Dear New York Times,

The Ghost Writers are at it, again. You know…creating their little mistresspieces out of the stuff we’ve already written.

You might take a note.

Without an ounce of bitterness, allow me to say that I own my home. And, situated nicely between two north/south arteries in my fair city, this old farmhouse is in no danger of eminent domain. Yeah; it’s mine, and I get to keep it.

Oh; and, the mortgage company was paid off years ago. With money I actually earned, doing what used to be called “hard work.” So, they can get off that.

In addition, my parents taught me to save money, which I did every two weeks over and above the pension which took a portion on its own. So, I won’t be clamoring after any of their cronies for hand outs any time soon.

So, even if only eight or ten people legitimately read what I have to say every week, that handful of precious gems – an honest lot, by and large, and humble – are my new friends. And, every honorable citizen knows that true friends are a bond inseparable by the lure of greed, covetousness, or any other of the seven deadlies to which so many ascribe.  There’s a word for people who wallow in that mire: dissolution. Kind of like a half life for the progeny of a poison.

Derisive laughter. Distorting smirks. Nervous tics. Drawers of nooks and crannies filled with pestled, white powder. Xanax. Ambien. Aloof dispassion. It’s all the same. The hallmark of lives lived disingenuously. Barnacles, all.

Yeah. Just me, on behalf of every honest creative, checking in. The rest can go about their dirty business. We’re still here, minding the truth.

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© Ruth Ann Scanzillo 2/12/16. All rights, for what it’s worth, reserved. Thanks to those who respect that.

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