Is it possible to steal a story?
To plaigerize is "to steal and pass off (the ideas or words of another) as one's own: [to] use (another's production) without crediting the source ...[to] present as new and original an idea or product derived from an existing source" (Webster's Collegiate, 11th ed.).
According to this definition, not to mention copyright law, "literary theft" is not only possible but probable and is clearly a serious matter. My compulsion to use quotation marks and include a citation of some sort following the above definition serves as evidence of such crime and (hopefully) prevents me from committing it; however, it is my contention that if I paraphrase Webster's definition (sans any mention of Webster) and assert plaigerism as 'the ripping-off of someone else's writing or ideas," I am indeed guilty of plaigerism.
In fact, when it comes to plaigerism, I am a repeat offender. To take this one step further (and thus create a black hole), according to Webster's definition, which seems reasonable enough to me, one could argue that not only have I never, in my entire life, asserted an original thought or written an original word, but that even my citations and other efforts at honesty constitute plaigerism as well.
A defense, in this instance, might be to pass the buck and point to my parents, who first taught me not to steal, and they too might blame another. Hell, let's blame the Bible or the Koran, or more appropriately, the authors of these lofty texts. On the other hand, my honesty might actually belong to me; it is possible, after all, that I remember, way back in nursery school, how it felt when I discovered my black crayon clutched in another toddler's pudgy fist. At any rate, you can be sure, if I'm ever asked to prove it, I will most certainly choose this line of defense over indicting my own mom and dad!
Proving ownership of a story seems to me a tricky matter. Copyright laws have been established to facilitate this process, and published documents exist as concrete evidence; however, a story, whether "fact" or "fiction," especially prior to publication or some other official and public registration, is not only intangible but subjective. If two people witness an event, for example, and both individuals attempt to record the factual specifics of the event, it is almost inevitable that two very different stories will emerge.
10/23/09
10/19/09
"Creative Non-Fiction" is a fraud!
This is an amusing term for which Abrams, at least in the seventh edition of his Glossary of Literary Terms, offers no precise definition. This comes as no surprise, for as far as I'm concerned, "creative non-fiction" and "fiction" are one and the same. Perhaps a look at what Abrams says of fiction will elucidate the matter?
"In an inclusive [inCONclusive] sense, fiction is any literary narrative, whether in prose or verse, which is invented instead of being an account of events that in fact happened....Ah, TRUTH! Now this is a matter one can sink their teeth into, is it not?
Both philosophers and literary critics have concerned themselves with the logical analysis of the types of sentences that constitute a fictional text, and especially with the question of their truth ... that is, whether, or in just what way, they are subject to the criterion of truth or falsity."(94)
10/17/09
didactic sonnet (thinking of Pope's "Essay on Man")
Pomposity a fool offends,
yet on this measure fools depend.
A fop, to stay discovery,
employs insult and injury;
the mocking sneer, the playful poke--
untutored use of mirrors and smoke.
Swagger, strut, turgidity,
the fool deploys with careless glee.
Laughter at a friend's expense--
a fool's riposte to non-offense.
The "enemy," imagined, yes,
takes shape in those who love him best.
Forgive the fool, but cautiously,
else wound he will, and mortally.
yet on this measure fools depend.
A fop, to stay discovery,
employs insult and injury;
the mocking sneer, the playful poke--
untutored use of mirrors and smoke.
Swagger, strut, turgidity,
the fool deploys with careless glee.
Laughter at a friend's expense--
a fool's riposte to non-offense.
The "enemy," imagined, yes,
takes shape in those who love him best.
Forgive the fool, but cautiously,
else wound he will, and mortally.
10/16/09
"Fact" or "Fiction"??
If the story is "real," if the characters are (or were) living, breathing people and the author makes no attempt whatsoever to disguise them, and if the recorded events really did take place and the author has remained 'true to the "facts" ' in his or her representation of these events, then I suppose the resulting work would constitute "non-fiction"; however, I have very serious doubts as to whether such a thing even exists. "Non-fiction," in my opinion, is a figment of the imagination . . .
(literally).
(literally).
10/15/09
Biography, Autobiography, and Memoir
Memoir is a popular genre these days. Really, this comes as no surprise; after all, everyone has a story to tell, or so many writing instructors assert, and we (Americans, at least) are highly self-absorbed.
Memoir: "2 a : a narrative composed from personal experience b : AUTOBIOGRAPHY ... c : BIOGRAPHY 3 a : an account of something noteworthy" (Webster's Collegiate, 11th ed.).
Having a story to tell is one thing; telling it is another; telling it in a way that enagages an audience is something else again. "Having" a story implies ownership; I don't know about anyone else, but prior to writing a story down, the only stories I am willing to lay claim to are those that involve only me. Other players involve other perspectives, and a story involving just myself, although absolutely captivating to myself, will unlikely engage much of an audience. So, if audience is an issue, then the trick is in the telling.
Again, that slippery term, "genre." John Dryden, in the late seventeenth century, asserted biography as " 'the history of particular men's lives.' " M.H. Abrams elaborates, saying the term "now connotes a relatively full account of a particular person's life ...[that] attempts to set forth character, temperment, and milieu, as well as the subject's activities and experiences." Autobiography, according to Abrams, is "a biography written by the subject about himself or herself," distinguished from memoir, where "the emphasis is not on the author's developing self but on the people and events that the author has known or witnessed" (22).
These definitions seem relatively straightforward to me, although the distinction between autobiography and memoir seems forced. How does an author write about one's "developing self" without referencing "the people and events that the author has known or witnessed"? And if an author tells a story about "the people and events" that he or she has "known or witnessed," then who does the story belong to? There is a dangerous line here, between the author's involvement in his or her own narrative, and the people and events the author interacts with. Does the author have a story without these people and events? Again, in a story involving multiple players, ownership exists in the telling, but telling alone does not an owner make.
Memoir: "2 a : a narrative composed from personal experience b : AUTOBIOGRAPHY ... c : BIOGRAPHY 3 a : an account of something noteworthy" (Webster's Collegiate, 11th ed.).
Having a story to tell is one thing; telling it is another; telling it in a way that enagages an audience is something else again. "Having" a story implies ownership; I don't know about anyone else, but prior to writing a story down, the only stories I am willing to lay claim to are those that involve only me. Other players involve other perspectives, and a story involving just myself, although absolutely captivating to myself, will unlikely engage much of an audience. So, if audience is an issue, then the trick is in the telling.
Again, that slippery term, "genre." John Dryden, in the late seventeenth century, asserted biography as " 'the history of particular men's lives.' " M.H. Abrams elaborates, saying the term "now connotes a relatively full account of a particular person's life ...[that] attempts to set forth character, temperment, and milieu, as well as the subject's activities and experiences." Autobiography, according to Abrams, is "a biography written by the subject about himself or herself," distinguished from memoir, where "the emphasis is not on the author's developing self but on the people and events that the author has known or witnessed" (22).
These definitions seem relatively straightforward to me, although the distinction between autobiography and memoir seems forced. How does an author write about one's "developing self" without referencing "the people and events that the author has known or witnessed"? And if an author tells a story about "the people and events" that he or she has "known or witnessed," then who does the story belong to? There is a dangerous line here, between the author's involvement in his or her own narrative, and the people and events the author interacts with. Does the author have a story without these people and events? Again, in a story involving multiple players, ownership exists in the telling, but telling alone does not an owner make.
10/14/09
Anticlimatic Irony
I suppose the irony is obvious; although we laughingly credit (or blame) pressure for our success in meeting deadlines, remembering birthdays, and satisfying other relatively mundane obligations, in an age and culture obsessed by the health of one's inner-being, "pressure" is, in-truth, a very dirty word. Not only does this sinister force fuel our capitalist economy and its cutthroat consumerism, astronomical sums are spent trying to relieve it. Pressure drives us to health clubs, counseling, drugs, divorce, and war. Pressure, especially "HIGH-pressure," does not make a sunny day.
In a psychobabblic sense, I am most definitely stressed, or HIGH-pressure. I drive fast, jump lines at the grocery store, and rely desperately on my watch. I schedule time for leisurely endeavor and consider an hour of uninterrupted reading a luxury. When my kids fail to return a phone call, I imagine them the victims of unspeakable disaster. Meteorologically, however, I am the absolute bottom millibar.
In a psychobabblic sense, I am most definitely stressed, or HIGH-pressure. I drive fast, jump lines at the grocery store, and rely desperately on my watch. I schedule time for leisurely endeavor and consider an hour of uninterrupted reading a luxury. When my kids fail to return a phone call, I imagine them the victims of unspeakable disaster. Meteorologically, however, I am the absolute bottom millibar.
10/11/09
sidetrack: BUYER BEWARE!!
Fucking chair!!
For ten dollars I bought a wooden chair at the Habitat for Humanity Home Store. The trip started out not as a shopping expedition but an effort to off-load two used shower enclosures that have accumulated during the past five years of "nesting" here at my also-rehabbed, historic homestead. (My brother and wife are coming to town, and I am trying to fluff the place up for their visit.) It's true, I do need a few chairs, having recently given away two out of six brand new ones to my daughter to take with her to school (they were new--clean, solid, but boring). So, at the time, this ten dollar chair seemed like a bargain (solid wood, sturdy legs, what more could anyone ask for?); however, since bringing the chair home on Friday, I have clocked a minimum of five hours hard labor trying to clean off what, in the dimly-lit Habitat warehouse, impressed me as "patina"; the thing is (still) caked in grime--thick, bumpy, black filth! Hell, if I count the trip to Lowes yesterday, time and material, this cruddy relic is now worth the ten-dollar purchase price plus eight hours labor and thirty-five dollars in "parts" (rubber gloves, turpentine, sandpaper, lindseed oil, wire brushes, steel wool, a stunning drill-bit plumed with copper wire, and white vinegar, which works relatively well, btw, especially when compared to the paint thinner I already tried, for cutting through years of greasy-handed kitchen/dining slime). I predict that by the time I am "finished," this chair will either constitute a family heirloom or a highly-flammable addition to my already eclectic pile of firewood!
As I said, "Buyer Beware!!" My hands are raw, my arms are sore, and the chair still looks like shit.
For ten dollars I bought a wooden chair at the Habitat for Humanity Home Store. The trip started out not as a shopping expedition but an effort to off-load two used shower enclosures that have accumulated during the past five years of "nesting" here at my also-rehabbed, historic homestead. (My brother and wife are coming to town, and I am trying to fluff the place up for their visit.) It's true, I do need a few chairs, having recently given away two out of six brand new ones to my daughter to take with her to school (they were new--clean, solid, but boring). So, at the time, this ten dollar chair seemed like a bargain (solid wood, sturdy legs, what more could anyone ask for?); however, since bringing the chair home on Friday, I have clocked a minimum of five hours hard labor trying to clean off what, in the dimly-lit Habitat warehouse, impressed me as "patina"; the thing is (still) caked in grime--thick, bumpy, black filth! Hell, if I count the trip to Lowes yesterday, time and material, this cruddy relic is now worth the ten-dollar purchase price plus eight hours labor and thirty-five dollars in "parts" (rubber gloves, turpentine, sandpaper, lindseed oil, wire brushes, steel wool, a stunning drill-bit plumed with copper wire, and white vinegar, which works relatively well, btw, especially when compared to the paint thinner I already tried, for cutting through years of greasy-handed kitchen/dining slime). I predict that by the time I am "finished," this chair will either constitute a family heirloom or a highly-flammable addition to my already eclectic pile of firewood!
As I said, "Buyer Beware!!" My hands are raw, my arms are sore, and the chair still looks like shit.
The Lull
Ironically (or not), atmospheric pressure drops prior to bad weather. Certainly, I'm no expert in meteorology, but having grown up in Cleveland, where gray days abound, you might say I am the product of low-pressure.
10/9/09
Ba• rom• e• ter \bə-`rä-mə-tər\ n (ca. 1666)
1 : an instrument for determining the pressure of the atmosphere … 2 : something that indicates fluctuations …
~Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary, 11th ed.
That’s me—trouble-sensor. Tone of voice, cocked eyebrow, a wistful look or sigh—just a few of the indications capable of tilting my mercury. Developed at a very young age and being somewhat “state-of-the-art” (the second and more emotionally-inclined of my parents’ two children), I learned to predict a storm based not only on the most minute data but also with alarming accuracy. (Sure, I’ve been wrong from time to time, but fortunately, in addition to an acute awareness of atmospheric pressure [or lack of it], I am also equipped with imagination; where a storm does not exist, I almost always can create one.)
Truth is, I am far more sensitive to foul weather than fair. What exactly caused this imbalance is hard to say; perhaps it was the way my mother smiled at me before sending me off to summer camp for the first time. I didn’t want to go, didn’t even know until a day or two before, when my mom dragged the giant, black trunk into my room and started packing all my things. Eight weeks of overnight camp at the age of seven was my initiation into the world of silence. And so, with very little guidance, I learned to listen carefully to what wasn’t said and the “language” one uses to say it.
~Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary, 11th ed.
That’s me—trouble-sensor. Tone of voice, cocked eyebrow, a wistful look or sigh—just a few of the indications capable of tilting my mercury. Developed at a very young age and being somewhat “state-of-the-art” (the second and more emotionally-inclined of my parents’ two children), I learned to predict a storm based not only on the most minute data but also with alarming accuracy. (Sure, I’ve been wrong from time to time, but fortunately, in addition to an acute awareness of atmospheric pressure [or lack of it], I am also equipped with imagination; where a storm does not exist, I almost always can create one.)
Truth is, I am far more sensitive to foul weather than fair. What exactly caused this imbalance is hard to say; perhaps it was the way my mother smiled at me before sending me off to summer camp for the first time. I didn’t want to go, didn’t even know until a day or two before, when my mom dragged the giant, black trunk into my room and started packing all my things. Eight weeks of overnight camp at the age of seven was my initiation into the world of silence. And so, with very little guidance, I learned to listen carefully to what wasn’t said and the “language” one uses to say it.
10/8/09
Zora Neale Hurston
Gun-toting Harlem artist,
hot for Langston Hughes,
indebt to a skinflint patron,
Zora paid BIG dues.
hot for Langston Hughes,
indebt to a skinflint patron,
Zora paid BIG dues.
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