Tag Archives: ghost writers

The Corner.

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The new set up finally felt right.

The laptop should never have been situated anywhere near the davenport. Hardly welcoming to plunk one’s “office” right in the middle of the livingroom. Add to that the endless stream of paper mail – charity pleas, financial statements, natural health provocateurs, catalogues. Burgeoning piles, taunting every, lifelong attempt to keep an orderly house.

No matter that finding the means to actually toss the static stacks forever eluded. This would harken back to that Great Depression mindset and, well, that was inherited.

Yes. The corner was, finally, just perfect. The wicker rocker had been lovely neo-nostalgia, but sprawling, determined to scrape the last of the baseboard paint all the way down to its 1895 darkwood. And, sitting in the rocker was never right; its ergonomics, or lack thereof, had wrecked both her neck and sacra, the latter already pesky after the fall from the stage in ’09. Perhaps the new chair was more than just easy to assemble. Perhaps she could finally extend her spine fully, and expand her lungs. Perhaps she could finally, functionally, actively: sit.

With the sofa pushed forward, making room for the slender pole lamp, peace lily to the left wafting its oxygen, and heat vent just below, she was at last comfortable enough to troll Facebook, watch Showtime, and write without descending into the dull, half-wit of the couch potato. She noted that getting up to go to the piano was a far more frequent occurrence, now, the most encouraging observation of the hour.

Hardly anybody of any social importance anymore even knew that she played piano. The purchase of the Steinway was only meaningful to her, after all. Funny how expectations were fueled by fantasies, and these by notions. Notions of relative value.

Time didn’t actually pass, she’d been told. But, years did. And, she hadn’t been part of the league of pianists since at least 2005. A decade, to the Millennials and those who spawned them, was a lifetime.

She noted that, from this angle, her reflection appeared in the screen. The way the light refracted provided a clear image. Her face appeared to be receding from its head, the absence of estrogen draining the last of its contouring fat. She used to see an exotic Napolitan, even at her loneliest moments marveling at how distinct she was from the sea of Sicilians in the spectre of her locale. Now, she could only ponder the generic picture of a woman toward which nobody would even look twice.

She wondered if anybody would be listening seven days hence, as she made her recapitulating debut on the live airwaves. The year was probably 1990; Mavis Sargeant, ever the pioneer and a rare Brit in a community of staunch Germans and ethnic ghettos, had initiated “Potpourri”, live classical and its corollaries for a solid hour at high noon at the local PBS affiliate. For quite awhile, it stuck; now, nearly two decades in, live music was once again featured at WQLN – FM. Her selected colleagues had agreed to perform a trio program, and the marketing standard included a live broadcast “teaser” to lure attendees to the scheduled recital.

Thus was her life, lived – by the standards of her alleged family – in complete self-indulgence. Somehow, she had missed the importance of being seen out, in the evenings, where people gathered. She had neglected to form relationships with those who would sustain her social standing. Now her words, last testament to the proof that she had lived, were batted about by anonymous ghost writers, grifters in a world of the younger, prettier, and classed.

Pressing the space bar and the shift key, she placed the next set of them onto the template of the laptop screen.

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© Ruth Ann Scanzillo   1/27/17   Post #478, all authentic, created by this writer, whose rights are reserved in spite of all attempts to the contrary. Yeah. To all the pathetic parasites: Someday, all your sins will find you out. To the honest among you, go in peace.

littlebarefeetblog.com

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WRITERS and GHOSTS.

 

Periodically, this blogger posts a warning to “writers” who troll the blogs for ideas, sound bytes, dialogue bytes, and generally underhanded thieving. Please, if you must do any of the above, refrain from doing so at this blog; the author of this blog is published, albeit not for profit, and could also easily handle a court date.

Thank you, ever so much, for your respect.

 

Sincerely,

littlebarefeetblog.com   – Ruth Ann Scanzillo, author.

 

 

Dear Ghost Writer:

 

Hello!  It’s me. One of your favorites.

The Pharisee, in the Scriptures, did [publicly] proclaim, in prayer no less, his indulged gratitude that he was “not as other men  – proud, boastful.” You may know the story. Whereas, the other guy, the Publican, he prayed in secret.

I’m told I should pray for my enemies, those that hate and spitefully use me. Perhaps I should. But, perhaps even that much attention is more than you deserve; after all, I’m writing this – am I not?

Seems there’s a whole culture out there, my friend Nicole calls it one of “desperation” (not unlike that of which Thoreau wrote in the woods), that feeds off of the pearls cast by unknowns who, otherwise, have lives that they have cultivated by sheer effort and hard work. Are you a member of that class?

Who knows? Maybe your books will sell. After all, those sleazy rags that absorb the snot from sneezing children in the grocery line apparently do well enough to reappear every week on the racks next to the artificially sweetened breath mints. It could very well be that your audience can be found among them.

Yeah. Call me bitter. But, I do possess what you likely do not: authenticity. I inherited this from both my parents. They never meant a single thing to you, but no matter; the universe has to be big enough to reward them both, at some point. And, I guess, by posting this, I’m declaring my willingness to wait for the day when goodness and truth get their crowns back from the marauding mercenaries. I guess I’m saying I can wait. Because I don’t need to scramble for my next paycheck so that the powder, waiting for everybody else, can find its way into the lining of my purse. If that’s your story, what I feel for you is pity.

Carry on, little starling. Time waits for no one, and you have a crime to commit.

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© Ruth Ann Scanzillo Copyright 12/8/15  All rights reserved. p.s. I am, actually, a published writer; more than one of my essays has appeared in our local newspaper, the Erie TIMES-NEWS, and I am copyrighted at the Library of Congress.

littlebarefeetblog.com