So I was sitting in a local club in my normal Hijabi style with a blind woman from Ethiopia. We had come there to listen to the charming music of her country. The music was reminiscent of Ethiopia but not Ethiopian.

We were talking with those who were sat next to us while the band was on break, and they happened to mention that "The Martian" was written by an unknown author like most of us, as internet fiction. The comments he got on his story got him to make changes, and finally "someone" bought it from him for $1. They published the book in dead tree format, and the movie was finally made. That movie has now grossed $600 million worldwide. I wonder if the people who bought the book returned to give any sort of bonus to the original author?

And that's what happens to creative people. It is sad actually but it has been that way since Able pissed off Cane.

A few of us have had similar experiences and I expect that it is impossible to stop it. Amazon is rife with such things. I have discovered a folder with several stories I wrote both on a Typewriter and others that were printed on dot matrix printers. One of those stories, quite a large one, that I thought was a novel, I actually submitted to, I think, about 50 publishers. A small handful of the publishers were nice enough to respond to me; the most favorable one saying that my 90 page book needed to be 300+ pages to be fully developed.

I read a few pages of the book I had submitted and can say without reservation that it was whiny, lacking in description and characterization, and generally trash. The basic story line is promising and if I live long enough, perhaps what I do with it will be proper literature.

On the way home on the Streetcar, a very nervous Transwoman got on, followed by a staring creep. She was dressed nicely and I would not have read her but her face was scrunched into male anger and defensiveness. The creep who followed her eventually cast his vile gaze on me and without showing it, I got ready to dismember him. He must have seen the murderous intent in my eyes as he averted his eyes. My tormented friend got off and all I could do is send her tender thoughts of encouragement. Later, the creep got off and by then I was able to see him as a pathetic, sad old man. Today, I am happy to not know what it would have been like to spend the night in jail.

I wish I could sit at a bar with some of you, imbibing in strong drink and exchanging outrageous dreams and outright lies. That is not likely to happen as most of us are recluses. May we meet in Valhalla.