December 19: Her Trick Was Working, Publication, Shakespearean Fairy Tale

Charlotte was delighted with the way her trick was working.  She sat without moving a muscle, and listened to the conversation of the people.  When a small fly blundered into the web, just beyond the word "pig," Charlotte dropped quickly down, rolled the fly up, and carried it out of the way.

Charlotte is a writer.  Her "SOME PIG" web is her first publication, and she enjoys the stir it causes on the Zuckerman farm.  Those two little words start the whole process of Wilbur's salvation.  By the time the book ends, Charlotte has saved her friend's life through her writing.  There aren't too many authors who have saved lives, literally, with their publications.

Today, I received word that an essay I wrote a while ago titled "A Bipolar Christmas" was just published online today in bioStories Magazine.  I have been expecting this news for a couple of weeks.  It's a fantastic magazine, and I'm honored to be included as a contributor.  If you want to read the essay, click on the link below:

bioStories Magazine

So, I am celebrating a little this evening.  Like Charlotte, I'm sort of sitting here, in my web, watching the results of my work.  I've been published quite a few times, but the excitement of it never fades.  I'm not saving anybody's life with my writing, but maybe, in a small way, I'm making a difference in the world with my words.  That feels really good.

Once upon a time, a blacksmith named Horace lived in a tiny village in the kingdom of Drool.  Now, by day, Horace made horseshoes and swords and plow blades.  Ten or twelve hours a day, he was at his forge, banging hot metal with his hammer.

By night, however, Horace wrote poetry.  With quill and parchment, he scratched out odes and elegies and sonnets and limericks.  He never showed his writing to anybody.  In fact, he hid it under his straw mattress in his cottage.  Horace was ashamed of his poetry.  He thought it was no good.

One day, William Shakespeare came to Horace's blacksmith shop to have his horse shod.  (I think that's the right term.)  Horace recognized Shakespeare immediately and said timidly, "I will shoe your animal at no cost if you will read my poetry and tell me what you think."

Shakespeare agreed, and, while Horace worked at his anvil, the Bard read Horace's parchments.  Bill read all afternoon.  Finally, he turned to Horace.  Horace smiled at him.

"Well, kind sir," Horace said, "your horse is ready.  What do you think of my poetry?"

Shakespeare took the reins of his horse and mounted it.  He looked down at the anxious blacksmith.  "Dear smithy," Shakespeare, "I have read your lines."

"Yes," said Horace.  "And?"

"They suck."  Shakespeare spurred his horse and rode off.

Moral of the story:  Shakespeare was an asshole.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

Everyone's a critic

VOTE FOR ME FOR U. P. POET LAUREATE (voting ends December 31):

U. P. Poet Laureate Voting