Tag Archives: writing

On not being “Published”.

The rock we choose to live under can sometimes be quite plush. Moss is soft, moist, and well, green with enriching chlorophylls. That, of course, being only on the north side, and probably not actually felt under the petrified substance we call home.

But, we dream, anyway.

Funny thing about classical musicians. At least, I speak for myself. We are often, while certainly capable – as current research results suggest – of integrating massive amounts of intricate data across both hemispheres with lightning speed, we frequently miss what is going on all around us in the realm of our listening audience.

By this, I mean, the real world.

Did I know that blogging was not confined to the newsworthy pundits and the commenting anonymous? Did I realize that amateurs and professionals interact with occasionally seamless ease in this apparently not-so-new medium? Did I really think that legitimate “publishing” was confined to the big houses where a price tag was assigned to every jot and tittle?

Sigh. So, there are poets who convene on poets’ blogs, and students of writing on theirs, and everybody else just everywhere. “Publishing,” I guess, is now become a synonym for reaching a mesa that hosts unknowns.

It’s time to go talk to the man about my paralyzing schemas. Yeah; this writer is reading that book, at any rate. More later.

That is, if anybody is. Still reading.


For real.





Ruth Ann Scanzillo



On being “Published.”

So, we, the newest cultural explosion: the bloggists.

Perusing the layout of my fellow-bloggers who are traveling the world and reporting back, others pouring forth their hearts from the inside out, I have to ask: Is “being published” yesterday’s news?

Please. Get me, here. The New Yorker is still the gold standard. The Best Seller Lists are still where it’s at, and where would we all be without the efforts of J K Rowling? (I actually haven’t read the Harry Potters yet. That’s the beauty; it doesn’t.matter.)

My ex-mother-in-law urged me, fifteen years, ago. She said, ” Don’t you want to be able to say that you’ve been published?”

I think, in her realm, landing on somebody else’s coffee table was the equivalent of seizing that brass ring.

In mine…….welp, not so sure that somebody else’s coffee table was where I wanted to rest my weary rear.

Oh, I suppose that royalties are tasty. Once the publishing costs are finally covered, and the distribution, and whatever else has a fee attached. But, let’s consider that pesky pivot point: motive.

Why do we write??

Is it not to connect with those of like mind? Is it not to gift kernels and gems to the next generation? Is it not to answer our muse, for God’s sake – letting the universe take care of the rest?

I remember the first day I visited the WordPress Stats page. To my astonishment, somebody was reading me in Australia.

And, the UK.

All day, multiple readers on the British Isles and the continent down under. Then, a couple days later: South Africa. What??

India followed. And, of course, the ever-present continental USA.

Now, to somebody of my generation, one who can remember a day when the only way to make any contact of any kind with somebody who lived across any ocean was to actually get on a plane and go there, this connection was remarkably low-maintenance.

Add to that, those who chose to follow me had names and faces and bios. Family, without the psycho factor. Church, without the corruption. New friends, no baggage fees.

So, to those of the books, magazines and papers: I applaud the dedication to organization and representation. These are not the panderings of a proletariat. Well, okay, maybe. Seriously. If any one of their publications saw a piece of mine that fit, I’d be touched and honored. But, for now, there’s a community of readers already leaning in. And, I’m happy to both welcome and be welcomed.

Yes. Cain’t touch this; it’s priceless.



a Writer





Ruth Ann Scanzillo