This is the first I’ve heard of Moral Rights as compared to a copyright.
Originally posted on M J Wright:
A reader asked the other week what ‘Moral Right’ meant. It’s an interesting area for writers.
Moral right differs from copyright. You own copyright on anything you create, by default. The copyright holder, alone, has the right to copy the work, but also has the power to grant a license to others to do so. When you sign a publishing contract, you – as copyright holder – are granting them a license to reproduce your material. Usually the copyright holder receives a royalty for each copy sold under that license. However, copyright is transactable – you can sell that copyright, along with the licenses, to somebody else. Then they get the royalties from the sales of the work.
That’s how the Beatles’ back catalogue ended up with Michael Jackson, for instance. It’s also how the film rights for The Hobbit ended up where they did, because apparently Tolkien sold that particular right in…
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I liked this and thought I would share with you.
Originally posted on Poetry on the run:
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Talking about memories may seem like an odd choice for a Faith Filled Friday, but they are important in shaping us, helping us make decisions and choices.
I was working on cleaning my office today. For some unknown reason, I ended up paying the bills on the dining room table and my office became a junk room. Filing became piles, bags, and boxes crammed into any available space. I’m not certain how many hours I’ve already put into this project. Over the past few months, I’ve shredded 3-4 bags of paper; filed and reorganized the filing cabinet and desk filing drawer; and filled up at least three 13-gallon-size trash bags.
It’s a tiny room cluttered with craft and sewing supplies besides a large metal desk, horizontal filing cabinet, sewing machine with its own desk, a tall set of drawers, and a huge wire storage shelf. The two extra dining room table leafs lean up against a tall narrow set of shelves. The most recent addition, a new shredder (again), is stuck in the last bit of wall space between the door and the table leafs.
The room has one closet with two shelves. When that became full, the junk just got piled up and around. I remember a junk room in my grandmother’s house. Every other room was a neat as a pin, but that junk room was piled floor to ceiling with boxes, bedding, and whatever. I don’t think my grandmother even knew what was in it!
Isn’t that the same thing we do with our lives? We clutter our lives with junk–anger, hard feelings, even hate. Then, one day, we decide it’s time to clean house! Every new year we make resolutions, often resolving not to make the same mistakes we did the previous year and the year before that one. Maybe you revise your life on your birthday, or an anniversary of a special occasion.
The formerly organized boxes on the shelves now were jumbled piles of stuff. Since I had not looked at anything in that closet for years, I decided to look into each box. My plan was to put ‘used frequently’ things towards the front with the rest in back.
I found some toys I had bought for my grandson, who never got them. I’ll give them to a missionary family at our church with small boys about the right age. No sense keeping them for my great-grands!
I discovered my painting supplies which I thought I had gotten rid of, and filter replacements for an air filter that we don’t know if we still have. It wasn’t in the hall closet like I thought, so who knows when, where, or if I’ll find it. The fondest find I made was a shoebox of old letters and cards.
About fifty were in a paper bag; they were all cards from my wedding shower. What a treat to see all the love from so many people. My husband and I celebrated our 45th wedding anniversary just a few days ago. It was fun to look at them and read names, remembering faces for most of them, and the sadness for the loss of so many.
One of the saddest was reading Dan & JC’s card. It was a sympathy card (remember this is for my wedding shower!) addressed it to Sir Jackson and Lady Connie. I had forgotten about their nicknames for us. My husband was the singer for their band, Thrio. They both passed away far too young.
The other few letters were fastened together with a gum band. I was even more surprised that I kept those since they were from an old boyfriend. Not many husbands would be tolerant of their wife keeping old love letters. I have thought of Dave occasionally over the years, wondering how he was doing.
We were only 14-15 years old when we dated and decided we were in love. We never did more than hold hands and the occasional hug. For one of my birthdays I told him I wanted a bag of walnuts. Not much of a gift, but I had this craving for walnuts and could never seem to get enough of them. He gave me a bag of walnuts and a stuffed dog which I named Enoch. I still have the dog.
I’ve always had fond memories of our time together and occasionally wondered how things would have turned out if I’d married him. His dad was great and brought them to church where is where Dave and I met. His mother had a super negative attitude and refused to go. My mother thought we were too young and insisted that I stop seeing him. We broke up over a number of reasons–partly because of our parents and our age; we were too young. My deal breaker had been when he fell for Rebecca’s charms. I never expected he would look twice at another girl.
Rebecca was the daughter of a church deacon; a pretty girl with a mean heart. Yeah, you find that kind in church. Her younger sister Sally was sweet, but who knew how she was going to turn out under her older sister’s tutelage.
Rebecca’s trick was to charm another girl’s beau. She never bothered with the guy until he hooked up with someone else. She simply went around the group. Charm one guy, after he broke up with his current girlfriend to date her; she dropped him like a hot potato and moved on. I was the last one for her to mess with.
In David’s letters, he apologized for hurting me and repeatedly said he loved me. Inside a birthday card he sent was a “Smile A Day”–a short humor bit, I believe, from the Pittsburgh Press newspaper. This one read: “A dumb girl is a dope; a dope is a drug; doctors give drugs to relieve pain. Therefore, a dumb girl is just what the doctor ordered.”
Dave wrote me again when he was in the Navy. By that time I was married and pregnant. I don’t remember if I wrote him back, but I’d like to think I did.
Several things in his letters reminded me of what a stalker might say. That gave me needed ideas for my books. In “Jordan’s Justice”, she has a stalker after her and I needed some emails from him. I couldn’t think of anything that sounded right. Dave’s letters will help with that problem. Then for another Dana book, I’ll have a woman come across old letters using the same phrasing as a current stalker leaves at the murder scene. I think she’ll be a friend of Dana’s and talks to her about the old letters she found, including a peculiar phrase [which has not been put on the news].
Make today a great memory by accepting Jesus Christ into your heart. Becoming your Savior is why Jesus died on the cross, but you have to let Him in.
Romans 3:23; 6:8-18 and John 3:16
Keep your memories sweet. Don’t harbor hateful memories; they make wrinkles.
This is a fun theme for wine
Originally posted on grapefriend:
At Gorman Winery in Woodinville, they have a bunch of guitars hanging on the wall. In fact, Black Sabbath was playing as we walked in and sampled some wines straight from the barrel. Chris wants to start a metal band and one of his new wines is called Hand of Doom, after the Sabbath song.
We didn’t sample that one but we did sample the Kiona Old Vine Cab Sauv 2012. The grapes come from the oldest vines on Red Mountain, and it’ll be part of their Albatross 2012 wine which you should definitely buy when it’s released since this was one of the best wines I tried during my whole visit – and it was still in the barrel!
Then we hit Des Voignes Cellars, where they have a bunch of wines with music-related…
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Originally posted on In So Many Words:
Weekly Writing Challenge: Poetry
The Writer’s Nightmare
There is none,
I sit here, void, and
It’s writer’s block that
Bogs me down.
The channel closed;
My smile a frown.
I patiently await a sign,
A notion that
Might just be mine,
That from the Ether
And soon to Earth
Through me be penned.
But somehow it
A shift in
Must be wrought
So ’til that time I
Wait and wait and
Wait and wait and wait,
Til once again Muse
Can be free
With words and thus
Thanks for visiting,
©Dorothy Chiotti, Aimwell CreativeWorks 2014
Such a conflicted potato. This is a new blog I’ve just started following because of this article. Hilarious!!
Originally posted on A Word Of Substance:
Photo by Luke Bultman
I was never as fancy as the onion. With golden rings of beauty, he would make all the girls cry. He had a taste of sophistication that I would never possess and although I once admired it, I now find myself settled.
When I was younger, I used to see myself in different ways. When I was exciting, I was a french fry. When I was boring, I was a pierogi. When I gave up, I was a potato chip. I had a zest for life that was wild and still unused.
It was in my younger days when I first seduced the Ketchup. We became inseparable. We went everywhere together. I told her my philosophy on the beatniks and existentialism and she taught me how to be sweet. Together we strolled in and out of the cafe’s on thousands of dates. It wasn’t until we…
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