Wednesday, November 30, 2011


Chapter 8: Emphasize her education and turn it against her
[Go to beginning]

Karl Rove was distressed to find the GOP campaign office practically deserted. He shouted to the  only people in the office; two women talking at a corner desk, “Where is everybody?!”
The woman leaning against the desk shrugged. The woman seated at the desk stared at him with a puzzled expression on her heavily made-up face.
Rove turned away and snaked his way through the maze of desks to the chairman’s office. Jeananne Kangas, who was the acting chairperson of the Massachusetts GOP, was on the phone. She looked up, brushed a wave of rust-colored hair from her narrowed eyes, and recognizing Rove, motioned to a chair at the side of her desk.
From the content and tenor of her conversation, Rove figured she was addressing someone who was dissatisfied with how the process for electing the new chairperson was going. Jennifer Nassour’s unexpected resignation had raised some ugly divisions in the party.
Kangas hung up with a curt, “Well, that’s the way it is,” and turned to Rove. “I’m afraid I haven’t been able to raise Tim yet. He’s supposed to have been here fifteen minutes ago.”
Rove checked his watch. The meeting he’d set up with Kangas and her communications manager, Tim Buckley, had been for 2:15. Kangas probably wanted to pow-wow with Buckley before they had their sit down with Rove. “Well, that’s okay, Jean, gives me a chance to ask about who the new chair’s gonna be.”
“Bob Maginn, if I have any say,” Kangas responded.
“But McNamara’s thrown his hat in ring?” Rove said, making it a question instead of a statement.
“Yeah. He’s a favorite of the Mass Tea Party,” Kangas said, frowning.
“Well and good,” said Rove. “But Maginn gets you Mitt Romney.”
“Don’t I know it,” said Kangas. “You betting on Romney to get the nod?”
“It’s between him and Gingrich. Newt’s baggage may weigh him down, but this flip-flopping by Mitt is getting a lot of traction,” Rove said, checking his vibrating smart phone.
Kangas looked over Rove’s shoulder. “Ah, here’s Tim. Finally,” she said, as Buckley hurried into the office.
“Sorry I’m late. Traffic,” Buckley said, taking off his sport coat and hanging it over the back of the remaining chair. Buckley reached out to shake Rove’s hand. “Karl. How was your trip?”
Rove’s handshake was perfunctory. He wasn't big on hearty handshakes. “Fine,” he said.
Kangas said, “Karl wanted--”
Rove cut her off. “I want to talk about a more aggressive campaign against Warren,” he said.
“Well, we’re --,” Buckley said.
Rove talked over him. “I want more direct mailings, and I have a list of points I want included. I emailed them to you, Tim, on my way here.”
Buckley started to take out his smart phone.
“You can check later, Tim,” Kangas said.
“I’m sure you’ve seen the ad we’re running against Warren,” Rove said,
“Sure,” Kangas and Buckley said, simultaneously. “Great stuff,” Buckley said.
“Well, I want more ads focusing on her Harvard Law connection. Tie her directly to Obama. Emphasize her education and turn it against her. She’s elitist. Doesn’t understand the common working man. Or woman. That sort of thing,” Rove said.
Kangas was taking notes. Buckley was still thumbing his cell.
“Look, I know we feel confident about Brown keeping his seat, but the Democrats are going to throw a lot of money at this race. They think he’s vulnerable. I don’t want to take any chances,” Rove said.
“I hear you,” Buckley said.
Kangas gave Buckley a fish eye look. “We appreciate the input Karl,” Kangas said, with something less than conviction, and thought, Who the hell does he think he is?

Rove looked at Kangas and came to a decision. "I've gotta run," he said, and started for the door. "Oh, Tim, walk with me. Want to ask you something." Raising his hand, he said, "So long, Jean. Next time, huh?"

Once in the outer office Rove put his hand on Buckley's shoulder and guided out the front door. "Jean's a lawyer, isn't she," he said, making it a statement, rather than a question.

"Yeah, she is," said Buckley.

"She a little squirrely on things you might want to do?"

"Well...," said Buckley.

"I mean, say you wanted to direct mail something negative on Scott Brown, and make it look like it came from Warren's campaign? You know, something that questions his character, or family values. That sort of thing. Or say there was an implication that he avoided service in Iraq or Afghanistan because of his National Guard service?" Rove smiled at Buckley, who looked slightly ill.

Buckley just shook his head. He was thinking, Jesus Christ!, It was all he could do not to cross himself.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Monday, November 28, 2011


Chapter 7: Anger Points

Karl Rove sent a text to James O’Keefe, “Send more photos from OWS. Hire more helpers.” ‘Helpers’ was a euphemism for the homeless guys O’Keefe was paying to wander around Occupy Wall Street rallies and sit-ins. In a stroke of genius, O’Keefe was paying his 'helpers' with beer.
Rove turned his attention to the list he was making on a BlackBerry digital notepad app. It was labeled, ‘Anger points.’ At the same time he was listening to Reince Priebus on his cell. Priebus was whining that it was near impossible to arrange a deal for Roemer when the GOP hadn’t yet nominated its presidential candidate.
“Listen, Reince, I’m meeting with Roemer again Monday. I need to lay this out for him.” Rove got up, flushed the toilet, and walked into the bedroom of his hotel. “You need to get the top three together and tell them no RNC money unless they all agree to the deal.”
“The top three?” said Priebus.
“Romney, Gingrich, and Cain,” Rove said, punching the room service number on the desk phone.
“But what if--”
Rove interrupted, “What if Bachmann gets the nod, or Santorum, or Paul, or--”
“Perry,” said Priebus.
“Have you seen his numbers recently? The guy is shooting himself in the foot, when he doesn’t have it in his mouth. He’s losing contributors right and left. He won’t have the money to see it through. Believe me, I know,” said Rove, checking his BlackBerry for the latest polling on the Republican candidates.
“Well...,” Priebus said.
“Club sandwich, potato salad, pickle, and a coke,” Rove said.
“What?” Priebus said.
“Set up a conference call. I’ll handle it,” Rove said, ending the call before Priebus had a chance to protest.
Rove thumbed his smart phone until he found what he was looking for on Youtube. Then, while he ate, he watched the attack ad on Elizabeth Warren his Crossroads PAC had produced. He chuckled as Warren was shown in her ‘class warfare’ speech in the ad. The volume in the ad had been turned way down, so that the viewer couldn’t hear the substance of her argument. She was just gesticulating strenuously. She came out looking deranged, especially when superimposed over the chaotic scenes of the Oakland Occupy Wall Street protests. The ad’s ominous music was a bit cheesy, but in Rove’s opinion, cheesy never hurt when it came to politics. The ad cost Rove’s PAC nearly $600K, but it was worth it. The GOP couldn’t afford to lose Scott Brown’s senate seat.

By the time Rove walked out of the Ritz-Carlton and into a waiting taxi it was almost 2 pm and he still had a lot on his ‘to do’ list. His first stop was GOP Headquarters. On the way there he continued to add to his ‘anger points’ list. ‘Guns’ topped the list, followed by ‘homosexuality/gay marriage. Then he wrote, ‘Barney Frank.’ He paused, put his hand on his stomach, belched, and then dry-swallowed an antacid. Then he wrote ‘Nancy Pelosi.’ Then in rapid succession he wrote, ‘abortion,’ ‘mandated health insurance,’ ‘high cost of gas,’ ‘global warming hoax,’ and ‘unemployment.’ Rove paused to look out the window as his taxi navigated downtown Boston, and then finished his list with, ‘OWS.’ and put away his BlackBerry as the taxi pulled up in front of the drab, brick building that served as GOP Headquarters.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Saturday, November 26, 2011


Chapter 6: Pigeon hunting in NH slow

Instead of heading directly back to the airport, Rove told his taxi driver to take him to the Red Arrow Diner; a cup of coffee and soggy piece of pumpkin pie at the Science Center didn’t cut it. On the way, he texted Reince Priebus, “Pigeon hunting in NH slow.”
As Rove slid into a booth at the rear of the diner he saw a photo of Barack Obama on the wall at the end of the bench. Obama had come through the diner during the 2008 election, along with every candidate except McCain. Had to hand it to Obama. He was a was savvy politician.
Rove ordered a ‘DinahMoe’ from a incurably cheerful, young waitress, who seemed not to recognize him, thumbed through messages on his BlackBerry, and paged through the day’s issue of the Union Leader.
A story about Republican state Rep. J.R. Hoell of Dunbarton co-sponsoring a bill to allow guns on university campuses caught his attention. Hoell was arguing that as long as UNH received taxpayer money, they were a ‘subdivision of the state,’ should abide by the Second Amendment, and overturn their prohibition against firearms on campus.
Rove made a note to himself to think about how to better use the whole gun rights issue to his advantage in 2012. Maybe he could manufacture a rumor that Obama was planning to reinstitute the automatic weapons ban once he was reelected. Hell, he probably was. He quickly typed the outline for an Op Ed and emailed it to Chris Stirewalt at Fox.
Rove went through his email and text messages and finished scanning the paper as he wolfed down the huge DinahMoe steak burger that was a favorite of Red Arrow patrons. No wonder Americans are fat, he thought, as he polished off the last of his french fries. Before he left for the airport he took an interior photo of the Red Arrow with his smart phone and twitted, “Thanksgiving on the road at Red Arrow; work, work work.”

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Friday, November 25, 2011


Chapter 5: What would Roemer want, besides the Presidency, that is?
[Go to beginning]

Buddy Roemer said nothing. Karl Rove was staring at him, willing him to react to Rove’s statement about a viable third party candidate ‘gestating.’ Roemer considered it an unfortunate metaphor.
“We think someone could run with the Occupy Wall Street movement,” Rove finally said. You know, say all the things the protesters want to hear, form a legitimate party, coordinate with a PAC to--”
“That’s illegal,” Roemer said, interrupting Rove.

“Well, you know, not exactly coordinate, but...”
“Uh huh,” Roemer said.
“Look Buddy, I have some serious money behind this idea. We just need the right guy out front. Not someone like Nader. He’s all hat and no cattle. Know what I mean?” Rove loved using cowboy idioms, which he’d picked up from the Texas crowd.
“Uh huh,” Roemer said. Spit it out Karl, Roemer thought.
“Well, who do you think could do it?”
Roemer said nothing.
“Dennis Kucinich? You know we’re redistricting him right out of a job.” Say something, you fuck!
Roemer shook his head. “He may be far out there on some things, like that ‘Department of Peace’ idea, but he’d see right through your scheme.”
“How about Russ Feingold? He’s dying to get back in the mix. Even considered a run for the Presidency.”
“Maybe,” Roemer said, sounding doubtful.
“Well, Buddy, give me a name,” Rove said, sounding exasperated.
“What’s your pitch to the guy going be, Karl? I mean, how to you get someone to go through all that hardship; all the scrutiny, all the speeches and fund raising, recruiting volunteers. All with malice aforethought?”
“Malice aforethought?” said Rove.
“Knowing it’s a sham. A scheme to draw votes away from Obama.”
Rove thought about this. What would Roemer want, besides the Presidency, that is? “What do you think we ought to offer, Buddy?”
I wonder if the shit is recording this, thought Roemer. “I’ll tell you what, Karl. Let me think about this over the holiday weekend and I’ll get back to you on Monday. You think about how you’re going to make this worthwhile for your spoiler, okay?"

Roemer saw that Rove was about to say something, and preempted whatever it was. "I mean, it’s Thanksgiving, Karl. Let’s go home and give thanks that you and I will be dead before future generations are questioning the legitimacy of our birth because we ignored global warming.”

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Thursday, November 24, 2011


Chapter 4: Happy Thanksgiving
[Go to beginning]

Buddy Roemer spotted Karl Rove wandering around the pavilion of the Science Center looking lost. Karl was hard to miss. He was the only person wearing a trench coat and carrying a battered leather briefcase. Roemer smiled. Rove, with his somewhat shabby raincoat and briefcase, reminded him of Columbo, the TV detective. Rove didn’t have Columbo’s funky charm, but he was shrewd as hell and as TV criminals had learned with Columbo, it was foolish to underestimate him.
Rove spotted Roemer standing by the entrance to an exhibit bordered by photos of New Hampshire autumns. A sign over the entrance said, ‘Seasons of Change.’ Rove changed the hand in which he carried his briefcase and reached out and shook Roemer’s hand. “Hey, Buddy. How’r ya doing?”
“Karl, it’s awfully nice to see you. How are you?" And what's so damned urgent? Roemer wondered. "Happy Thanksgiving.”
“I’m hitting my stride, Buddy. Hitting my stride.” Rove put his hand on Roemer’s back. “Where can we sit down and talk? I’ve gotta get some input from you on the--.”
“Walk with me, Karl. I want to show you something. Then we can talk. You’ve got a little time, don’t you?”
Rove looked at his watch, and then wished he hadn’t. He wanted Roemer to feel as though he had his undivided attention. “You bet, Buddy. Let’s git’r done!”
The next half hour was agony for Rove. Roemer led him through the Seasons of Change exhibit supplementing the posters with a running commentary on how global warming was going to impact New England. What the fuck!
Karl forced himself to appear interested as Roemer explained that New England’s fall foliage would be less brilliant. “Maple, beech, and birch trees can’t abide the warmer temperatures and will move north, you see,” Roemer said, pointing a collage of brilliant fall foliage.
Rove’s smile made him look slightly bilious. “Hmm,” he murmured.
“You know what fall tourism contributes to the New England economy, Karl?” Roemer asked.
Rove recognized a rhetorical question when he heard one and just raised his eyebrows in response.
“Tourism employs 250,000 New Englanders and another 106,000 upstate New Yorkers, paying total wages of greater than $6 billion,” Roemer said.
Rove wanted to kill himself. Maybe this had been a mistake.
“As our fall foliage retreats, tourism is expected to decline. The economic impact will be felt, Karl. And in more ways than one.”
Rove felt helpless as Roemer went on with evangelical zeal to cover the effects of climate change on cranberries, blueberries, and native Concord grapes; described how invasive pests and plants threatened to destroy wildlife habitats and take over cropland; and how maple sugar and paper industry jobs would be lost as maple trees and spruce and fir forests moved out of New England.
Finally, Rove couldn’t stand it and, taking Roemer by the elbow, said, “This is fascinating Buddy, but truth is, I’ve gotta catch a plane. I really want to run something by you that I think you’ll find pretty damned interesting, too.”
Roemer finally shut up and led Rove to a small, sparsely populated snack bar in an alcove of the Science Center, where they got a piece of pie and a cup of coffee, and found a booth near the back.
Rove launched right into his pitch before Roemer had a chance to lecture him on the environmental impacts of acid rain, or some damned nonsense. “Buddy, what I’m about to tell you is extremely sensitive and strictly confidential. There are only three people who know about this, and I’m one of ‘em.”
Roemer took a bite of his pie and studied Rove. What has he got up his sleeve?
“I don’t have to tell you that we have a hard row to hoe in the 2012 presidential election,” Rove said. We don’t have our candidate yet, but whoever it is will face an uphill battle against an incumbent president. Always the case.” Rove said, as he took a bite of his pie.
“Not for Clinton in ’92,” Roemer said, just to irritate Rove, who pretended to ignore the comment.
“We’re going to have to work hard to get a Republican elected, Buddy, and hard work alone may not be enough.” Rove winked at Roemer. “We can hope that the Democrats shoot themselves in the foot the way did in 2000, but I don’t see that happening on its own.”
“On its own?” Roemer said.
“I’m thinking we encourage a third party candidate, Buddy.
“You mean Ralph Nader?” Roemer said, and laughed.
“Hell no!” Rove said. “He pulled in less than a million votes in ’08.” Rove pushed his empty pie plate off to the side. “We need somebody who’ll take a significant block of votes away from Obama.”
“There isn’t a viable third party candidate that can do that, Karl,” Roemer said.

“There’s one in gestation,” Rove said, studying Roemer to see if he’d figure it out.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. 

Wednesday, November 23, 2011


Chapter 3: Les Feuilles Mortes 
[Go to beginning]

Karl Rove looked out the window as his taxi drove along Bedford Street. Trees along the river were losing their autumn leaves and they raced along the street in a whirlwind of color, but Rove wasn’t paying attention to what was going on outside. He was thinking about the 2012 election.
Rove was concerned about how Republican candidates were faring on the debates. If it was up to him, there’d be no debates. It just gave the snarky media a chance to criticize the candidates, to say nothing of the candidates themselves making one gaffe after another. As far as Rove was concerned, it didn’t much matter who got the GOP nomination, but Rove was hoping it wouldn't be Perry. Perry was pliable, and if he could keep the dunce from stepping on his dick, he might swing two terms with him, just as he’d done with Bush. But he'd had a falling out with Perry in the Nineties, when Bush was governor, and the relationship, although superficially cordial, was still fraught with simmering hurt and distrust. Still, Karl felt sure he could support a Perry candidacy and end up back in the position of chief Architect for Perry's election. That's what he did -- get people elected.
A freezing wind was blowing off the Merrimack River as Rove exited his Taxi and clutching his briefcase to his chest to keep his coat from blowing open rushed into the SEE Science Center. Why the hell Roemer wanted to meet here instead of the country club that he had suggested was a puzzle to Rove, but then Buddy was eccentric, which was exactly why Rove was approaching him.
Rove’s meeting with the ‘Bush Pioneers’ at the Armstrong Ranch had been encouraging. He had money in hand from several donors and contingent pledges from others that would help fund a third party candidate start up. Once supporters saw the handwriting on the wall, more money would come rolling in, and with transparency of Super PACs being what it was, no one had to know that his PAC was supporting a spoiler candidate.
Rove moved through the Science Center looking for something called the ‘Seasons of Change’ exhibit where Roemer wanted to meet. Rove’s mind was racing as he went over his pitch to Roemer. Buddy was a bit off the wall, but he was no dummy. The occasion called for some subtlety.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Monday, November 21, 2011


Chapter 2: A hunting we will go

Karl Rove hated hunting, or any kind of outdoor activity for that matter, that involved ‘getting close to nature.’ He shuddered at the memory of George W. Bush making him follow along as Bush cleared brush on his ranch at Crawford. Yet, here he was at the Armstrong Ranch in South Texas dressed for ‘the hunt.’
Rove was having a ‘pow-wow’ with party luminaries who had the money and influence to help him set up the false flag operation that would lead to a split Democratic presidential vote in 2012. Katharine Armstrong, a ‘Bush Pioneer’ and daughter of the heir to the King and Armstrong ranch fortunes, was hosting the event. Her high pitched laugh could be heard coming from the kitchen, where other members of the hunting party were finishing their breakfasts.
Rove looked up from the newspaper he was reading. “Listen to this Huff, he said to the man sitting across from him in the front room of the hunting lodge. He pushed his glasses up on his nose and read from the newspaper. ‘It is Main Street that creates the majority of jobs in America; it is Main Street that sends our brave young men and women to war; it is Main Street that hurts when another manufacturing plant closes only to be re-opened in China; it is Main Street that is being foreclosed on; and it is Main Street that is suffering while the greed of Wall Street continues to hurt our middle-class.’ Who do you think said that?” he asked.
James ‘Huff’ Huffines was an exceptionally influential and often controversial figure in Texas and national politics. He was currently a bank president and COO, had loads of money, big money connections, and important political ties with Republican high rollers. In 1999, Huffines served as chairman of George W. Bush’s Inaugural Committee, donated hundreds of thousands of his own dollars to Bush’s campaign and, with Armstrong, was another ‘Bush Pioneer.’ Huffines was largely responsible for getting Rick Perry the Texas governorship after Bush left to become ‘leader of the free world.’ In return, Perry appointed Huffines to the University of Texas Board of Regents, where he was soon elected chairman.
Huffines had always disliked Rove, whom he considered a bumptious little blowhard, but he had to hand it to the guy -- the 'Turd Blossom,' as Bush called him, could generate some serious negative shit to sling at political opponents. “Some bleeding heart liberal, sounds like,” answered Huffines, taking another puff on his cigar.
“Buddy Roemer,” Rove said, studying Huffines’ face for a reaction.
“Roemer? Isn’t he making a presidential run? He’s a Republican, isn’t he?” Huffines said, looking puzzled. “No, wait. Roemer, he’s a Democrat. Former governor of Louisiana. Right?”
Rove chuckled. “Right both times. Buddy Boy was the Democratic Governor of Louisiana. But he switched parties in 1991 and then lost to Edwin Edwards in the gubernatorial contest. He tried again in ’95 and came in a poor third. Now he’s a kinda born again conservative promising to clean up politics.”
“Well, he sounds like a half-baked liberal to me,” said Huffines.

“What if we could get Roemer to switch parties again?” Rove said, almost as if to himself.
“You mean go back to being a Democrat?” asked Huffines, leaning forward in his leather chair.
“Huh? No, no. I mean run as a third party candidate. An Occupy Wall Street candidate,” said Rove.
Huffines studied Rove. The crafty sun of a bitch, thought Huffines. “A spoiler,” said Huffines.
“You got it.”  
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Thursday, November 17, 2011


Chapter One: How do you pronounce Reince?

Karl Rove enjoyed the opulence of the posh Washington DC club in which he was breakfasting with the head of the RNC. It was these sort of perks that made him feel successful. He looked up from the newspaper he had spread in his ample lap. “Have you been following the Occupy Wall Street movement, Reince?” he asked his companion, a pasty-faced, buttoned-down younger man shoveling hash browns into his mouth.
Priebus looked up at Rove and frowned. It irked him that Rove refused to pronounce his name correctly. It rhymed with Heinz, like the catchup, not rinse, like the wash cycle. Priebus picked up his napkin from his lap and very deliberately wiped his mouth before responding. “Those hippie freeloaders? I could care less.”
“Well, you should care. They could help us elect a Republican president in 2012.” Rove narrowed his eyes and stared at Priebus. What a cypher, he thought.
Priebus sat back in his upholstered arm chair. What the fuck does Karl have up his sleeve now? he wondered. “How’s that, Karl?”
Rove dabbed at the perspiration on his forehead with his large, linen napkin. Then removed his glasses and polished the lenses. “Reince, you know what the spoiler effect is,” he drawled.
Priebus narrowed his eyes. “You mean like in sports?”
“Are we talking about sports, son?” Rove said. “I mean, goddangit Reince, put on your thinking cap!”
Priebus flinched visibly. God I hate it when he goes into his god-damned lecture mode. Just say what the fuck you mean and get it over with. “What do you mean?”
“In the 2000 election... you were old enough to vote then, right?” Rove said, with just the hint of a smile.
Priebus opened his mouth, but before he could respond, Rove guffawed. “Just joshing ya, son.” Rove said.
Priebus looked at Rove with an expression between disgust -- it made him nauseous to see the waddle under Rove’s double chin tremble -- and malice. Rove was such a dick. “I remember the 2000 election,” Priebus said.
“Well then you remember the kingmaker; the fellow who got Dubya elected.”
“You?” Priebus said.
“Ralph Nader, boy. Ralph, unsafe at any speed, Nader. That’s what a spoiler in politics is, and that’s what we’re gonna create for the 2012 Presidential Election, and we’re gonna mold it right outta the mud and shit of the Occupy Wall Street morass.” Rove slammed his open palm down on the table making the silverware, the plates, and Priebus jump.
“How the hell..., I mean--” Priebus stammered.
“Third party candidate. Someone the hippies -- I mean the noble youth -- can identify with. A person with all the liberal left bone-fides; a green, socialist, gay marriage, pro-abortion, free love liberal. Someone we’ll help get on the ballot, and support right up to the election.” Bubbles of spit floated in the air over Rove’s place setting as he grew in excitement. 
“You’re talking about co-opting the Occupy Wall Street movement?” said Priebus.
“Hell no, Priebus. Stephen Colbert’s already tried that. I’m talking about infiltrating it.”
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Thursday, November 3, 2011

Writer Beware

"A few weeks ago, I began getting questions about the Franklin-Madison Literary Agency. Never having heard the name before, I did some research. What I found rang warning bells."

Aspiring authors should check out this blog post.