A wise man speaks because he has something to say.
A fool speaks because he has to say something.
I put my spin on that little nugget. It goes something like this:
I don't mind if you talk, as long as you have some thing to say.
Part of the plan in writing these little ditties, is deciding what to say and when to say it. I don't want to be one of those writers who puts drivel out at every post. Instead, I want to put some food for thought in your mind... oh say every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. That seems fair.
Our writing group met and we talked about plagiarism. Putting your spin on Romeo and Juliet is one thing. Crossing off William Shakespere's name and passing his work of as your own is completely unacceptable. I mean really, who talks like that nowadays?
Aside from the obvious lack of morality and decency, the chances of you getting caught in this day and age are extremely good. People will call you out. Count on it.
A few years back, an essay circulated on the internet of a commencement speech given to the graduates of a college that I can't recall the name of. The last line of this speech indicated it was written by Kurt Vonnegut, but there was one problem:
He didn't write it.
Upon hearing that he was being credited for someone else's work, Mr. Vonnegut called his agent and took to the airwaves that evening on Nightline.
As an observer, and a recipient, of the forwarded chain e-mail, I witnessed the rumor go full circle. From meme to publicly being disavowed on national television. All that in under 24 hours.
So you want to lift a line from a favorite book and pass it off as your own? Good luck with that one.
Which brings me to a question that I get about once a week.
'Aren't you worried about someone stealing your work if you post it online?'
In a word: no.
As soon as I put fingers to keyboard, Pen to paper. Those thoughts and words are mine. If you don't believe me, go ask Art Bushwald and Eddie Murphy.
Some of you won't recall that incident or those names, but if you trouble yourself to look up those people and their connection, you should have some light reading on the subject of plagiarism.
A couple of you dear readers have gotten so bold as to ask me, 'When is the next one coming out?' Well folks, as soon as it's done.
In a perfect world I would write 8 to 10 hours a day, stopping for a quick bite to eat and a bathroom break every so often tossed in for good measure.
I work my Clark Kent job, driving a forklift and receiving inventory 5 days a week. I treat writing as a second job. I do it on weekends and on my lunch break at Lowe's. I can't wait for some grand high pubah to come up to me and say; 'Since you wrote that at Lowe's, it belongs to us and is our intellectual property.'
I really want some genius to come up to me and say that. I could use something to laugh about while at work. While they're at it, they could look up that whole Eddie Murphy/ Art Bushwald thing.
Anyway, I'm about 20K words into the beast. Not that I'm paying attention to the size of the book. When the story is done, it'll let me know.
Here's a sneek peek at what I got brewing.
A fool speaks because he has to say something.
I put my spin on that little nugget. It goes something like this:
I don't mind if you talk, as long as you have some thing to say.
Part of the plan in writing these little ditties, is deciding what to say and when to say it. I don't want to be one of those writers who puts drivel out at every post. Instead, I want to put some food for thought in your mind... oh say every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. That seems fair.
Our writing group met and we talked about plagiarism. Putting your spin on Romeo and Juliet is one thing. Crossing off William Shakespere's name and passing his work of as your own is completely unacceptable. I mean really, who talks like that nowadays?
Aside from the obvious lack of morality and decency, the chances of you getting caught in this day and age are extremely good. People will call you out. Count on it.
A few years back, an essay circulated on the internet of a commencement speech given to the graduates of a college that I can't recall the name of. The last line of this speech indicated it was written by Kurt Vonnegut, but there was one problem:
He didn't write it.
Upon hearing that he was being credited for someone else's work, Mr. Vonnegut called his agent and took to the airwaves that evening on Nightline.
As an observer, and a recipient, of the forwarded chain e-mail, I witnessed the rumor go full circle. From meme to publicly being disavowed on national television. All that in under 24 hours.
So you want to lift a line from a favorite book and pass it off as your own? Good luck with that one.
Which brings me to a question that I get about once a week.
'Aren't you worried about someone stealing your work if you post it online?'
In a word: no.
As soon as I put fingers to keyboard, Pen to paper. Those thoughts and words are mine. If you don't believe me, go ask Art Bushwald and Eddie Murphy.
Some of you won't recall that incident or those names, but if you trouble yourself to look up those people and their connection, you should have some light reading on the subject of plagiarism.
A couple of you dear readers have gotten so bold as to ask me, 'When is the next one coming out?' Well folks, as soon as it's done.
In a perfect world I would write 8 to 10 hours a day, stopping for a quick bite to eat and a bathroom break every so often tossed in for good measure.
I work my Clark Kent job, driving a forklift and receiving inventory 5 days a week. I treat writing as a second job. I do it on weekends and on my lunch break at Lowe's. I can't wait for some grand high pubah to come up to me and say; 'Since you wrote that at Lowe's, it belongs to us and is our intellectual property.'
I really want some genius to come up to me and say that. I could use something to laugh about while at work. While they're at it, they could look up that whole Eddie Murphy/ Art Bushwald thing.
Anyway, I'm about 20K words into the beast. Not that I'm paying attention to the size of the book. When the story is done, it'll let me know.
Here's a sneek peek at what I got brewing.
“Daniel,”
Charlotte whispered in the darkness. “I heard a noise.”
“Sure
it wasn't me snoring?” I managed to say through a yawn. Charlotte
gently slapped my shoulder.
“I'm
not talking about an animal outside, I heard someone try the lock
downstairs.”
A
surge of adrenaline chased the cobwebs out of my brain. When we moved
into the Wallace house I took a little ribbing from my wife because I
locked the doors and did a perimeter check before retiring to bed.
Old habits die hard. Silently standing, I listened intently for any
tell tale signs of an intruder. Salt had not sounded off any warning
signals from his stall. No creaks, bumps or shatters that one would
associate with a break in. Not bothering with a light or a bathrobe,
I crept down the stairs to see if things were indeed okay. First
place I inspected, the door, held no signs of forced entry. I knew
where the oil lamp and matches were located and silently debated
doing this in the faint moonlight. Striking a match instantly threw a
feeble light around me. I learned the hard way not to stare at where
the match ignites. A momentary blindness happens as the pupils adjust
to the sudden new light source. It's also the perfect time to attack
someone. No one charged out of the darkness, which was good. Bringing
the flame to the wick, I allowed the lamp light to spill into the
entire room.
An
elderly man sat in the overstuffed chair trying not to look too out
of place in my living room. Quickly I glanced over at the front door
again. Sliding lock still in place on the door and my window still
intact.
“How
in the hell did you get in here old man?”
Running
a hand through his wispy gray hair, the man just smiled.
“You
know,” I admitted, “I don't care how you got in, you're leaving
now.”
The
man made no effort to move as I reached for his arm. “I wouldn't be
doin that laddie,” the man said with a chuckle.
Grasping
fingers closed around... nothing. The
sensation reminded me of a Halloween party when all of my friends
stuck our hands in a bowl of jello after being told it was brains.
Fingers closing around semi solid liquid goop. Nothing remaining in
my grip to get out of the chair.
“Satisfied?”
the old man asked.
“Who
are you?”
“Ahh,”
the man sighed. “Right to the point. Well, suffice to say I'm the
previous resident of this house. I'm your father-in-law.”
With
everything else that had been happening to me so far, I shouldn't be
surprised. Yet, my face must have given something away. Connor
Wallace smiled mischievously.
“I've
been talking to a few people about you Daniel,” he sighed. “I had
some misgivings about this whole affair, but you mean to do right by
my daughter. You captured the man responsible for killing Dona and I.
Now you've gone off and made an honest woman of her. Married and
living in our house. You're a lawman and you go to church. Not as
often as I'd like, mind you... For what it's worth, you have my
blessing on marrying my daughter.”
“Well,
thank you sir.” I kept my voice even. “Would you like me to get
your daughter so you can speak to her?”
Connor
shook his head decisively. “Nay, my business is with you tonight. I
came to warn you. That evil beastie is coming for you. He lands on
these shores tonight.”
“Crap.”
I muttered.
“Oh,
you can use stronger language than that, sonny boy.”
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