Taking a Page from the 'N Synch Dictionary...

... or NOT?!??

What's that line about tripping into geezerdom? You know your generation is out of touch when it doesn't understand the current generation's music?

Well, young grump that I am, I don't buy it. I believe that some stuff is better than other stuff, and always will be, and that most of the commercial sludge we are subjected to in the early a.m. hours on VH1 and MTV (which are more about Scott Baio and crazies like New York now anyway), is not designed to last, or mine the more meaningful depths of musical expression, but alternately titillate, puzzle or disappoint and then fade away, leaving a trace less gripping than a graze of the fingers, a peck on the cheek.

How else do you explain Britney Spears's popularity, and the fact that I can't remember a single song lyric of hers beyond her breakout "Hit Me Baby (One More Time)", which owes a great debt to the sight of her cavorting in a Catholic school girl uniform. Or maybe I really am out of touch.

I didn't used to think so. But then, instances like last night's post-wifey-gone-to-bed lounging-before-the-TV start to crowd up on me like so many gum-snapping teenyboppers. (Wow, now THAT'S an old expression.)

I was quaffing my Leinenkugel's Big Butt Doppelbock, propping my feet atop the coffee table, and clicking from the History Channel (old guy staple) to VH1 (lingering affection for) to, for some reason, the Disney Channel (54 must feel good under the fingers). There, I caught the ending strains of the video "Like Woah" from sister act Aly & AJ. (They AREN'T twins, as several lisping teeny bloggers will tell you. Man, why am I still a sucker for research? Especially on this?)

Now, live and even simulated music still has a magical-trance effect on me. I watched the thing until the Mouse came on and told me to tune into Cory and Cory, or Zack and Cody, whatever. And I could have sworn, in the manner of so many Justin Timberlake odes, I caught the pronunciation of "me" come out "mae." What's worse, I heard the next rhymed line as ending in "brain."

You know the ways of wunderkind Timberlake and his former dancemates. Fa la la la la... "It's gonna be (bae) me (mae)."

I used to amuse all but one of the grizzled denizens in the Sandusky Register newsroom by wondering, aloud, whenever our biz reporter and Justin-freak Beth Naser played the tune, "Who's Mae? Why's it gotta be her? What about Aunt Bea (BAE)?"

Or something to that out-of-touch effect.

So, I thought I was witnessing the evolutionary implication of Justin's mangled diction in the lyrics of the A&A sisters. "Something something something ME (MAE) / and it's something something BRAIN (BRAIN)." Egad! At least, for the unimaginative songsmiths out there, it's another word with which to rhyme insane.

Ah, but then I looked up their lyrics today. Yes. Did a google search of the Bobsey Twins and Disney Channel, etc. etc. and clicked to their web site, where I learned how to pronounce "Insomniatic" (uh... no), and found handy lyrics to the song in question.

Apparently, the only place brain and "mae" pop up are:

"Life is good I can't complain... Your image overwhelms my brain..."

So why did I hear "mae" rhymed with "brain"? Well, I have been guilty of imaginative lyric manglings before. I used to think Bon Jovi sang "I want to be just as close as... Holy Moses..." in the song "Bed of Roses." And there are other mismanagements of the aural evidence I'm sure my wife can indict me on.

Still, I'm not convinced I'm the crotchety old-timer just yet. Maybe they DID sing it. Maybe.

Ah, who am I kidding? I don't even own an iPod. I still play my tunes the old new-fashioned way, via CDs, singing along in the car or throughout the house, and that crotchetiest of crotchety Old School methods: performing it myself.

And maybe that's the ultimate test of being out-of-touch. You won't find me juke-stepping around my son's spilled blocks, making like Timberlake. Or fretting over my lovesick brain like A.J. and Aly. Nah, I'm liable to jump on the home piano and break into Ben Folds or some classic Cat Stevens, maybe do a Harry Nillson impression of an Irving Berlin standard as filtered through the vocal stylings of Rufus Wainwright.

And I still get goosebumps when Liz Phair growls into "Never Said" circa 1993. (FIFTEEN YEARS AGO, fellow oldtimers). But can you really stack up two Aly & AJs to one sultry Liz?

Uh, no way.

'Nuff said.

Addendum: More Forehead-Vein Popping

More Trips Down the Rapids

of my Writing Conniptions

I prefer to think of them as inner convictions. And if the trickle I let loose last week happens to swell into a flood, why, then I'll go swirling down the drain, pitching my conniptions as so much frothy gurgles.

What the hell am I even saying?

Oh, right. That grammar and usage thing.

Some other somethings on my mind (funny how once you let one rant out, the next four elbow up to the front of the line):

Silly Announcers, English is for Americans

It occurred to me: why are sports announcers so eager to save face by dumbing down plural team names to the singular?

As I said, I don't recall this being a problem back in the days when I'd catch Jack Buck doing the Cardinals over my radio late at night as a kid. Probably the proliferation of teams like the Heat and Lightning and Magic gave our modern-day talk jocks commentary diarrhea. But why so insistent on "the Cleveland Brown sideline" or "New York Met cap"?

Is it the fear of screwing up a plural when it should be possessive? You know, New England Patriots bench, or the Patriots' supply of itch-proof protective cups. That sort of thing, the sort of thing most of us think twice about when writing anything in an official capacity.

But wait: they're saying it on television and the radio. So the Giants' postgame spread and the giant's postgame spread (up at the top of the beanstalk) sound the same when spoken aloud. What gives? Last night, in the Packers-Giants pregame, only Curt Menefee went with "Packers" consistently. Terry, Howie, whoever else was there, they all shuddered back into "Packer" bench, sideline, locker room, etc.

We don't change Staples to "Staple office supply store." We don't alter Reese's Peanut Butter Cup to "that confectionary delicacy that Reese whips up."

Oh, all right (two words, lady's and gent's (double parenthetical, to note my whimsical use of the apostrophe there)), I'll shut up about it now.

Keep the Madness in Your Family

We just made it through Christmas card season. Anybody get one where the family name is signed like this:

The Warren's

The Dupree's

The Cruise's

The Warren's what? The Dupree's card? The Cruise's handwriting?

Last time I checked, if you're referring to one or more members of the Foutz family, you may call us Foutzes. Even better, drop a line like "we invited the Foutzes to our wedding reception, and heck yes there is an open bar."

Now, I'm less committed when it comes to seeing the plural use on a mailbox or decorative front stoop plaque (if you must). Because it could be referring to your house: The Warrens' abode, The Duprees' castle, The Cruises' compound of insanity. But for the love of Amos Apostrophe (and his love child, Amber Ampersand), don't let me catch you pulling a "The Foutz's" or "The Jone's" or the like. Unless you're referring to the throne room, which around here, mornings, is definitely "The Foutz's", meaning mine.

And if your name is Showers, and you're trying to parse out Showerses or Showers' or Showerses' -- Josh, how do you do it? -- better just use the old journalists' trick and WRITE AROUND IT: "the Showers family". Or put the money you could spend on a mailbox decal or decorative pigeon-stained stoop plaque into a big gulp bottle of Wite-Out instead.

Scratch 'n Sniff -- It May Smell Like Teen Spirit

This is a phenomenon I've lately witnessed on MySpace, the tortured exclamations of my fellow friendlies, bellowing things like:

"Welllllllll" and

"Awesomeeeeeee"

or signing their names "Janeeeeeeeeee".

Let's traipse around a bit in Phonetic Spelling Land, shall we? It's a nifty little realm, ruled over by a benevolent prose stylist, forgiving of lapses in decorum as long as they provide the barest glimmer of entertainment, and are readily understood, hence the name of our kingdom.

So... sound it out, as Miss Molly used to say. What does "Welllll" sound like? Probably Bill Cosby with a cheekful of the old Pudding Pops. I can't even contemplate "Awesomeeeeeee" or "Janeeeeeee". Did you step on a mouse or perhaps get something sticky on your "e" key while typing? Where are you connecting from anyway?

Same goes for "loverssssssss" and "good timesssssssssss". Is the only place you can get to a computer the local snake farm?

So... sound it out. I think you mean to say:

"Weeeeeeell, gotta go, 'cause I got a bad case of the nasty poops."

And: "Monica and Ross dancing in that club on Friends -- awesoooooome."

You can't say you "loveeeeeeee" your "loverrrrrrrs". But I'm betting you loooooooves you some good tiiiiiiimes.

And you won't catch me longing to "danceeeeeee". But I might get down enough to daaaaance. Yeah. Ross-style.

Enough conniptions for one night.

Hey TIME magazine, it's Christopher REEVE!

Popping a Forehead Vein

over Plurals

or, Hey TIME magazine,

it's Christopher REEVE

Somebody, quick, hand me a dictionary so I can commence slamming my head against it. Make it a Webster's. Unabridged. And then clear out of the way because when I regain consciousness I'm going to start making like Captain Caa-aa-aa-ve Ma-a-a-an and start looking for unsuspecting heads with which to connect.

What has stoked my ire and fire? What has brought out my inner bludgeoner? Grammar, that's what. Particularly those sticky words we were taught to add s to, or es, or ies, depending on what is called for by the English language and what our cramped little minds can bear to remember. Or, more specifically, the words that already have an s at the end, or didn't to begin with, and don't want or need any changing.

Excuse me a moment while I grab a towel and stop myself frothing at the mouth.

So who am I aiming my terrible swift dictionary at today? Let's (contraction of let us, kids) start with sportscasters, shall we? Those denizens of the broadcast booth, those practioners of the play-by-play, those frail-as-a-beaver-gummed-sapling fellows when it comes to exhibiting a splinter of intelligence about team names and how they take a plural or possessive.

I don't know how many times in the past couple playoff weekends (and every game I tuned into during the regular season), I choked on my beer whenever I heard a reference to the "Brown 45-yard line" or the "Bengal bench" or the "Steeler sideline", etc., only to hiss back at the TV, It's the BROWNS' 45-yard-line, BENGALS bench, STEELERS sideline!

Team names -- or most of them, before the recent rush of Heat and Avalanche and Jazz and Lightning and Magic -- are plural. They start out that way and they stay that way. There is no Pittsburgh Pirate team. There is no Denver Bronco stadium. They are the Pirates, the Broncos. Players take cues from the Cubs' manager, or Giants head coach Squinty Yellsalot. Oh, I suppose a player could be a Cub, or a Giant. But you are a Brewers fan, a Browns backer. Things get a little more irksome when we try to refer to a player of the Red Sox as a "Red Sock." He is? What cycle do you wash him on? Better to just say Red Sox player. Someone is not a "Diamondback pitcher" because there is no Arizona Diamondback team. They are the Arizona Diamonbacks.

Gah. What the Sam Wyche??!!? (Former Bengals coach Sam Wyche, by the way. NOT former "Bengal" coach.)

Second example to get my forehead vein pulsing, though I admit to being charmed by it, and I don't really pay it much attention, unless the elongated, lilting a's are getting on my nerves. Chicagoans LOVE their superfluous plurals. But, hey: Chicago, you will survive without your neighborhood "Jewels" grocery store. If, somehow, "Soldiers" Field is incinerated in a localized apocalypse, football will still be played along Lake Michigan. It's because the grocery store is Jewel and the football stadium is Soldier Field. There are more examples, but as I said, I tend to give this one a free pass until you start sounding like the Superfans on SNL.

Final teeth-grinding example: Today, I was flipping through the mind and body special issue of Time, and came across this entry in their feature on celebrity couples: "Dana and Christopher Reeves." Hey, maybe the copy editor was thinking of his or her golden childhood, watching George Reeves star as Superman, but the 1970s version of the Man of Steel (my childhood) was and always will be Christopher REEVE.

Or maybe the copy editor is just from Chicago.

OK, I'm gonna go shut myself in an isolation booth somewhere.

The Sad Saga of Blockatopia

an essay (mostly) in pictures


One of the toughest feats of juggling I do in life is finding balance between work and family. As a freelance writer who clicks and clacks away on the computers at home most days, the dividing line between when it's time to get down to bidness and when it's time to PLAY can be blurry. I try and remind myself to throw myself as fully as I can into the moments I play or work, and plan ahead to create the space in which I do either.

Ah, what the hell. That's a sort-of wishy-washy preamble to an example of PLAYING. Hanging with my son has meant rediscovering all the goofy fun in me that was never really far from the surface as a graying old adult. Racing cars, rolling balls, tackling and tickling... good stuff. And then there are blocks. I must have spent HOURS as a kid on at least a dozen different block sets -- you, too, huh? Legos, Loc Blocs, Construx, Tinker Toys, Lincoln Logs were among the materials with which we constructed our imaginary worlds. But probably the best ones were the rawest materials: a nice canvas sack of wooden blocks, you know, the leftover bits at the ends of hunks of wood our dads and grandfathers would cut in their shops, sanded and varnished, maybe painted, and turned in the classic shapes: cubes, boards, triangles, half-moons, columns round and square.

A friend with two little boys was kind enough to give us a tin with around 100 blocks in various sizes and from various sets. For Christmas, I bought my son another 100 blocks. Or, as my wife would argue, did I buy them for ME? Well, one of my favorite playtime activities is setting up as many towers I can build while Jonah is distracted, banging the lid of the block tin, or chomping on a stray column or two, and then stepping back and watching him discover them. His usual utterance, when we dump all the blocks on the floor, or he spies a tower across the room is: "WOOOOOOOOOOAAAAOOOW!" One of the best sounds in the world. And then he proceeds to crawl on over and swipe the block with one hand: KABLOOIE. They all come down.

Well, you'll see. I kind of wish they had sound on these blogs so I could add the songs and instrumental soundtracks I hum to myself while building these worlds for Jonah (this may be the foundation, after all, of my own composing as a kid; EVERY thing my brother and I played with -- G.I. Joes, Transformers, blocks -- got jumbled and thrown together, with original storylines, and because of my geeky gift, original music, too...), but maybe you add your own soundtrack. It's OK, too, if you utter a spirited WOOOOOOAAAAOOOOW.

 

 

Rest in pieces, Blockatopia. Dec. 31, 2007 -- Jan. 1, 2008.

Farewell, Jeff Fiedler...

... Though Not Goodbye


I put it this way in Building the Green Machine: the more you try to wrap a cover around history, the more it keeps spilling off the page.

I was stunned, and a bit silly-stomached, to hear from Don this week about Jeff Fiedler's decision to step down as Cavaliers director. (You can read about it here.)

Stunned, because Jeff is such a pillar of the organization. It's been his life for 35 years. And I figured it would be his life for a decade or two more. In December, driving with Don Warren someplace or other, I commented, "You know, Jeff will pass your record as corps director (for 25 years, from 1948-73) in 2016 or so." I was kidding, but I meant it. You know? And only a few days ago in this space I commented on my own son being ready to audition in 2023 or someting, with my hope that Jeff would still be director, a new Old Man for the history books.

I'm silly-stomached, which is to say a bit saddened, because I admire Jeff greatly. In telling a little more than an outline of his life in the book, from his childhood days as Little League impresario, and admirer of drum corps, to his tenure as drum major, then instructor, then program coordinator and assistant director, to his triumphant turn as director, I couldn't help it: as a writer I was tickled to tell the story of a man so dedicated, and so passionate, and so talented at what he does. I've seen his character and leadership reflected in the men and boys and volunteers in his charge. They were in very good hands, and it showed, on and off the field. This is a feeling I know is shared by many.

Still, getting past the first moment of hearing the news, and all the inevitable questions about why, and why now, I also feel the first stirrings of gladness and optimism for Jeff, and the great places he's bound to go from here in life. And I feel a continued awe and confidence in the Cavaliers as an organization. Here's why.

I'm excited for Jeff. Maybe it's too soon for that, for most of us. You miss him too much already. And will continue to. But the reason for my excitement is that it seemed no matter who I talked to about Jeff, in the next breath, after they're saying how grateful they were for his leadership, and his loyalty, and his talent, they would inevitably marvel at, "gee, how did we, the Cavaliers, get so lucky to keep him for so long?" A guy with Jeff's mind, and his personality, could go out and do so many amazing things beyond drum corps. Why they didn't lose him earlier, or at least in the years after college, and his degree from the Medill School of Journalism at Northwestern, and the myriad opportunities that come up from the Cavalier network, was a theme repeated often.

So I'm excited for Jeff. Excited that having been freed up from the 24-hour days he puts in, and the grueling summer tours, and the constant questions from the board and the Old Man and parents, volunteers, alumni, members, prospects, etc., that he'll be entering a new chapter of his life, and writing it with fresh eyes and eager hands. I'm not saying "foo" on all that other stuff -- it was his life, and a rewarding part of it, or else he wouldn't have dedicated so much time, so much passion to it. Much as I say the stories of the Cavaliers and all its volunteers, alumni, members, fans, etc. are the stories of Don Warren's life, that's true of Jeff, too. He's enriched you, you've enriched him. But it's his life. And I know we'll all be cheering him on in his next endeavors, excited for him to find new challenges, career, love, family, contentment, time -- whatever is out there that's in store for him.

I also am not decrying this as a death knell or horrific blow to the Cavaliers. It's a shocker, no question. You can't lose someone so important, so talented, and not feel it. But I don't think Jeff is ever going to be really "gone" from the Cavaliers. His legacy and spirit will live on in a number of ways. And you know what? It's a testament to the organization that they have a whole ROSTER full of talented, driven folks who will make 2008 one of the best years ever. They're BOUND to. If a hallmark of the Cavaliers is consistency, it doesn't begin and end with one man. There is so much reflection and synergy between all the cogs and gears in the great Green Machine, lessons instilled by Don Warren, and Adolph DeGrauwe, and Don Heitzman, and Jeff Fiedler (to name a few), that are in very capable and talented and true-to-the-Cavalier-philosophy hands of stars like Bruno Zuccala, and David Bertman, and Richard Saucedo, and Erik Johnson, and Jim Ancona, and Jim Casella, and Scott Koter, and Mike Gaines.

The list goes on, as you well know. And the Cavaliers will, too. This is an organization that truly embraces, down to the last line on the volunteer form, the philosophy: If it's not good for the kids, what good is it? The Machine rolls on, and capably.

So, congratulations to Jeff on what awaits. We're with you. And congratulations to Bruno on taking the reins -- we know you'll do well.

With that, I leave this space open to comments, reminiscences, fare-thee-wells, thank-yous, etc. Or, share your thoughts at the blog for Building the Green Machine.

What's your favorite Jeff Fiedler story, from life, from the book? What do you see him doing now that his midnights aren't spoken for?

Below are two looks at the man in action: first, as drum major; second, in the stands on some tour stop from a shot by Sly Sybilski.

Roger's Press Conference: What the (BOOOOOOP)?

I'm blinking like I'm trying to make sense of baby babble here -- does anybody else feel the way the Roger Clemens defense team does, like the tape today actually contributes anything significant to his defense?

The tape, of a phone conversation between Roger and ex-trainer Brian McNamee Jan. 4, mainly sounds to me like a former employee (McNamee) down on his luck ingratiating himself to his boss (Clemens).

It featured this exchange, over and over:

Clemens: I just want someone to tell the truth.

McNamee: What do you want me to do?

And other exchanges like this:

Clemens: All I know is that I didn't do it.

McNamee: (silence)

Or this variation:

Clemens: I just can't figure out why you would tell people I did steroids.

McNamee: What do you want me to do?

And then McNamee goes on about firing his lawyers, and not knowing what to say, etc. etc.

Clemens's lawyers interpret his silence, and his not contradicting Clemens whenever Clemens says he didn't take steroids as being indicative that McNamee doesn't dispute this, that Clemens didn't take steroids.

But in the context, of a worried and indebted McNamee talking about how Roger treated him better than others in his life, about how Roger invited him into his home and that he'd eaten dinner with the family and modeled his parenting after Roger, it sounds to me like McNamee is really trying to do it backwards now, to ask Roger to put words in his mouth, what the official version of things should be.

When Roger says he can't figure out why McNamee would tell people he did steroids, it sounds more to me like Clemens is saying he can't figure out why McNamee didn't know to shut up. And when McNamee responds with "Just tell me what you want me to say" (becoming increasingly agitated as the call goes on, inserting swear words), it really sounds as if McNamee is befuddled, like -- "What do you expect, man? You did the stuff. I'm sorry, but I had to tell them or I was going to go to jail, and I have nothing -- no money, no family, my kid is sick," etc.

Where McNamee is distraught, Clemens seems cool, and haughty. Acting the boss, and also very careful about his actions. He knows this is being taped, after all. (And I wonder about its admissability in court; granted, this was a press conference, and the grandstanding is in full bloat right now.) He knows the legal implications. He's already talked to Mike Wallace, and refers to the press conference scheduled for Monday. Seems like a cat jumping on the bait and trying to force something, to me.

And McNamee never takes the bait, as much as Clemens's people will stress he never stands up to Roger and says, "You know you took steroids," or "I told them the truth, Roger." What is telling to me is McNamee's tone -- subservient. And also what he does not say -- he doesn't say, "You're right. I lied."

It's a creepy phone call, but more so for the way Clemens and his lawyers are bringing this out like it explains so much. And for the way it portrays him as a haughty, former boss disappointed in a lackey. Last I checked, McNamee was talking to lawyers under penalty of perjury when he laid out the testimony. That's the legal version of the truth. And the tape further adds to that by showing a former employee and friend anguished by what he had to tell. And a former boss trying to spin it.

Getting Linked for Literature

When I decided to jump the track of my journalism career and veer into the uncertain world of freelance writing, I was blessed to have an arsenal stocked with weapons and talismans that made life on the outside a little less shadowy.

Foremost, my wonderful wife, who is also a writer, understands me and my passion and supports what I do. I cannot stress enough how important this is.

Second, my "chops" were in pretty good order, since as a newspaper reporter, and a prolific one at that, I wrote every day. When I wasn't writing, I was interviewing, or laying the groundwork for writing. And when I wasn't doing either, I was dreaming about doing both. I had a nice foundation of six years eating, breathing and sleeping writing.

Along with the chops came discipline. I knew the only way to get a story out was to get it out on the page.

Fourth -- and I didn't mean when I started this blog for it to be so ordered -- I had a soft place to land when I left the Naperville Sun. I was already well into a book project, and I had made up my mind to apply to MFA programs in order to find myself a new community of writers and contacts (very important) and continue honing my craft. I also want to teach. Now, I hadn't been accepted to Columbia when I handed in my resignation, but I had made up my mind that no matter what, I was going to go for it, I would write my way through whatever came up. OK.

The good news for me is that it's work out so far. Oh, I still lie awake some nights gnashing my teeth over money, fretting over the impracticality of leaving a career where I was solidly contributing and getting immediate gratification for an industry where progress is solitary and slow. But that conviction remains: I will write my way through whatever comes up. And now that I'm nestled into my fourth semester of grad school, with my nonfiction book just out, and a few freelance credits to my name, I'm looking forward to what's next. And taking stock of what I know -- and can share.

This is all a lengthy preamble to spotlighting a few of the reasons I'm blogging in earnest this year. The literary reasons, anyway. At school, I have ample opportunity to swap contacts, share publishing stories (many of which, inevitably, are about rejection), get turned on to tips and secrets, compare notes on process and find that crucial audience of peers that can help lead you to breakthroughs in your craft. As I pointed out above, I was well on the way to finding these thigs for myself months before my first semester in the MFA program. I knew I couldn't thrive without them. Much of writing is lonely, but you can't hope to succeed at it without the (at times painfully) public side: submitting your work, querying agents and publishers, contacting the media (from the other side now, for me), interacting with readers, networking, reading your work aloud in public (for some of us, A THRILL; for others, an invitation to their own beheading).

Early on, though I made it my mission to write every day, no excuses, when the writing wound down I also made sure to put in some productive time researching the business. I buried my nose and affixed a forest of Post-Its to market guides like Writer's Market and Jeff Herman's Guide to Publishers, Editors & Literary Agents, and agent tomes like Betsy Lerner's The Forest for the Trees. I eyeballed the fine print at the front of story collections, noting the journals where my favorite authors were published, as well as where Best Of... compilations found their stories. I also did a great deal of research online, fattening my Favorites menu with book publishers, agents, journals to submit to, web sites of writers I love, useful blogs, places for industry news and legal advice -- anything relevant, I socked away.

Getting this blog up and running, partly due to my publisher's beginning blogs on the book biz from a publisher's perspective and insider tips on book marketing, reminded me that all the links populating my own, personal bandwidth could also benefit YOU. At school, we get our fill of this stuff, and thankfully. But even my classmates have connections and insights that I don't have; any chance we get, we mine each other. Well, now a lot of the stuff I have, I've laid out here, like a Thanksgiving spread you're welcome to belly up to: dig on in!

This morning, I expanded my "For Writers" list into four categories: agents, industry news & advice, other writers, and submitting. This is by no means an original or comprehensive set up. Many of these links will lead you to sites and blogs that have a wealth of other information, and that's by design. This collection represents a chunk of what I have and use at the moment -- and a lot of my loosely-organized system depends on my "site hopping", following one fruitful contact to get me to the next, and the next, and so on.

So, about the lists:

The Agents category mostly contains sites where agents blog. These are the ones I've been reading for a year or more now. They're windows into the publishing world. Agents blog about query letters, and manuscript reading, and sales, and the way they do their business. Very useful to know for writers attempting to break in. And at the top of the list is a useful place to start -- or even finish -- your search for representation. Who knows how long AgentQuery will be free? Check it out!

The news and advice list is pretty self-explanatory and could have been twice as long. Of particular use to me are the legal advice sites: I've linked right to the pages I draw stuff from. For Chicago writers in a pinch or a jam, Lawyers for the Creative Arts offers pro bono services.

The Other Writers list could also be longer, obviously. These are a few of my faves, many of whom, like T.C. Boyle and John McNally and Jim Butcher and Marcus Sakey, blog about the biz and share their own tales of publishing and offer insights into process. I may in the future link to some of my colleagues here -- up-and-coming writers you should put on your radar screen.

Lastly, because it's so long (and hardly complete), is a list of journals you might want to submit to, or indexes of the same. Some I've tried knocking at, others I'll get to, others are the dreams we should all keep dreaming. As with any, make sure you familiarize yourself with what they publish before sending your stuff on over. The clot of query letters is thick enough with uninformed writers gumming up the works. There's also a link in this section to The Unsung Critic, who champions the cause of beginning writers (particularly screenwriters): he (or she) reads manuscripts and writes a review on the site. If that's your bag, baby, crinkle it.

Feel free to drop me a comment or a line with your experience following these links or surfing the waters of rejection/acceptance. And in all cases, GOOD LUCK!