The old building is holding its own. We try to keep up with the rumble tumble of an historic landmark reaching back to 1800's. The spirits keep turning over and over/the ghost of W.C. rocks the upstairs/ Houdini performed here/he and his wife visit with us especially at dinnertime. This week has been a fight and a half. We survived the rejections of our novel and the disappearance of some of our favorite collectors but when I wrote on the New York Times blog that I never look for lumps on my body/rather stay in a worried state about my children's health and furthermore complimented the chick who did the whole nine yards and managed to document the phases so beautifully/ I got slammed into an erased state. Medical procedures are prevalent everywhere/I don't believe in discouraging them in anyone who goes that way/but to black me out for quoting from a poem , Beauty and Truth ,like a rainbow/halo/will be spread like spring, by Pablo,Ben and Alo, and speaking from my heart about my own body is wrong. Then I looked back at the blog a few hours after my piece was nixed and noticed this other entry paraphrasing the good in mine/what courage/what beauty/ but the author left himself out. Doesn't good writing hinge on the complete disclosure of the author. Don't we as writers has the responsibility to include a pure thread of humility.