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Starting out tonight (this morning?) with a bit of a signal boost:

In light of the current Vatican sex abuse scandal, Paul G. Bens has announced that he is donating ALL of his 2nd Quarter royalties for Kelland (his debut novel about the after-effects of abuse) to SNAP. You can order Kelland directly from Casperian, or via e-tailers here, or at least get enough info to take to your local book shop.

~*~

One of the hazards of being a writer is that sometimes people will ask me to read their stuff. More often than not, this is incredibly awkward. Saying no out of hand can result in hurt feelings, but so can saying yes, because I really hate giving dishonest feedback.

A few months ago, one of my neighbors and I were chatting, and I let slip what it is I do that keeps me from getting out much. The minute the word “writer” passed my lips, she lit up. And told me about the book she wants to write. Is trying to write. Has written in her head.

And so we chatted about the practicalities a little, and it was a good chat, and then we went on to do whatever it was we were doing before we started talking.

About a week ago, my neighbor ran over to me with a small packet of paper. “Will you read this and tell me what you think?”

Oh hell, I think, because I like this woman. And I am a bastard. A terrible, red pen slinging bastard. A bastard who makes nice people cry.

“Sure,” I say, and carry the pages in with me. And put them on my desk. And then pretend they are not there because I am terrified that I will be honor bound to say something that will result in this lovely woman setting me on fire with her brain.

Yesterday afternoon, she was out in her yard and asked if I’d read them. “Yes!” I lied. “Let me put my stuff away and grab them and we’ll chat.” I dropped my bag on a convenient bit of furniture, grabbed her pages, and read them.

And then I went outside and told her the truth. Which, you know, is nobody’s business but ours. But I feel good about it, and she seems to feel good about it because I am not on fire.

I do wish I could do more for her, but the truth of it is that I’m too busy to give the metaphorical fishing lessons. I can, however, gather up some things that amount to a ‘teach yourself to fish’ kit and leave it in her mailbox…

This post has been mirrored from Christian A. Young's Dimlight Archive. To see it in its original format, visit dimlightarchive.com

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bodlon: It's a coyote astronaut! (Default)
bodlon

March 2015

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