Serious World Politics are Global Slavery Issues are Personal Issues as Well
Meanwhile, it seems I have "serious issues."
Well, I'm fine on that, and plan to republish all 3 (and more) of my own books elsewhere, someday. Right now, I'm much too busy being Granny Ghostwriter, Book Rewriter and Editor - for you folks! I make a decent living doing that, and it is up to you to help us find ways to help you get your books reviewed, read and sold in the Great Out There, which can be a fickle world. You know what I mean.
Preliminary Incidental Notes by the Editor:
Meanwhile, Ginosko (not Ginosoko) Literary Journal, run by both a man and a woman in earlier days, has published one poem and a short story by me, several years ago under a different nom de plume. Literary journals, lit magazines, ezines and litzines are notoriously picky - you have to meet all of their strict guidelines. Some of them are from Outer Space, such as the continuing, annoying need to make you "write like somebody else." If somebody was popular and sold, you're supposed to write "in their general or overall style." Foregoing such ideas, I was encouraged by their offer of my submitting a work of Creative Nonfiction.
Well, that fell through, maybe I have to work harder on my writing style. I just jotted off what I sent, so that could be part of the problem. It was too "instant blog post!" On the other hand, I wonder if it didn't meet Ginosko's absolute need for prior acts of 19th and 20th Century nonfiction, or earlier. I thought, with a category named "Creative Nonfiction," they were surely looking for something outside of their usual purview, for a change. The events in this story did occur in the 1900s, though.
GINOSKO, WHY HAST THOU FORSAKEN MY CREATIVITY?
I recently sent Ginosko, a California-based litzine, this tempestuous tale. They ended up turning it down. I'm not exactly dying of despair over that, because they don't pay you anything for your submittal or even for publishing your story there. Literary mags, journals etc. are supposed to be a "door in" as a writer, a way to get published and get your writer's feet wet. I'm far beyond that now. However, either due to lack of space within their next issue, or due to the fact they didn't believe my story was a work of "Creative Nonfiction." It really is a true story, but I am unsure of the events transpiring that night on Juneteenth in the mid-1980s. Ginosko didn't like the slash fic I sent, too. It was turned down, possibly due to the lack of popularity (at the time) of Woody Allen, not to mention the ever-present dark notoriety of Hitler. Woody's an old friend of mine, but he crossed the Lolita Line too many times. Might not be entirely his fault. Him and Bill Cosby; I am one to believe we all make mistakes. However, I'm a proofreader on top of everything else - So I'm not really ever allowed to make any of them, ouch! And as a woman, any such mistakes are supposed to be all I've ever done apparently. Or does that apply to absolutely everybody?
LETTER TO GINOSKO, pleading for Mercy:
Once I was 'God' in a Black Neighborhood
Subtitled: No, I don't mean worshipped!
Ralph died the same year Angela was born.
By Karen S. Cole; 1,173 total words
WHY IS a noisy, blaring warning the Savior? It was for sale. In the early days of house alarms, it boomed out for miles around. Whoever male-manufactured and produced it made things screamingly fetching…not for Nothing. On the other hand, who answers house alarms in the 1980s? At the time, NOBODY...
Ahem. I have several profound physical and mental disabilities nowadays, yet I have hung in there and made money over time. Despite what people "know I am" so much. If I went by that, people are definitely mentally retarded. In 1986, through my efforts alone I saved a Black lady from being brutally raped and killed, saved a small illegal daycare at night she had in her basement, and may have saved half of Seattle or more from the spreading house fire that would have resulted from those two teenage rapists having burned down her wooden stick house in a tight tinderbox, sprawling Black neighborhood.
The wind started whipping up later that night. The fire would’ve spread and engulfed two VERY nearby huge Seattle area forests here in the Pacific Northwest - possibly more such forests, too, fading over the horizons locally. It all began around midnight on June 16-17, and there were no fire stations in the area at the time. By the time anybody had arrived, it would have been too late. Those two would have buzzed off in her "fancy," opaque-window car. After leaving a giant blazing fire behind them as "vengeance" for not having had a nice, convenient "cracker" white family to have killed. Just an old, alone Black lady instead. The streets were too windy and narrow for the fire trucks to have made it down them. Most of them were cobblestone, yet. It's still somewhat the early days of Washington State, you see. So they would have called in the "big guns," the US Military and the Forestry services to dump fire-retarding chemicals from huge military dark-colored (bear in mind this would all have been happening at night) helicopters going overhead, at something like 1 or 2 a.m.
Dead black as midnight, though it was summer. By the wee morning hours, too: possibly crashing helicopters into copters and houses, blowing winds sending cancerous firefighting chemicals everywhere, into the choppers, streets, people, setting them on fire spreading uncontrollably...etc. And those two boys would have just jetted out of that neighborhood in that lady’s stolen car. Once they figured out what they had done, they would probably have set more fires and caused even greater damage until they were stopped. Tons of places around forests to blaze down, without anyone knowing.
Basically, I single-handedly saved some of rural, forested and possibly urban Seattle and “God” knows where else around those local environs. Who knows how long that fire would’ve lasted, without any equipment able to be brought in except for helicopter chemical dumps from above? I even had to make that Black lady go back inside, get the phone and call the police, who briefly arrested me for my troubles. They did at least also arrest the two boys, and then the cops decided that "no crime" was committed against me. Those two were caught in the process of attempting to drag me uphill, across about 17 concrete driveways, after they stripped my pants off and did embarrassing things to me. Meanwhile, it helped, because it kept them both there until the police arrived!
Because I smiled and was happy when the police (who were blocks away) finally showed (remember, the fire department wasn’t in the vicinity yet), the male cop threw my pants in my face – the usual claim that I “relaxed and enjoyed it.” After my head was sewn up, I was put in the hospital on a mental ward and grilled by an angry, arrogant policeman: “You must have been the ringleader, you must have caused those two innocent boys to break-in, yadayada,” and so I received no commendations, medals or anything monetary at all. I managed to convince them I wasn’t the ringleader, just a passerby looking for something (namely the fire I was afraid would be started that night, and I was dead correct), and they did find screwdrivers on the two boys who broke in, obviously used to jimmy open the house’s lower window. The basement window; those kids downstairs must have been terrified. The “authorities” even made me pay out of pocket for my psychiatrist, and got me to drop any such “rape” charges. Meanwhile, the two Black teenagers got their wrists slapped and were set free.
Except to prove the point, they both tried stuff again, such as weirdo drug “talcum powder” sales on rooftops and further break-ins, and one of them was finally chemically castrated for his troubles. The poor bloke apparently needed his "mental health services." The other one only broke into "one" other house, so I guess he's "okay." He was 14 years old, the other one was 18. The “14 year old” kept stalking me over the years, him and his little Seattleite Keystone Kop "hoodie" friends. I don’t think he believes I’m KKK. I’m not! I don't like to mention the part where yelling them away from the house led to their physically attacking me, raping me instead of the Black middle-aged woman...I was 26 years old. My first “real,” non-TV, family or whatever rape. And can I prove it, any of the above? I don't have any loyal witnesses, and I'm a paid professional fiction writer, as yet! Life wasn’t kind to me; is it kind to you?
I did this kind of thing several times in my life. I should be a paid professional Superhero, but I can't stand Pretty Boy Phoenix Jones. He owns a mega corporation and is making money hand over fist promoting himself as the World's First Superhero. Yeah, the world's "first" PAID black superhero...yawwwwwn it's getting late. Time to hit the rusty hay and stop being financially jealous. If I get sleep, I have yet another crack at ghostwriting or editing a book manuscript for YOU...
Come back later for the rest of this, if you dare believe!
The earlier version I wrote of this, the first one? I left out the parts about the rapes, etc. and everybody who read it thought that the main character was a man and that it was a straight fiction story. I don't know if anyone believes me.