The View from Here

A post? On Tuesday? It's funny, but I keep forgetting I'm allowed to post even when it's not a scheduled feature.

I recently joined the writing team at The View from Here, the online writing magazine belonging to Mike French. The View features Mike’s interviews with authors and book reviews; the wisdom of Paul Burman and Kathleen Maher; and the shiny new addition of a comic strip by Naomi Gill.

Last week, for example (and I include the full links because the comments are worth reading as well): Paul on manuscript appraisals. Kathleen on her call to write. Special guest blogger, Orna Ross, The Accidental Agent and head of literary agency Font International.

Today I posted my first contribution on replacing the word "writer," and I’ll be posting every couple weeks.

So be sure to check out The View from Here for wit, wisdom, and general wonderfulness.

Gray

fog storm clouds brain cells
ambiguity cement
newspapers ashes

Brain Cells
remember forget
organize imagine dream
reason lie confuse

Parts of the Brain.

Black

oil charcoal ink
a lot of leather jackets
tires rebel sheep

Leather Jackets
Why are they so cool?
Seriously. What is that?
They are JUST jackets.

Adapting Wilde

Previous Adaptation Victims: Jane Austen, Charlotte Bronte, Mary Shelley
The Concept: Uh. Because it seemed like a good idea...?
The Book: The Picture of Dorian Gray
The Author Whose Disdain I Deserve: Oscar Wilde
Original Plot Summary: London, 1890s. Basil Hallward is an affluent society painter, who has just finished what he considers his masterpiece: the portrait of his new friend, the 20-year-old – exquisitely beautiful – Dorian Gray. The portrait is so astounding that Basil is a tad terrified of it, as he is in a way a tad terrified of Dorian’s beauty. Or so he says to his good friend, Lord Henry Wotton, a hedonist with a witty epigram to back every scandalous opinion. Basil is afraid Lord Henry will be a terrible influence on the innocent, honest, inexperienced Dorian, and wants to prevent them from meeting, but Dorian, alas, arrives at Basil’s home, and it’s all downhill from here.

Lord Henry is delighted to corrupt Dorian with his notions about easy living, art, and the tragic, inevitable deterioration of Dorian’s remarkable beauty. Looking at the magnificent portrait, Dorian wishes that the portrait could bear the scars of age and suffering instead of his own body. As it happens, Dorian gets his wish. Eighteen years go by in which Dorian immerses himself in a decadent, hedonistic lifestyle. No pleasure is left unexplored – sex, drugs, art, music, antiquing. Though he remains young and beautiful, no one who comes into contact with Dorian is left unscathed. His followers usually end up obsessed with him or some other drug; there are several suicides.

The first suicide, however, occurs when Dorian is still only twenty and more or less without a blemish: Sibyl Vane is a poor young actress, whose beauty and talent captivate Dorian. They fall in love and it seems he might be saved from a life of debauchery, but fate has other plans. After proposing to Sibyl and gaining her joyful acquiescence, Dorian asks Basil and Lord Henry to come see her act. Even if he hadn’t hyped her like an eighth Harry Potter novel, they still would have been disappointed in her performance since – inspired by her true love for Dorian to see the cheap sham of acting for what it is – she totally phones in the part of Juliet. Dorian is humiliated and cruelly rejects her. Heartbroken, Sibyl commits suicide. Dorian, not particularly bothered, views it as a colorful part of his history. (James Vane, a sailor and Sibyl’s brother, vows to find this Dorian guy whatever it takes and kill him, but ends up getting killed himself in a stupid hunting accident. So there’s really no point mentioning him except for his managing to freak out Dorian just a little.)

Meanwhile, Dorian locks up the portrait in the attic, as it gets more horrible looking with every day that goes by and with every vice Dorian adds to his character. Flash-forward eighteen years: Basil is alarmed by the frightening rumors about Dorian (sex, drugs, scandal, and all that). After confronting him, he also asks to see The Portrait. Dorian, in a bizarre fit of madness, agrees. Basil is beyond horror; Dorian is beyond human. Enraged, he murders Basil. Then some other things happen to show how depraved and remorseless Dorian is, but eventually he stabs the portrait in anger. His servants hear screaming and rush upstairs. In the attic they find two items of interest: one, a horribly mangled corpse, which, according to a ring on its finger, identifies the body as Dorian’s; two, the exquisite portrait Basil painted long ago. The End.

New Title: Worth a Thousand Words
Genre: Thriller/Psycho-Drama
New Plot Summary: Pretty much the same plot, except it’s set in Hollywood, 1946. Basil “Buzz” Hallward is a photographer who discovers Dorian, an aspiring actor. (So it’ll be a photograph rather than a painting as the portrait.) Fortunately, Buzz is also friends with top director, Henry Lord. Basically, we see Dorian rise to fame while descending into depravity. Then, when we flash-forward 18 years, it’s 1964.
Cinematography Suggestions: Tempting to do it in black and white – very Film Noir. It could also work in color; the 40s can look Technicolor bright and the 60s can have that more sophisticated, almost jaded look. But even if it’s in color, the photo should be black and white to create a sharp contrast.

Sample Scenes:
[Buzz shows Henry the photo of Dorian]
Henry: [whistles] They say your average picture is worth a thousand words – but I think this one runs about a million. You gonna send these out around town or do I have to do it?
Buzz: No!
Henry: [startled] What’s the matter, Buzz? [teasing] Planning to keep him to yourself?
Buzz: [sigh] No, just... I can’t send out this one.
Henry: Why the hell not?
Buzz: I... I’m scared, Hank. They’ll see this picture and... they’ll see me. They’ll all see me.
Henry: Don’t be so squeamish. Everyone who knows, knows. [chuckling] You’re in good company out here, pal.
Buzz: [scowling] It’s not that, godamnit. It’s... you ever get the feeling you’re on the verge of something... irreversible?
Henry: Sure, every time I sit through a preview and wait for them to applaud. Or run me out of town.
Buzz: That’s how I feel about Dorian. He’s perfect, Hank. My god, I’ve never seen anyone like this, and he could be wonderful. Or terrible. I hate to think what this town is going to do to him.
Henry: Probably no more than what it does to all of us.
Buzz: I wish I’d never met him. [There’s a knock at the door.] That’s him now.
Henry: Quick, hide under the bed. I’ll tell him you flew down to Rio.
Buzz: Knock it off, will you? [calling] It’s open. And don’t give him any ideas.
Henry: I never give anybody ideas. I’m always stealing mine from them. [Dorian walks in] Well, Buzz, he’s even better-looking than the picture. Geez, kid, you’re gonna give Cary Grant a real run for his money.
Dorian: [embarrassed] Oh no.
Henry: Mm, modesty. That photographs well. In some cases. [holding out his hand, which Dorian takes] Henry Lord. You can call me Hank, just not in front of the wife, she’s got the notion it’s undignified for a director.
Buzz: I thought Alice left you for your gardener?
Henry: No, that was last month. This month it’s going to be her swimming instructor.
Dorian: [astonished and enchanted] That’s pretty funny.
Henry: Funny? I can’t get her to leave for good. She always comes back pleading and full of contrition. Say, you couldn’t take her off my hands for a while?
[Dorian is too embarrassed to say anything]
Buzz: Come on, Hank, take it easy.
Henry: I’m sorry, kid. I’ve gotten into the habit of being irrepressibly witty.
Buzz: Obnoxious is more like it.

[Norman, a casting agent, and his assistant, Joan, are sitting in a room, auditioning newcomers.]
Joan: Next up is... [reading from list] Dorian Gray.
Norman: Dorian Gray? Who made that one up, his agent?
Joan: [shrug]
Norman: Never mind. We can probably still fix that. Send him in.
[Dorian is ushered in and his utter gorgeousness renders them utterly speechless. Uncomfortable to begin with, Dorian is a little unnerved by there being a number of very large mirrors in the room – there seem to be three or four Dorians staring back at him.]
Dorian: Hello.
Norman: [clears throat] Well, umm, go ahead, Dorian. [Dorian starts to read the part; to Joan] If he can say his lines with even the tiniest bit of feeling, I’m going out to buy a Rolls Royce right after this.
Joan: Suddenly I wish I hadn’t forgotten my lipstick this morning. You think he’s a 100% real - nose, chin, and everything?
Norman: If he isn’t, we’ll also get his surgeon on the payroll. We’ve got a few starlets that could use some touch-ups.
[Dorian finishes; they haven’t heard a word]
Norman: That was great, Dorian. Uhh, I see here that you have absolutely no experience. Not even advertising?
Dorian: That’s right, sir.
Norman: Modeling, maybe?
Dorian: Well, I did pose for some pictures not too long ago. My friend is a photographer.
Norman: [quietly, to Joan] There we go – a fairy and a nudie. It was too good to be true. [to Dorian] Umm, what kind of posing was it, if you don’t mind my asking. Something - artistic?
Dorian: No, just me sitting by a window in his studio.
Norman: And you, you didn’t have your... shirt off or anything like that?
Dorian: No, no, I was wearing my regular clothes. I’d show you the picture, but my friend only made one copy. And [gets a little dizzy thinking of the photo; seeing himself reflected in the mirrors; is slightly freaked out] it was destroyed, in, in a stupid chemical accident. During the development. The film too, so really, there isn’t anything I can show you.
Norman: That is a shame. [to Joan] A bigger one if he’s lying.

[Norman on the phone after Dorian’s audition]
“Tell him to get here right away. Because I’ve got a very new and very blond Clark Gable to show him. No Clark Gable hasn’t bleached his hair you idiot – I’m talking about another Gary Cooper. Well of course there’s only one! [exasperated] I’ve discovered a new star – a goddamn new galaxy-sized star! That’s what I said. Now get a move on.”

[Sibyl and Dorian sitting together in a diner after her awful performance]
“What’s the matter, honey? You’re so quiet.”
“You were terrible.”
“[giggling] I know. I’m sorry. It just seemed so foolish all of a sudden. Doing those scenes. They’re so fake and what I feel inside – it’s more real than any scene. I don’t think I can be an actress when I feel like this. It’s like I’m going to go to pieces, explode into fireworks. I love you so much, Dorian.”
[she puts her hands out to hold his, but he withdraws]
“[quietly] This is over.”
“What?”
“You’ve disappointed me.”
“I, I didn’t mean to.”
“But you still did.”
“But what does it matter if I’m an actress or not?”
“You humiliated me in front of my friends.”
“I’m sorry, honey, but-”
“Goodbye, Sibyl.”
[he gets up and leaves; she just sits there, too stunned even to be hurt - yet]

[Newscaster on television, having just announced Dorian’s death]
"According to reports, Gray’s body was so disfigured that he had to be identified according to dental records. Investigators are baffled. Despite the gross mutilation, the wound which apparently ended the star’s life appears to have been self-inflicted. The coroner’s report found evidence of abuse for dozens of known legal and illegal drugs in addition to advanced stages of failure in all major organs."

Special Notes: What would Wilde say?

Purple

eggplants plums lilacs
[seven purple syllables]
wisteria grapes

Seven Purple Syllables
kinda pathetic
how I was a whole line short
defeats the purpose

Blurry Vision

A question by way of introduction: In Pride and Prejudice, what color are Mr. Darcy’s eyes? Brown, blue, green? Gray maybe? What color is his hair? Light or dark? If you find out, please let me know. Millions of women are certain he is one of the hottest men ever. The words “smoldering” and “Byronic” are often thrown around, but all Jane Austen ever wrote was that he was handsome and had serious manners. (I suppose it just goes to prove how much his character is adored.) Honestly, if it were up to me, I’d always leave descriptions at a minimum. If it takes more than six lines to describe something, I start to lose my patience, which is probably why writing screenplays has so much appeal for me. But since even my grudging six lines follow logic that can be applied to a willing sixty, here are some tips for handling descriptions:

X-Ray vision. Don’t forget that description covers thoughts and feelings as well as physical objects. It’s just as important to focus on the way you describe what’s going on inside a character as you would describe what’s outside of it.

Let’s not overanalyze. Sometimes lengthy description of thoughts or psychological motivation is unnecessary, because it’s either already implicit or more even effective if left unsaid.

Bare essentials. Or, what must you absolutely include as a description? Clearly, Mr. Darcy can get by on “handsome” alone, while his inner-workings receive in-depth coverage. Yet Tolkien’s descriptions of Middle-Earth and its inhabitants focus in great detail on the visual, while the psychology is kept at a minimum. Obviously, there isn’t a definite answer. I’d say you need at least a bit of both to get along, but the what, when, and how, are entirely up to you.

How much is enough? Not everything calls for the same degree of detail. Sometimes a single word or a well-turned phrase can do more than lengthy descriptive passages. But every case should get its own consideration. It’s not, happiness – 25 words, car accident – 96, sex – a full page. Again, it’s a matter of taste. You don’t have to be Henry James or Tolkien, but you don’t have to keep it at a screenplay minimum either.

How important is it? Logically, the more you describe whatever it is, the more significance is attached to it. Of course, you can dwell on a detail that is technically insignificant, but what for? You’re only misleading the readers, which can be great if you are trying to mislead them, but otherwise it could harm your work as a whole. A digression, as charming as it may be, is nonetheless a digression, so be certain it belongs there. Maybe it does, but then again maybe it doesn’t. At any rate, there is no shame in removing it.

Stopping the story cold. Technically, when you’re describing something, nothing is happening in the story itself. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. A description can be a good breather between more “active” segments, or increase suspense after a particularly exciting one. It can also help you bridge segments which aren’t logically connected. The important thing is the timing – don’t let descriptions interfere with momentum. Otherwise it can feel like watching a movie with someone and having them hit the pause button so they can explain something to you.

The effect of repetition. Repeating a small detail in several different places can be just as or even more effective than a long descriptive passage. Then again, repeating a detail can be irritating. (Fixation on eye and hair-color are the most common examples, I think.)

Speaking to the senses. Sound can set your teeth on edge or make your heart pound; smell can make your nose itch or your eyes water; touch can make you relax or tense up. So when you’re describing a certain sensation, think of the entire chain reaction it creates in the body. That doesn’t mean you have to include it, but it may lead you to other significant details.

Next time on Technical Saturday... Figurative Language.

The Haiku Kid

I rhyme for no man
fastest three lines from the East
bang! bang! bang! you've read

Special Western Double Feature

Stagecoach
all the archetypes
conveniently gathered
in this here wagon

High Noon
a man's gotta do
what a man's gotta do, right?
no men here but me

Tact or Hypocrisy?

smile to your face
grimace behind your back, but...
what if it's deserved?

Adapting Shelley

Previous Adaptation Victims: Jane Austen, Charlotte Bronte
The Concept: I haven’t done a western yet.
The Book: Frankenstein
The Author Whose Disdain I Deserve: Mary Shelley
Original Plot Summary: (The Incredibly Short Version, since I’m not going to use most of it anyway.) Robert Walton is a bold English explorer and scientist, headed for the North Pole, but his ship gets stuck in the ice of the Arctic Ocean. While he and the crew are waiting for it to thaw out, they spot a dogsled with a man on the verge of death. Walton helps revive the man, who, joy of joys, is also a brilliant scientist. While recovering, the man tells Walton his life story... Victor Frankenstein grew up in early 19th century Switzerland. Rich, handsome, smart, and surrounded by loved ones (never a good starting combination in a novel), he had an insatiable thirst to discover the mystery of life.

At college at Ingolstadt, having learned absolutely everything, he decided to make a human being out of other dead body parts and bring it to life. While this seemed like a good idea at the time, immediately after succeeding, Victor realized he’d been acting like an arrogant nitwit, and fled from his eight-foot, utterly disoriented monster in disgust. The monster, aside from super-strength, had a sensitive side (and an impressive intellect given that he learned French by eavesdropping), but failing to gain social acceptance (he was a walking corpse, after all) sent him on a killing spree. Naturally, he went after Victor’s family and friends. At this point, Victor added “coward” to his résumé being too ashamed to admit what he’d done, and let the bodies pile up. Eventually, he was left all alone and vowed vengeance. He chased the monster everywhere, but the monster was a faster runner. He chased him all the way to the arctic ice-flow, which brings us back to Walton. Having told his story to Walton, Victor dies. The monster, ever the timely eavesdropper, is now utterly devastated, and seeks death up north. He vanishes in the freezing fog of the Arctic. Walton, based on a rough interpretation of the entire saga, decides to go back home to England.

New Title: Doc Frankenstein and the Monster Kid
Genre: Western
New Plot Summary: Arizona, 1880s. The monster is Doc’s nephew. The brother had an affair with a Brazilian who was a combination of Spanish, Portuguese, African, and Native American descent. He’s not really a monster, of course, he’s just exotic-looking, but in the 1880s he might as well have a third eye, four arms, and a pair of horns on his forehead. He’s a sweet and smart fifteen-year-old kid, who won’t speak. After his father and mother die in a mysterious accident, and on the illusion that the Kid will be able to integrate into the more ethnically diverse frontier, Doc decides to take the Kid out west. Though they’re superficially accepted into the town of Gold Dust, the locals are clearly suspicious of the pair.

After about two years, exactly when a normal life seems to have been established, the Kid ends up unjustly accused of robbery and murder, partly because he’s a convenient scapegoat and partly because, Maggie, the prettiest girl in town, takes a shine to him - a fact which some townsfolk find troubling. Though he always prided himself on being a pacifist, in the scuffle to arrest the Kid, Doc tries to defend him, inadvertently killing a deputy. Refusing to leave Doc behind, the Kid shoots his way out of the situation. Unfortunately, before they manage to escape, Doc is shot down dead. The Kid gets away but vows to return and exact vengeance. At first he plans on a massive shootout, but, remembering Doc’s principles concerning nonviolence, decides to try to clear his name instead.

With the help of another deputy and friend, “Slim Bobby” Walton, he convinces the townspeople to hold a trial, agreeing to submit to the judge’s ruling, even if he’s found guilty. After a cunning game of cat and mouse, the Kid and Slim Bobby manage to prove that another cowboy, “Red” Devlin, is guilty. Furious, Red pulls his gun and it’s a standoff between the three of them. No one moves. Grinning maliciously, Red points the gun at Maggie. Faster than lightning, the Kid shoots Red in the arm, causing him to drop his gun. Before he can do any more harm, he’s subdued and arrested, with the promise he’ll be sent to prison for life. Having done what he had to do, the Kid decides to leave – for Brazil - in the hopes that he can have a better life there. He asks Maggie to come with him, and she joyfully accepts. The Kid also asks Slim Bobby to come with them, but he decides to stay, hoping to become sheriff some day. Slim Bobby watches the Kid and Maggie ride off into the sunset together, praying to God they make it to Rio de Geronimo and that they find peace there.

Cinematography Suggestions: Not black and white, but virtually monochromatic – in a kind of sepia tint like an old photograph.
Sample Scenes:
[Slim Bobby and Tom are at the station, waiting for the train to pull in]
“Now what kinda name is Frankenstein?”
“German, I expect.”
“German? What call we got for Germans out here? Ain’t there enough room for ‘em back in Germany?”
“He ain’t come from Germany. He come from Pennsylvania. It’s his daddy that’s from Germany.”
“That ain’t no better. He oughta stay in Pennsylvania and not be jumpin’ around.”
“I suppose you always been in Arizona, Tom.”
“That’s different. I ain’t never settled no place and I ain’t gonna. If a man wants to roam, then he oughta roam, and if he wants to settle, then he oughta stay put. Elseways it looks like he just can’t make up his mind and I don’t trust a man what can’t make up his mind.”
“I’m mighty thankful you’re a man of such sound thinkin’.”

[Slim Bobby and Doc]
“Don’t the kid ever say nothin’?”
“He can speak. He simply doesn’t.”
“Mighty unsociable.”
“... I’m not sure why. I think it has to do with his mother.”
“Bad upbringin’?”
“Not really. He simply stopped after his mother died. I suppose the trauma... Well, no need to go into that. I’m certain he’ll start speaking again when he’s ready.”

[Maggie is looking in a shop window. Some townsmen – Gabriel, Frank, and Jonah - stand by, ogling.]
Maggie: Excuse me, boys, but did you see my mother walk by?
Gabriel: Wellll now, Frank, can you recall who Maggie’s mama is?
Frank: I can’t recollect.
Gabriel: [mock-curiosity] Why not?
Frank: Because ever since I seen Miss Maggie here, I can’t remember no other woman’s face.
Jonah: It’s the God’s honest truth.
[Maggie sticks her tongue out at them in annoyance and turns to walk the other way as they make catcalls. She sees the Kid, who hasn’t spoken a word until now – and the whole town knows it.]
Maggie: Excuse me, sir, but have you by any chance seen my mother?
Kid: ... Your mother is Mrs. Mackenzie?
Maggie: [breathless] That’s right.
Kid: She’s over at the post office, ma’m.
Maggie: [beaming] Thank you, sir.
Kid: [like Cupid just shot an arrow into his heart] You’re welcome, ma’m.
[she walks past him in the direction of the post office]
Kid: Ma’m? [Maggie stops and turns back] May I have the pleasure of escorting you?
[Maggie nods, trying to contain her joy. The boys look on in astonishment.]
Jonah: Now why didn’t we think of that?
Frank: Oh shut your mouth.

[the Kid and Slim Bobby]
“Why do they call you Slim Bobby? You’re not very slim.”
“And you ain’t much by way of tactful, Kid.”
“I’m sorry. Doc keeps telling me I should mind my manners.”
“I used to be slim – downright skinny – when I was a cowpuncher. But there was this other fella they used to call Bobby, so I was Slim Bobby so they could avoid confusion.”
“Why do they call that man Devlin “Red”? He doesn’t look red to me.”
“[carefully] On account of all the injuns he says he killed.”
“... I suppose he’ll want to kill me then. I’m part [disdainfully] injun.”
“Don’t you worry none. This is a civilized town – mostly – he can’t just come up and kill you like it was some regular piece of business. He’d have the law to reckon with.”
“[ironic] Sure.”
“He’d have me to reckon with.”
“[brightens] Will you teach me how to shoot?”
“Are you crazy, Kid? Doc would scold me till my ears fell off. I swear when that man gets going, he’s worse than a woman at a temperance meeting.”

Special Notes: Despite my utterly butchering the original, Frankenstein is an interesting book, well-worth reading. (You just have to skim the lengthy descriptions of the Swiss Alps.)

Blue

oceans power suits
skies sad music sapphires
Elvis's suede shoes

Power Suit
well it can't be pink
although then business people
would be funnier

What kind of story is this anyway?

A genre is a set of rules which tell you what you can and cannot do with a story. On the one hand, this can be helpful: simplifying certain artistic decisions and narrowing the number of directions you can take. On the other hand, this can be annoying: decisions being made for you automatically is almost like the story writing itself.

Declaration of intent. You are not obligated to start writing with a specific genre in mind. Not only that, but if you realize the story is taking an entirely different direction than you first planned, it’s alright to keep going. You don’t have to bend the story to fit the genre. That having been said...

Do you know what you’re doing? Intentionally breaking with a genre’s conventions is not quite the same as doing it by accident. If it’s by accident, it may mean that your story simply fits into a different genre or can’t be categorized altogether. However, if it is intentional and you consciously say, “None of these silly conventions for me! I am defiant! Ha ha ha!” (or something like that), you need to be extra sure you understand what that entails. We take genres for granted, as standard categorization, but these categories didn’t develop overnight. Each has its history and dynamics. Westerns aren’t just cowboys and showdowns; Sci-fi isn’t just aliens and droids; Romantic Comedies aren’t just dating and pratfalls. When you underestimate or ignore how a genre is constructed and what it’s capable of, you automatically limit your perception, inevitably limiting your creativity.

Well-blended. Romantic-Drama, Comedy-Drama (or Dramedy, if you will, but I dislike the word, so I won’t), Musical-Tragedy, Action-Comedy, Sci-fi Western, Horror-Comedy, and the list goes on. The important thing is to avoid drastic shifts which will make the story seem incoherent. From Dusk Till Dawn begins as a thriller and turns into a horror movie; you can pinpoint the exact moment the movie shifts gears. It was like two different movies artificially connected by using the same characters. (I understand this was on purpose, and I know people who think that it was an especially brilliant aspect of the movie, but I doubt whether it would be accepted as blithely from a less-known filmmaker.) Radical shifts make it look like you have no idea what you’re writing.

Expanding your horizons. Generally speaking, you don’t have to dedicate your writing to single genre. Writing comedy doesn’t mean you can’t write drama; writing sci-fi doesn’t mean you can’t write romantic comedy. We all have our strengths and preferences, but don’t allow them to limit your creativity. If you want to try a new genre, try it, but study it first, hone your skills. Each genre is different and thus requires different treatment.

Next time on Technical Saturday... Descriptions (a.k.a. The Aspect of Writing I Shirk Most).

Green

grass pesto dollars
emeralds champagne bottles
frogs pistachios

Limes
didn't make the cut
for the green haiku back there
so many green things

Greensleeves. An English ballad written sometime during the 16th century. 1,560 videos on YouTube. 1,690,000 hits on Google - records, books, dried flowers, bed & breakfast, gardening, and more. I guess it's too late for the copyright.