Bridport in Dorset is a truly amazing town which I visited last Saturday for the first time and must check out again sometime soon.

Inspired by the architecture, on returning home, I looked up Bridport Arts Centre on the Internet and found that, for a small town, it has lots of interesting things going on.

The Bridport Prize Creative Writing Competition caught my eye. Coo, that prize would be good! Five thousand pounds just for writing a story. If I had five thousand pounds for every free story I've written and uploaded to the Internet for people to read, I'd certainly be wallowing in the readies instead of scrimping and saving.

Hey ho! Earning money from writing is never easy but it's a great way to spend time and it's also nice to know that literally millions have read my stuff over the years.

The problem is that, like many writers, my mind keeps thinking up crazy stuff all the time. One minute I'm thinking that I ought to be finding a nice small tourist business that needs a blog ghostwriting each day to tell the world about them and boost their customers, and then, in a flash, I'm dreaming a short story about a small business advertising for a ghost writer for their marketing blog and ending up interviewing a ghost!

They say that writers are born not made and I must plead guilty to dreaming. Perhaps it's a good thing there are enough pragmatic realists around to keep the world sane and in some semblance of order :-)

Bye for now

Rob

Rob Hopcott - online author, blogger and insatiable dreamer

2. A thoughtful post by Dustin Benge on the role of the OT in pastoral theology.

3. DC evangelical Joe Carter writes provocatively about ghostwriters (I wrote this sentence myself, I promise.) (HT: JT)

4. A treasure trove of soundbite resources from reformed pastors and leaders on an ocean of topics. The Gospel Coalition is going to be big--have you registered?

--Have a great weekend, all.

I 24 Grana sono legati a doppio filo con il comune irpino: hanno girato infatti tra le strade di Bisaccia il loro nuovo video (Le Verità), che proprio stasera sarà presentato in anteprima nazionale nella splendida cornice del Castello Ducale.

Il videoclip, diretto dal regista Sabino Esposito, sarò poi in programmazione da settembre nelle principali emittenti musicali. Inoltre il comune di Bisaccia, lo scorso ottobre, aveva ospitato la band  e lo staff di produzione (Filippo Gatti e Daniele Senigallia) per la post-produzione dell'ultimo lavoro "Ghostwriters", tra l'altro premiato come al MEI 2008 come disco rivelazione dell'anno.

Primo appuntamento, quindi, alle 17 presso il caffè letterario all'interno del Castello Ducale, per l'anteprima del video e l'incontro con la band. Saranno presenti inoltre l'assessore alla cultura del comune di Bisaccia Agostino Pelullo ed  il coordinatore Gal Verde Irpinia-Cilsi Mario Salzarulo.

Il live invece alle 22, in piazza Duomo, con ingresso libero.

Luigi Ferraro

per maggiori info info@soundabbast.it

I found this great article HERE.

Nas might have recently topped the US Billboard charts with his "untitled" album, but his most successful project remains (and will probably always remain) penning Will Smith's Getting Jiggy With It. Maybe you knew that, maybe you didn't, but what's for sure is that Nas isn't alone in the ghostwriting business.

Undoubtedly inspired by Roland Barthes' seminal paper The Death of the Author, Sean Diddy Combs' reflects succinctly on the relationship of the rapper to his craft, on his 2001 hit Bad Boy 4 Life:

We still here, you rockin with the best / Don't worry if I write rhymes, I write cheques

For Diddy, creating music is a straightforward process - pay the best writers and producers to collaborate, rap someone else's words with mild competence, and before you know it you'll have a hit record. But is it right for rappers to have their lyrics written for them?

In pop music, we're used to this casual detachment of musical acts from the music itself - the idea of an artist as a brand rather than a creative force. But when we turn to hip-hop, the importance of authenticity is more difficult to dismiss. "Keeping it real" is the credo valued above all others (far above "being nice to women" and "being modest"). How is it that popular rappers like Diddy can be just as detached from the music as a bubblegum-pop cipher like Britney Spears and her prerogative to cover or purchase her entire repertoire?

A report by BBC radio station 1xtra has claimed that as much as 40% of all rap lyrics are ghostwritten. As the art is shrouded in secrecy, we may never really know what goes on. The inclusion of other MCs in liner notes can be a clue, but more often than not the process is kept completely under wraps. Jay-Z told Vibe magazine in an interview that he is "paid a lot of money to not tell you who [he] writes for". Unfortunately for his employers, in this internet age his contributions to the likes of Amil, Foxy Brown and, most notably, Dr Dre's Still DRE. have become an open secret.

Hip-hop is borne of copying, sampling, remixing - particularly where instrumentation and beats are concerned. In terms of vocals too, many rappers have copied each others' flows, reworked quotable verses; it's all part and parcel of a genre that's inherently self reflexive.

Nevertheless, there's something strangely hollow about listening to a ghostwritten rap. Pop-rap like Gettin' Jiggy With It can perhaps be excused - it's a fun track, who's only sentiments are "I'm Will Smith, I'm successful". But when it comes to supposedly personal tracks, like Diddy's ode to Notorious BIG or Dr Dre's The Message, dedicated to his late brother (written by Sauce Money and Royce Da 5'9" respectively), you can't help but feel somewhat cheated.

Kanye West's Jesus Walks - co-written with Rhymefest - is just as difficult to stomach given the size of Kanye's ego. Consistently mentioning himself as a "Top 5 MC", you have to ask whether Common or Talib Kweli would ever spit someone else's rhymes.

Admittedly, there's more to being a rapper than just lyrics. Charisma, timing, the timbre of your voice, stage presence, how "hard" you seem; all are important ingredients. Snoop Dogg may not write a great deal of his own lyrics, but he has his own inimitable style. Also, perhaps it's unfair that talented lyricists/songwriters without marketable voices (such as The DOC, who penned much of Dr Dre's earlier work) should never have their talents put on wax.

Most current rap artists are under pressure to generate reams of meticulously honed lyrics for mixtapes, guest spots, remixes and so on. Even lyrical greats such as Lil' Wayne and Notorious BIG have succumbed to using a ghostwriter to help with the odd verse or two. In these instances, the practice is easier to accept - laziness rather than lack of talent - but still, the lack of credit where it's due is difficult to understand. Considering so much of the lyrical content of rap consists of boasting about your skills on the mic, using an uncredited ghostwriter seems deeply dishonest.

The problem lies with what we expect from the artist. If Diddy continues "writing cheques" to get the best producers and rappers to help him create enjoyable music then fair enough - especially as he's open about the small part he plays in the creative process. Indeed, his last album, 2007's Press Play was one of the most enjoyable records of the year. Dr Dre's 2001, a similarly collaborative effort, is an all time classic, and his role overseeing the writing and production undoubtedly stamped his personality on the work.

But when we find out that rappers who constantly assert their authenticity have a writing team, or that personal, emotive lyrics in fact owe little to the person conveying them to you, you wonder what you're really listening to. Surely if you can't come up with decent lyrics, you should be doing something else?

Jack Arnott’s music blog at guardian.co.uk had a decent post about rappers and hip hop artists using ghostwriters. I have mixed feelings on this subject. One side of me believes that there is nothing wrong with it, as numerous top musicians have collaborated with ghost writers in order to score hits. On the other hand, as a hip hop fan, I’ve always believed you should be able to write the lyrics you spit.

“Don’t worry if I write rhymes, I write checks,” said Diddy in Bad Boy 4 Life. Can you honestly blame the guy for following the path of numerous predecessors? In a way, this makes it easier to classify Diddy’s music. He has never been close to being a true lyricists like KRS-1 or Mos Def, but he definitely knows how to make a song sound good through this kind of collaboration.

In essence,  you can’t put artists like Diddy and Smith in the same category as Common or Rakim. It just doesn’t work. They come from different worlds and their music proves that. While Diddy and Smith’s music is well-produced and made for the masses (not to mention penned by other authors), artists like Talib Kweli, KRS-1, and underground hip hop groups like Jedi Mind Tricks continue to sacrifice stardom and huge paychecks in order to make beats for the streets and the true hip hop fan.

In an interesting note, Arnott cites Nas as the author of Will Smith’s “Getting Jiggy With It.” Insert your own jokes here.

It was before Christmas; sometimes before our daughter Laura was born. I had just received an enormous check for my first bestselling book, River, and I instantly felt relief. The smell of snow was already in the air and you could easily tell that there was going to be a lot of it soon. Although I was working on another project with a fast-approaching deadline, the short story was more one of those things that you do in your spare time, a miniature story written mostly for stupid industry prestige.  

We were moving to a newly refurbished house, quite a nice place at the very end of Red Oak Community, dragging boxes wearing nothing but long sleeved shirts. Somewhere around 2 p.m. we were done and I was already thinking about what should be my first treat in our new home. A warm cup of coffee naturally came to mind. I was walking through the mostly dark corridor towards the basement where, together with most of the kitchen appliances, was the old coffee machine. As I came down the basement stairs, I noticed a typewriter on a table under the stairs. There was nothing remarkable about it, not so rare, not so expensive, it was just another Schreibmaschine. However,  it was not here when we visited the house for the first time with the real estate agent who smelled bad and smiled too wide, showing his latest investment in dental work.

I didn’t pay much attention at the time, maybe the former owner decided that it would be absolutely charming to give a typewriter to a writer, something like a good omen, something to remember him by when I give interviews on late night talk shows. That way, I may even mention his name. I may even say - You know my second novel was completely written on an old Triumph Adler, but that would be complete bullshit because I never ever used anything but my Satellite notebook. Maybe he just didn't need it was too lazy to sell it before he moved to his new retirement home. But, I swear, it wasn’t here when we came here with nasty Mr. Wedschlock from Read Oak Real Estate.

Buster was sniffing every corner of the house. It was only after I called his name than he started meowing, acknowledging my presence. The trip was long and he was hungry, so he followed me to the kitchen like a trained police dog.  

"Hon, do you know if someone was in the basement while we were waiting for the paperwork? There is a typewriter under the stairs that wasn’t here when we looked at the house."

Barbara was looking at me like she knew what I was going to say. She swallowed and put a cold sandwich on the kitchen countertop.   

"What? Is this another one of yours spooky conspiracy paranoia episodes?"

"It's a simple question.You may as well answer."

"How would I know, you were here last with the real estate agent anyway. By the way, put away your crap. Tomorrow my cousin Robin is coming to see us. To ask you staff about your new book," she continued sarcastically.

I could not stand Robin, mostly because my wife's Mid-West cousin was convinced that real men should be working with tools. Not words.

Barbara took her juice and went outside to sit on the porch "Let me know when you are done."

Thanks to our little exchange I felt more like it was bourbon, not coffee time, but I was a slave to my habits and decided to make a nice warm cup of coffee first. The coffee was ready and I had just lifted the coffee pot when I heard Tschick - tchick – tschick coming from the basement. I probably would not have reacted if Buster boy hadn’t gone berserk at the sound. The clicking of the typewriter and Buster’s mad running spooked me. I just had time to lift my left leg to let him pass, as he rushed by me and then catastrophe happened. Coffee splashed out of the pot, blanketing my right hand with excruciating heat.  I screamed out, almost fainting, and my left foot was on the floor again.

            After they released me from the local walk in clinic I had only two questions. What the hell was that noise if there was noone downstairs and how will I finish my story for the literary magazine with only one hand? Barbara thought that I did it to myself on purpose, so that Robin would take pity on me and go easy on me.  

- Are you crazy? You just earned your first big money and you want to spend it on hospital bills?

I knew she wasn't serious, but I was far from being amused.

Robin came and, just like we expected, left two days later, leaving nothing but more bitter memories of uncomfortable dinners and a few presents. She was a manipulative, self-centered, almost psychopathic bitch but she was my wife's relative and I had to swallow it. Of course she gave me a bottle of whiskey and pair of slippers, to remind me that in her eyes I was a drunk who lounged around the house all day.

"You are nothing but a lazy bum. Seriously, I don't know why did Barbara marry you anyway."

Robin always said that to me whenever she had one drink too many and dropped all efforts at pretending to be polite. If she didn’t drink, she would hint at it addressing my wife and ignoring my presence.  

This visit things were different. She was tipsy and silent all through the weekend. My check for the River was bigger than her annual salary, and that was something she could not deal with. The bitch was all about money.

            Few days later I was trying to type with my left hand but it was extremely exhausting, so I started to use my dictaphone. However, speaking your thoughts and writing them down are two very different things. Lines, paragraphs and chapters were pretty much invisible in that little silver stick with a microphone, so I quickly quit talking to the machine. My hand would heal soon, but surely not soon enough to send the story to Nouveau Bohème before the deadline.

I was seriously thinking of writing it down with a pen, but if typing was exhausting, writing with my left was impossible. It was an absurd situation; I had everything in my mind, even the ending, but the bandages on my right hand obstructed my intentions.

"Do you want me to write it? You dictate, I'll write", suggested Barbara.

"It doesn’t work that way. Sorry."

"Did you know that the former owner of the house wanted to be a writer? He started a novel thirty years ago and he never finished it. He was too occupied with his business."

"What was his name again?"

"Poor old man. He had to give up his company, he never finished his book and now he is alone in a retirement home."

Barbara continued with her reading like I never said anything. Thinking about the old man had saddened me and also her.

That night snow began to fall. I was reading comics, which was the best way to forget all my worries in the world. I had realized that there was no way in hell that I could finish the story in time and with the realization had come relief. Now all I was worried about was which words to choose when I had to talk to the pretentious fat editor of  Nouveau Bohème. I could almost see him, sweating like a pig under his $2000 aluminum gray suit, while eating Belgium chocolate and smoking cigars. Then, just when I had stopped laughing at the visualization of his ridiculous appearance, Buster jumped from the bed and start running towards the basement again.

- Tschick – tschick – tschick. There was that sound again.

It took me sometime to put a sweatshirt on, it's a bitch getting dressed with only one hand, and it took me another minute to explain to Barbara that I don’t hear voices or sounds, and that all I wanted was a glass of water. She did not believe me, of course, but I was saved by the telephone ring - her nasty cousin was on the phone trying to squeeze out another detail about my life that she can use against me.  

Only now I realized how big this house was, I mean, compared to the one we used to live in for a few years with Barbara’s mom. It takes time to get to the basement from the second floor.  The sound was getting louder and louder - Tschick - tschick – tschick. That could only be typewriter, there was no doubt about it.  

As I turned on the light, the sound stopped, of course - what else would you expect from a loco booze lover like me. The typewriter was there as before, but something, something was different. At first, I couldn’t put my finger on it. I glanced over the keys and up at the paper roller. There were dense lines of text on a sheet of paper. I moved closer. The text ended with The End. I read the page and vertigo overcame me. More pages laid besides the machine. It was my story, The Shift, all 1200 words for the Christmas edition of Nouveau Bohème. 

For the next few days I did nothing except drink extreme amount of coffee and read fan letters about the River. Was I dreaming? We’ll see. I should get my copy of Nouveau Bohème on December 24th. If that doesn’t convince me, nothing ever will.

I guess Robin was right. I am lazy. The old Triumph Adler does everything for me. Or maybe you just have to wish for something really, really bad . Whatever the truth is, the ghost typewriter works for me. My Satellite is always on, only so Barbara doesn’t ask too many questions. How could she? Her days are filled with running around with Laura, with no financial worries anymore. Robin? She does not come around anymore. Barbara sometimes worries about it, but I always tease her that it’s because of her bad cooking.

That's what I do all day. I cook and think about stories. When I hear Tschick – Tschick, I know I’ve had a good idea. A really good idea. I don't even care about scorching coffee anymore.

 Café da manhã (8:30)
1 xícara (250 ml) de chá de hortelã
2 fatias de pão de soja light - 98 kcal
1 fatia de ricota - 60 kcal

>>> água (400 ml) (9:15)

>>> água (500 ml) (10:30)

Almoço (13:00)
4 fatias de pão light - 196 kcal
2 fatias de ricota - 120 kcal
2 fatias de mussarela - 130 kcal
1 col. (sopa) de mostarda - 10 kcal

>>> água (500 ml) (14:00)

Janta (22:30)
4 fatias de pão light - 196 kcal
2 fatias de ricota - 120 kcal
1 col. (sopa) de mostarda - 10 kcal
1 xícara (250 ml) de chá "Doce Refeição"

Total: 940 kcal

Bom, hoje não comi adequadamente, de novo. Preciso voltar às refeições completas balanceadas logo - ou seja, preciso ir no mercado.  Mas hoje choveu o dia todo - quase não fui fazer a tal prova que tinha que fazer para melhorar a nota. Estava me contentando com o meu 6,6 de média. Mas aí parou de chover e eu saí correndo. Cheguei 15 minutos atrasada, mas consegui fazer a prova sem problemas ;)

Hoje entreguei também o meu primeiro trabalho como ghostwriter.  Pediram-me para escrever um discurso para uma  formatura de 8ª série. Acho que ficou legal, mas não consegui passar das 2 páginas. É difícil se alongar num texto desses sem conhecer bem os envolvidos ou a situação mais detalhadamente. Sem contar que o texto deveria fugir um pouco do padrão elogioso que esses textos normalmente têm - o cliente não queria elogiar os formandos. Enfim, gostei do meu texto, mas não sei o que o cliente achou - ele não confirmou o recebimento do e-mail :oP

E isso é tudo por hoje.

1). I think it’s admirable that Mrs. Meyer receives no compensation for ministry sales of her books, cd’s, etc…… Who does the ministry purchase these books from and how much does Mrs. Meyer receive from these royalties? 

2). Which of Mrs. Meyer’s books are written by her and which ones were written by Ghostwriters? 

3). Does Mrs. Meyer believe or still teach that Jesus suffered in hell for the atonement of our sins? If no, has she ever publicly repented for teaching this heresy? 

Anyone else have any questions for Mr. Daehn?

 This type of deception is horrible. It appears that these publishers don't care if the ghostwriter is a believer or not. This bothers me on many levels. How can a homosexual ghostwriter edify the Body of Christ when he himself is spiritually dead? What could you learn about the Holy Spirit from an atheist who denies the very existence of God? These issues don't seem to matter much to the publishers...or the pimps masquerading as best selling authors.

Its all about the money in the religious industry.  Jerry Falwell hiring a homosexual to ghostwrite his own autobiography makes me laugh at the hypocrisy that exists in Christianity these days. Preach against homosexuality in the pulpit yet directly profit from people who practice homosexuality. Jerry was some example of godly character.    

The pimps and pimpettes demonstrate their lack of integrity by allowing ghostwriting to occur. These people who masquerade as best selling authors, autographing books they didn’t write, or barely have read are an abomination. You can't tell me these people who are deceiving the public are Spirit filled Christians. Don't even pretend to try and convince me these people give a hoot about the sheeple who spend their hard earned money believing what they've purchased is the celebrities own work when it isn't.  

Is there anything about these pimps that’s real?    

This ministry is truly an incredible gig. I sorta feel like I’m in the movie “The Wizard of Oz”. I’ve been trying to find this all powerful wizard, yet when I get there and pull back the curtain, all I see is a short fat guy that is nothing like I imagined him to be.

Just one big farce ladies and gentleman with no apparent end in sight.