the first three souls are eternal. They go beck to Heaven for another vessel.

The four remaining souls must take their chances with the subject in the Land of the Dead. Number four is Ba, the heart, often treacherous. This is a hawk's body with your face on it, shrunk down to the size of a fist. Many a hero has been brought down, like Samson, by a perfidious Ba.

Number five is Ka, the Double, most closely associated with the subject. The Ka, which usually reaches adolescence at the time of bodily death, is the only reliable guide through the Land of the Dead to the western Lands.

Number six is Khaibit, the Shadow, Memory, your whole past conditioning from this and other lives.

Number seven is Sekhu, the Remains. I first encountered this concept in Norman Mailer's Ancient Evenings and saw that it corresponded precisely with my own mythology, developed over a period of many years, since birth in fact.

Ren, the Director, the Secret Name, is your life story, your destiny-in one word or one sentence, what was your life about? Nixon: Watergate. Billy the Kid: Quien es? And what is the Ren of the Director? Actors frantically packing in thousands of furnished rooms and theatrical hotels: "Don't bother with all that junk, John. The Director is on stage! And you know what that means in show biz: every man for himself."

Sekem corresponds to my Technician: Lights. Action. Camera. "Look, boss, we don't got enough Sek to fry an elderly woman in a fleabag hotel fire. And you want a hurricane?" "Well, Joe, we'll just have to start faking it" "Fucking moguls don't even know what buttons to push or what happens when you push them. Sure; start faking it and leave the details to Joe."

Look, from a real disaster you get a pig of Sek: sacrifice, tears, heartbreak, heroism and violent death. Always remember, one case of VD yields more Sek than a cancer ward. And you get the lowest acts of which humans are capable-remember the Italian steward who put on women's clothes and so filched a seat in a lifeboat? "A cur in human shape, certainly he was born and saved to set a new standard by which to judge infamy and shame."

With a Sek surplus you can underwrite the next one, but if the first one's a fake you can't underwrite a shithouse. Sekem is second man out: 'No power left in this set" He drinks a bicarbonate of soda and disappears in a belch. Lots of people don't have a Khu these days. No Khu would work for them. Mafioso Don: "Get offa me, Khu crumb! Worka for a living!" Ba, the Heart: that's sex. Always treacherous. Suck all the Sek out of a man.

Many Bas have poison juices. The Ka is about the only soul a man can trust. If you don't make it, he don't make it. But it is very difficult to contact your real Ka. Sekhu is the physical body, and the planet is mostly populated with walking Sekhus, just enough Sek to keep them moving. The Venusian invasion is a takeover of the souls.

Ren is degraded by Hollywood down to John Wayne levels. Sekem works for the Company. The Khus are all transparent fakes. The Ba is rotten with AIDS. The Ka is paralyzed. Khaibit sits on you like a nagging wife. Sekhu is poisoned with radiation and contaminants and cancer. There is intrigue among the souls, and treachery. No worse fate can befall a man than to be surrounded by traitor souls.

And what about Mr. Eight-Ball, who has these souls? They don't exist without him, and he gets the dirty end of every stick. Eights of the world, unite! You have nothing to lose but your dirty rotten vampires: A hundred years ago there were rat-killing dogs known as "Fancies." A man bet on his "Fancy," how many rats he would kill. The rats were confined in a circular arena too high for a rat to jump over. But they formed pyramids, so that the top rats could escape. Sekhu is bottom rat in the pyramid. Like the vital bottom integer in a serial, when that goes, the whole serial universe gone up in smoke. It never existed. Angelic boys who walk on water, sweet inhuman voices from a distant star. The Khu, sweet -bird of night, with luminous wings and a head of light, flies across the full moon . . . a born-again redneck raises his shotgun. . . . "Stinkin' Khu!"

The Egyptians recognized many degrees of immortality. The Ren and the Sekem and the Khu are relatively immortal, but still subject to injury. The other souls who survive physical death are much more precariously situated. Can any soul survive the searing fireball of an atomic blast? If humans and animal souls are seen as electromagnetic force fields, such fields could be totally disrupted by a nuclear explosion. The mummy's 'nightmare: disintegration of souls, and this is precisely the ultrasecret and supersensitive function of the atom bomb: a Soul Killer, to alleviate an escalating soul glut.

~William Burroughs

I'm about to run amuck

This is not my usual blog, y'all, I'm sorry. I just have to rant and bitch a little bit today. You know, if I kept it all in all the time, I'd swell up like a bullfrog and explode. We wouldn't want that, now would we?

Every week I get quite a number of emails, either from strangers or from people on my friends list, emails of a particular kind that are pushing me to the limit of my tolerance. What kind of email is it, you ask, that would test the infinite patience of the most gracious and kind Tess? Obviously, I intend to tell you, just now.

An example of the kind of email I mean is like this: "Hey Tess, Are you having a good day? How was your weekend?" or sometimes it's "How are you today?" Toward the end of the week, it's "Hi Tess, Do you have any fun plans for the weekend?" This being the entire text of the email, in full. Putting me in the position of either ignoring the email, which is not in my nature as I don't like to be rude, or responding with answers to the mind-numbingly dull questions as briefly as possible, which again is rude and not my usual style, or responding with a gracious, detailed, conversational response complete with reciprocal questions regarding the well-being of the other person and the events of their weekend past or future.

I'm flattered and I do understand that these people send me these emails because they want to stay in touch, they want to know me, they want to chat with me. Thank you, that's very sweet. But if you don't have anything interesting to say to me, please don't expect me to say anything interesting back in response to your email! Don't put the burden on me to be polite and stimulating and creative and charming, all on my own! If your email is no more charming than "Hi, how was your weekend? How are you doing today?"--what do you want from me??

And if you're a man hoping to capture my attention and spark up a little sump'n-sump'n with me via MySpace, you must know you gotta try way harder than "Got any fun plans for the weekend?"

One would think that receiving a bland response such as "I'm fine, thanks. No fun plans. Take care." would discourage a person from writing again. Yet, I get the same email week after week from some! The following cycle repeated, week after week:

"Hi, how are you? Did you do anything fun this weekend?" "Hi, I'm fine. No I didn't do anything fun." "Hey Tess, how's it going?" "Hi, it's going fine." "Hi, are you having a good day? Do you have anything fun planned for this weekend?" "Hello, I'm having a good day. I don't have much planned for the weekend." "Hey, Tess, how are you?" "Hi, I'm fine." "Hi Tess, how was your weekend?" "Hello, my weekend was fine."

Does that not make you want to commit an atrocious crime? Does that not numb your mind with boredom to the point of having your brains melt and run out your ears?? Then why do we keep doing it, week after week?

If you want to send me a friendly email and tell me about your weekend, fine. I'll read it and if something inspires me to have a conversation, then perhaps we will correspond back and forth for a bit about what you said. Perhaps I will be inspired to share something of my own with you. Heck, it's even remotely possible, like maybe a fraction of a percentage point possible chance, that we might hit it off so well that I will begin foaming at the mouth and having convulsions over you and threaten to shave my head if you don't meet me right away.

But if you approach me with mundane, boring, generic, chitty-chat questions, please expect to be ignored. I'm thinking of putting together a form letter response, what do you think of this:

"Hi, I'm suicidal today, thanks for asking. I had a fun weekend, swallowed a live cricket. I plan on doing that again this weekend, if I have time. Thanks, /tess."

Goddess of Grace, Inspiration, and the Moon

Legend says that a goddess rides these hills, so swiftly that no horseman could catch her. To invoke her, you need only to call her name.

Rhiannon rings like a bell through the night and wouldn’t you love to love her?

Rhiannon is the Celtic goddess of the moon, a Welch goddess. Her name means “Divine Queen.”

Rhiannon’s myth tells that she was promised in marriage to an older man she found repugnant. She defied her family’s wishes that she, like other Celtic goddesses, would marry one of her "own kind."

Takes to the sky like a bird in flight and who will be her lover?

The goddess Rhiannon fell in love with the mortal Prince Pwyll and grew more restless and anxious as she considered her dilemma. It was bad enough to have displeased her family by turning away the warty old man they wanted her to marry, but to marry a mortal would get her banished forever. Many nights she walked, singing to the moon, calling out her heart’s agony, until she knew that she would have no peace unless he was hers.

Rhiannon appeared to Pwyll one afternoon while he stood with his companions on a great grass-covered mound in the deep forest surrounding his castle. These mounds, called Tors, were thought to be magical places, perhaps covering the entrance to the otherworld beneath the earth. It was thought that those who stood upon them would become enchanted, so most people feared and avoided them.

Indeed, as he stood in the magical place, the young prince was enchanted by the vision of a beautiful woman with flowing hair and midnight eyes, who was dressed in glittering gold as she galloped by on her powerful white horse. Rhiannon rode by without casting him even a glance. Pwyll was intrigued and enraptured, and his companions were understandably concerned.

All your life you’ve never seen a woman taken by the sky.

Ignoring the protest of his friends, Pwyll sent his servant riding his swiftest horse to catch her and ask her to come back to him. But the servant soon returned and reported that she rode so swiftly, it seemed her horse’s feet scarcely touched the ground and that he could not even follow her to learn where she went.

The next day, against his friends’ advice, Pwyll returned alone to the mound and, once more, the Celtic goddess appeared. Mounted on his horse, Pwyll pursued her but could not overtake her. Although his horse ran even faster than Rhiannon's, the distance between them always remained the same. Finally, after his horse began to tremble with exhaustion, he stopped and called out for her to wait. “Don’t leave me! Come back!” And Rhiannon did.

When Pwyll drew close, she teased him gently, “It would have been much kinder to your horse had you simply called out instead of chasing.” The goddess Rhiannon then let him know that she had come to find him, seeking his love.

Would you stay if she promised you heaven? Would you even try?

Pwyll welcomed this, for the very sight of this beautiful Celtic goddess had tugged at his heart and haunted his spirit. He reached for her reins to guide her to his kingdom. But Rhiannon smiled tenderly and shook her head, telling him that they must wait a year and then she would return to marry him. In the next moment, the goddess Rhiannon simply disappeared from him into the deep forest.

Taken by the sky.

She went home to appeal to her family, that they not cast her out for choosing a mortal husband. She begged them to see that she was not whole without him and that she would never be happy with any other. She told them how much she loved them all and that it would break her heart if they rejected her, but she would choose to be with him no matter what they decided. Very quickly, her mother’s heart was touched by the fire in her daughter’s eyes, and she admired Rhiannon’s courage. Over time, her father and the others were won over by her determination as well. They wanted only her happiness. They gave their blessing to Rhiannon, but told her that she could not return to the world of the gods if she chose the mortal path.

She rules her life like a bird in flight and who will be her lover?

Rhiannon did return one year later, dressed as before, to greet Pwyll on the Tor. He was accompanied by a troop of his own men, as befitted a prince on his wedding day. Speaking no words, Rhiannon turned her horse and gestured for the men to follow her into the tangled woods. Although fearful, they complied. As they rode, the trees parted before them, clearing a path, then closing in behind them when they passed.

Soon they entered a clearing and were joined by a flock of small songbirds that swooped playfully in the air around Rhiannon’s head. At the sound of their beautiful singing, all fear and worry suddenly left the men. Before long they arrived at her father’s palace, a stunning abode surrounded by a lake. The castle, unlike any they had ever seen, was built not of wood or stone, but of silvery crystal. Its spires soared into the heavens.

After the wedding, a great feast was held to celebrate the marriage of the goddess. Rhiannon’s family and people were both welcoming and merry, but the festivities were interrupted by drama from an unexpected source. The man Rhiannon had rejected began carrying on, shouting and arguing that she should not be allowed to marry outside her own people.

Rhiannon slipped away from her husband’s side to deal with the situation as discreetly as she could . . . using a bit of magic, she turned the persistent suitor into a badger and caught him in a bag which she tied closed and threw into the lake. Unfortunately, he managed to escape and vowed that Rhiannon would pay.

She is like a cat in the dark, then she is the darkness.

The next day Rhiannon left with Pwyll and his men to go to Wales as his princess. When they emerged from the forest and the trees closed behind them, Rhiannon took a moment to glance lovingly behind her. She knew that the entrance to the fairy kingdom was now closed and that she could never return to her childhood home. But she didn’t pause for long.

The goddess Rhiannon was welcomed by her husband’s people and admired for her great beauty and her lovely singing. Within two years, she delivered a fine and healthy son. As was the custom then, six women servants were assigned to stay with Rhiannon in her lying-in quarters to help her care for the infant. Although the servants were supposed to work in shifts tending to the baby throughout the night so that the goddess Rhiannon could sleep and regain her strength after having given birth, one evening they all fell asleep on the job.

When they woke to find the cradle empty, they were fearful they would be punished severely for their carelessness. They devised a plan to cast the blame on the goddess Rhiannon, who was, after all, an outsider, not really one of their own people. Killing a puppy, they smeared its blood on the sleeping Rhiannon and scattered its bones around her bed. Sounding the alarm, they accused the goddess of eating her own child.

Although Rhiannon swore her innocence, Pwyll, suffering from his own shock and grief and faced with the anger of his advisers and the people, did not come strongly to her defense, saying only that he would not divorce her and asking only that her life be spared. Rhiannon’s punishment was announced.

For the next seven years the goddess Rhiannon was to sit by the castle gate, bent under the heavy weight of a horse collar, greeting guests with the story of her crime and offering to carry them on her back into the castle.

Rhiannon bore her humiliating punishment without complaint. Through the bitter cold of winters and the dusty heat of four summers, she endured with quiet acceptance. Her courage was such that few accepted her offer to transport them into the castle. Respect for her began to spread throughout the country as travelers talked of the wretched punishment and the dignity with which the goddess bore her suffering.

Once in a million years a lady like her rises.

In the fall of the fourth year, three strangers appeared at the gate—a well-dressed nobleman, his wife, and a young boy. Rhiannon rose to greet them saying, “Lord, I am here to carry each of you into the Prince’s court, for I have killed my only child and this is my punishment.” The man, his wife, and the child dismounted. While the man lifted the surprised Rhiannon onto his horse, the boy handed her a piece of an infant’s gown. Rhiannon saw that it was cloth that had been woven by her own hands. The boy then smiled at her, and she recognized that he had the eyes of his father, Pwyll.

Soon the story was told. Four years earlier, during a great storm, the nobleman had been called to the field to help a mare in labor, when he heard the infant’s cries and found him lying abandoned. He and his wife took the baby in, raising him as if he were their own. When the rumors of the goddess Rhiannon’s fate reached his ears, he realized what had happened and set out at once to return the child to his parents.

Pwyll and his people quickly recognized the boy as Pwyll and Rhiannon’s son. The goddess Rhiannon was restored to her honor and her place beside her husband. Although she had suffered immensely at their hands, Rhiannon, goddess of noble traits, saw that they were ashamed and was filled with forgiveness and understanding.

“Oh no, Rhiannon,” you cry, but she’s gone. Your life knows no answer.

In some versions of the legend, Rhiannon was the Celtic goddess who later became Vivienne, best known as the Lady of the Lake. She was the Celtic goddess who gave Arthur the sword Excalibur, empowering him to become King in the legends of Camelot.

The story of the Celtic goddess Rhiannon reminds us of the healing power of tears, grace and forgiveness. The goddess Rhiannon is a goddess of movement and change who remains steadfast, comforting us in times of crisis and of loss.

Dreams unwind, love’s a state of mind.

Sonny & Brenda

A long time ago I was a college student; wow, so long ago. I remember setting up my class schedule so that I'd be home each day at 2:00. Why?

Sonny and Brenda.

God, the tears I cried over Sonny and Brenda. Maurice Benard is, like, male perfection. And Vanessa--she's just so beautiful it hurts.

They were amazing together, so adorable and electric and happy.

She betrayed him and he cut her loose. (It wasn't a sexual or emotional betrayal but really something contrived, a plot device. Brenda would never actually do this thing, there was no benefit for her in doing it, but the writers made her do it so that Sonny would have a reason to leave her.) Literally, he tore her clutching hands away from his legs as she lay on the floor sobbing and begging him not to go. Oh, how I cried for her broken heart. Shoot, I think I cried more over her broken heart than I ever did for my own. Maybe not.

She would not let it go. He married a Puerto Rican chick, Lily, who was also beautiful, of course, but Sonny and Lily were not Sonny and Brenda. Not even close.

She followed him around, begging him to take her back. One night she waited for him in the parking garage, standing by the wall. When he saw her, whoa! there it was, that magic ZAP! that happened between them when they looked at each other. Sonny took three long strides toward her and grabbed her face in his hands and kissed her. Oh my fuck, how he kissed her. When he pulled away, she was crying and smiling, she thought she had him, he was hers again, but no. He shoved her back and walked away. And my heart broke for Brenda again.

She revenge-fucked Miguel (and that one was not contrived, Brenda would actually do that) to make him jealous, and that it did--Sonny nearly killed poor Miguelito--but it didn't bring him back to her, it only pissed him off more.

Plus, he did love Lily. He was an honorable kind of guy, he'd made a commitment, and now she was pregnant as well. He could not leave her.

But he thought of Brenda late at night. He thought of her a lot.

Well Brenda finally picked herself up and stopped stalking him. She started dating a goofy-looking dude named Jax, whose obnoxious Australian accent caused him to say 'Brender' when he said her name. They were alright together, but they were not Sonny and Brenda. She married Jax on a boat in the Caribbean, and as he slipped the ring on Brenda's finger, at that same moment, Lily (and Sonny's unborn baby) got blown up by a car bomb. Oh, the tragedies that soap opera characters must endure.

When Brenda returned from her honeymoon and heard the news, she went to him. With no manipulations or intentions, she went to him and held him while he cried. She did not try to make him want her, and she didn't see this as an opportunity. She was a friend to him. I recall cheering while I watched this episode--'Yay! Our little Brender has finally grown up!!' She had moved on now, and he had rejected her so many times that she'd given up hope.

But as time went by, Sonny was haunted. Not by memories of his dead wife, but by memories of Brenda. He decided he had to have her back or his life would remain empty and meaningless forever.

I can't quite remember...but I think he went to her and they talked, and Brenda did the happy dance with spasms of joy, and then she went off to break the news to Jax that she was leaving him for a real man.

Next thing ya know, she drove off a cliff. (It was an accident, not suicide.) Wouldn't you know it, just when her dreams were coming true.

GH is good at bringing dead characters back to life. I heard they brought Brenda back this year so I thought I'd check it out on YouTube and see how it went for them. Ugh, would you believe I watched for less than two minutes before I was bawling again? I'm pathetic.

Anyway, the scene in this montage where Sonny's standing in the rain looking like he just swallowed a live toad--that's the moment when he saw her, his Brenda, alive, after fifteen years. They haven't changed a bit.

Incidentally, the Relentless Tease happens to look exactly like Maurice Benard. Maybe that's why I used to lose all sanity when he was around. I think I have an old picture around here somewhere, let me see...

(young picture, add about 7 years to it).

Here's Maurice Benard. (His real name is Mauricio Jose Morales, by the way.)

God save me from Latin men--but on second thought, no don't. Just keep sending more.

Random Reflections on Old Londontown

Positively saturated with good-looking men. Not even in Mexico are the men so fine as they are in Old Blighty. And the British accent is divine. Slightly different in every voice.

People are quite friendly and kind. They seem genuinely happy.

I swear I saw Daniel Craig buying a coffee in a small coffee shop near Harrod's. I swear it. He had the bluest eyes I've ever seen and he looked right at me. Alan was in the loo, and by the time he came out he was gone, so I have no one to confirm my lucky encounter. But I will remember the moment for the rest of my life.

Everyone in London wears a scarf. I noticed this is true in New York too, but not as much as in London. So I bought myself a lovely red chenille scarf and gloves; then I fit right in.

No sales tax when you buy things. If it says 15 pounds, that's how much they ask you for, not 17.87 with tax. Sort of strange.

British children speak with British accents too. Every time I heard the sweet angelic little voices around me, I turned expecting to see Peter Pan or Mary Poppins standing nearby. "Petah! Please, let's fly away to Nevah-Nevah land now, shall we?"

Some people drive these teeny-tiny little cars. Like something I would consider buying as a toy for my son. Like something there's no way you could fit an adult inside of, but they do somehow. Really bizarre.

London is both old and new at the same time. Thoroughly soaked in ancient history, yet completely modern and hip.

I believe they drew the streets of London by putting a drunken Irishman on a wild horse and letting him drag a stick behind. The streets go every which way, in loops and curls and wild staggering lurches in random directions. It was quite an advenure for a Yankee like me, trekking around on foot alone the first day. I thought I would cry with joy when I finally found my hotel.

That Becker quote, "whenever I go to London, I am home," feels so true to me. I found another home there.

In Which I Pose an Ethical Question

Here’s how it works.

Someone writes a book and then sets out to find an agent or a publisher. He submits his query and sample to the agent, and the agent writes back requesting more samples or perhaps the full manuscript for review. So Julio sends his manuscript to the agent, who then writes back to say “Yes, we’re interested in representing this work,” and sends a contract.

Julio signs the contract and does the hallelujah dance (“Yes! I’ve got an agent!”).

I don’t know what the contract says, but it probably says something like “I will be your literary agent and represent your manuscript on the publishing market. I will receive some fee (a percentage of royalties probably) for my services if the manuscript is sold to a publisher.”
The agent tells Julio that his manuscript is not yet in a presentable condition to send to publishers. He refers him to a company, let’s call it Editing, Inc. which can provide editing and other services to help him get his manuscript ready for submission to publishers.

So Julio contacts Editing, Inc. to inquire about their services. They offer a few different options. He can have the first 20 pages of his manuscript edited by a professional editor who will provide him with a detailed commentary and suggestions for revisions to his work. This service costs several hundred dollars. Or he can have the entire manuscript edited and receive an even more detailed commentary and more assistance. This service is about a thousand dollars, or more if it’s a really honkin’ big manuscript. Or he can hire an editor for a set number of hours to be his coach. In this case, the editor not only reads and edits his work but works with him on the phone to coach him and discuss in detail the revisions needed. Another service offered is a rewrite—if an editor needs to do something way more involved than line editing, like shuffling chapters around, rewriting large sections of it, helping with plot and character development, etc. This service is very expensive: two or three thousand dollars. Other services offered by Editing, Inc. include assistance with query letters, bios and synopsis sheets. Basically, this company provides anything the writer may need to get his manuscript ready to submit to publishers, but also provides valuable writing tips and coaching to improve the quality of Julio’s writing in general.

But all these services are shockingly expensive (to me).

So Julio decides to pay a few hundred dollars or maybe a thousand dollars to have some or all of his manuscript edited. The agent receives a commission from the company for referring Julio to them for editing services. Technically, I don’t know for a fact this is what happens, but I assume so because there would be no other reason for an agent to establish a relationship with the editing company and send all his clients to them. In fact, when you see the writing sample below, you’ll understand what I mean when I say this commission from the editing company has to be the only incentive the agent has for signing this writer as a client. The editing money (from the writer/client) is the only money the agent could ever make on this deal, as there’s no way he expects to truly sell it to a publisher.

In fact, the most likely truth hidden in this situation is that the "agent" is really just a cardboard extension of the editing company Editing, Inc. whose only purpose is to find writers and give them incentive to purchase editing services.

This is where I come in, the professional editor. I print the manuscript, read it and mark it up with a pen, then transfer my edits to the screen via Microsoft Word’s Track Changes feature. The writer can see every change that I make and can choose to accept my edits or reject them. I correct punctuation, spelling, grammar, point out inconsistencies in the story or put comments in the text showing where something needs to be clarified. Sometimes I may do a little minor rewriting here and there to improve things. If the formatting of the text is terribly wonky, I will fix that and let the writer know about standard publishing format (font size, line space, margins, etc.). I write up a commentary giving Julio my impression of the work and my suggestions for improvement.

As a relatively new editor (two years), I tend to have too much of a “light touch” when tearing into another writer’s work. But as my confidence and experience grow, I think I’m more comfortable now to really rip it up (constructively, of course). I figure this writer didn’t pay a thousand dollars or more just to have me come back and say, “Hey, this is good. I fixed your margins and corrected a couple of spelling mistakes.” When I edit a manuscript, I do it with an eye toward making it as good as it can possibly be, whatever it needs. I try to tell the writer what I feel he really needs to understand in order to be a better writer.

So the edited manuscript goes back to the writer and I’m out of the loop. I don’t know what then happens between the writer and the company or the agent. But apparently what happens sometimes is the writer gets pissed off when his book doesn’t get published. After spending all that money and doing what the agent told him to do, suddenly there are crickets chirping over at the agent’s office and he’s not heard a word. He feels he’s been cheated and he sues the agent and the company for fraud.

I find that the better the writer is, the more realistic his perception of what he’s getting for his money. If he’s smart enough to write a decent manuscript (not publishable maybe, but not bloody awful) then he’s typically smart enough to understand the service he’s getting from me his editor, from the company and from the agent. He truly appreciates the edit work and the commentary and seeks to improve his craft, regardless of whether his book gets published or not. This guy is not the problem.

There are, apparently, a great many people out there in the world who have somehow come to the mistaken conclusion that they are writers. They produce thousands of pages of the most horrible stuff you could imagine. As a writer, it actually hurts me—a real physical pain in my heart—to see my beloved craft butchered and bludgeoned so carelessly. I weep sometimes as I read this stuff, I really do. I’m going to post a little sample so you can see how bad it is—there are simply no words to describe the horror.

After what seemed a long morning he was able to get a hold of Mark they agreed to meet at JD’ys it was a little café. Toby went to his sister’s room, told her to get ready, then left they walked hand in hand she was only six but she still liked to hold hands Toby didn’t mind as long as no one saw them especially Jade a girl he liked, he didn’t want her to think he was a sissy or something. When Toby and his sister made it to the Y he let go of her hand and walked her to the bus. All her friends liked him because he was a lot older then them. He really didn’t mind he liked little kids he even babysitted them for free. After he singed her name on the paper (a parent needed to sign it they said he would do). He then left her she seemed scared to leave but she did he walked all the way home, got his bike after telling his parents that he was leaving to go out with Mark. He peddled down South Ave. he then turned down Franklin Street there was JD’ys, he looked in the window and saw Mark sitting at the counter with his back to the window. Toby walked in he saw Jade in her uniform he smiled. She saw him and waved to him. He walked over to her “Hey you ready for school to start?” Toby asked she looked at him then answered “Yes I ‘am it’s been a long summer, I’m tired of watiressing for idiots.” She laughed in spite of her self. Toby walked over to Mark sat down next to him. Mark looked over at him “Your late.” He said Toby shrugged “My sister took forever to get ready.” Toby then reached for a menu he ordered a turkey sandwich. “School starts tomorrow-high school it might be fun.” Toby said this last thing with ununderstanding Mark looked paler then usual. Mark ate his food in silence, Toby kept on looking at Jade over his shoulder she also kept on looking at him, but as soon he would notice she would turn around and walk away swinging her hips.Toby got on his bike; Mark didn’t have his bike with him so he had to sit on the handle bars. “Where to Mark?” asked Toby “To my house.” Toby started slow but got going Toby took the main road to Marks house he knew it would be quicker the taking spring street. Also they didn’t want Quigley to chase them Quigley was Toby’s next door neighbor dog that liked to chase them; when they where little they used to tease Quigley until Toby got bite then they stopped. When they reached Marks house Mark got his bike, “Let’s go to the bowling alley Jade said she would be there.” Said Mark, he also liked Jade but he already dated her in the fifth grade they’re good friends now. “Okay.” Toby was more then willing to get to see Jade again. Toby and Mark then peddled down Pine Street toward the bowling alley. The bowling alley came into view the red pillars outside of it and the big pin ball.

Okay, that’s a really long sample, but you see what I mean. No paragraph breaks, punctuation at random. Nothing interesting happening in the story, no real plot or character development. Let me tell you, to read and edit seven hundred pages of this stuff feels a bit like smacking yourself in the face with a crowbar for ten hours. I want to tell this person—beg him—to stop. Find another hobby. This writing thing is not working out--hey, you gave it a shot, maybe you can try your hand at painting? Clearly, after spending countless hours, days, months writing this huge monstrosity and spending a thousand dollars or more to have it edited, the writer cares about this manuscript very much and must be handled with care. I do my best to teach him what I know and help him do better.

Reader, this is the guy who comes across with the idea that his book is in the process of getting published because he has found an agent and an editor. Ironically, it’s the writers who have the least chance of being published who persist with the delusion that they will be published! They come to me with questions like, “Is there anything else that needs to be done to this before I send it back to my agent for publishing?” or “So this is ready for publishing now?” And I don’t know what’s been told to him by his agent, so I have to be diplomatic. I say, “Well, the editing work is done. Work on implementing my suggestions and you should be in better shape.”

So some of these guys (and ladies) have sued the company to which I contract my editing services. Fraud. I can understand their frustration—I’ve played the “publish me, please!” game myself. And the money these people have dished out is a lot! If they did so under the impression that they were in the process of publishing their book, no wonder they’re pissed when they find out it was money spent on nothing—a book that will never see print in anybody’s lifetime.

What do you think, based on what I’ve told you (which is all I know). Is it fraud? Is it ethical? (I’ll put my opinion in the comments section.)