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Like most people, I barely understand most of the legalese involved in tax law.  In fact, until recently, I blindly believed that, as an Author, since I considered myself engaged in business, and everything I read told me I had to file a Schedule C as a sole proprietorship, when I had royalty income, I was engaged in a For-Profit business.  Well, imagine my surprise when the State of Arizona tried to tell me, just before Christmas, last year (Thanks alot Arizona Scrooge!), that because I couldn’t prove a profit (ie, more income than expenses) in three out of five years as an author, I was not, in fact, engaged in a For-Profit Business.

Apparently, being an Artist/Author is one of those areas for which you are supposed to be punished, in the good ol’ US of A (or, at least, in Arizona), thanks to one of a set of “tests” to determine whether or not a business meets the criteria for “For Profit.”  Unfortunately, one of those tests requires a showing of profit — something few authors or artists are familiar with, when it comes to their art.  And, equally apparent is the ridiculous notion that an author or artist should ONLY be engaged in writing/art in order to be classed as pursuing that For-Profit status without proof of said profit margin.  Apparently, we really ARE supposed to starve and end up in the poor-house/bankrupt in order to be taken seriously by the tax laws.

Well, if you’re an author/artist, or family or friends of such, you know how driven a profession this is.  We dedicate every spare moment we can squeeze out of our day for the creation of our creative minds.  And there’s not a one of us who doesn’t intend to someday be able to do nothing but write, paint, etc, etc  full-time.  But we’re also realistic enough to realize that with millions of books printed every day, and hundreds of thousands of artists out there, most of us aren’t likely to ever see our names on or far enough up the bestsellers list or on gallery listing, etc, to make that kind of money.  We hold down other jobs, to pay the bills, and our families suffer as much as we do, for our art.

It’s time to take a stand… So if you’re an artist or author, a friend or family of one, or a fan who wants to see your favorite author/artist/etc continue to create, we need your help.  Follow the link below, sign the petition, and let’s tell the US Congress that being an artist/author IS a business, and we deserve protection and fair regard, as such, under the tax laws.

http://www.ipetitions.com/petition/arts-irc-186-amendment/ (yes, I know the link has a mistake… I hit a “6″ instead of a “3″ when typing in the title, and can’t figure out how to change it).

*grins* That’s right, you heard me! It’s review time!

Two things are going to happen around here, starting this month -

1. Readers can send me reviews of my books, to be posted here on the blog. Every review earns you a chance to win a one-of-a-kind prize (I’ll be posting what that is, shortly).

2. Every week, I’ll pick one book by another author to review… That review will go up here, and on a newly-established sister blog set up specifically to do reviews. Authors, publishers, and anyone else wishing to suggest a book for review can do so by leaving a comment to this posting with the title and author’s name in it. I’ll take it from there, if I’m interested. :)

“Destiny’s Hand”  — Excerpt from Borealis II, “Liberty’s Flight”

copyright 2010

Bars offered anonymity. Anonymity offered security, and survival. That was, if they didn’t turn into all-out brawls and bring down the Enforcers, which this one looked like it might do at any moment. Samuel Hanniford cast a wary glance over the boisterous crowd as it surged around the bar, and tried not to look nervous. It never paid to look nervous in a negotiation.

Eyes on the prize, Hanniford. He returned his attention to the man seated across from him. Baltarians were a humanoid-standard race not noted for being exactly forthcoming, but they owed the Rebellion big time, and Sam’s job was to collect.

“Look, we need to know the TPP patrol route through this sector. We know your people monitor them.”

“For a price.” The tall, reed-thin man’s voice was whisper soft, and hissed with his people’s reptilian roots.

Sam thumped his tankard down on the laser-scarred metal table with a clang that would have drawn attention had everyone else’s eyes not been riveted on the bar — and the women dancing on top of it. “Damn it, Eloyd, we had a deal. We kept those bastards from wiping out every man, woman, and child on your planet. Hell, we even kept them from abducting your friggin’ queen. We already paid the price, and you damned well know it!”

The Baltarian leaned back in his seat, a serpentine smile curving his lips — damned smug bastard. “I cannot act on such a price without authorization.”

“So get it.” He wasn’t about to back down on this one. The Rebellion needed these patrol routes, and fast, to have any hope of making a dent in the armored hide of TPP. And Sam had a personal interest in stopping the TPP’s expansion.

“Give me some time.” Eloyd slithered to his feet. “I will be in touch.”

As the Baltarian slunk from the bar, Sam cursed to himself. This mission was turning out as rank as any. But he couldn’t go back. Not yet. The TPP were closing in on him, and until he had solid information, he couldn’t risk running the patrols to get home. And, after nearly six Sol-standard years, he wanted — needed — to go home.

With another oath, Sam rose and turned toward the door. What he really needed right now was some shuteye…

A woman’s scream rent the air, followed by the drunken howls of the men in the bar. He yanked back to look, just in time to see one of the women being carried across the upraised, pawing hands of the bar patrons as she fought and kicked like a screaming hellcat. And, before he could move, or even blink, she came flying at him, landing with a solid thud against his chest, a spitting, hissing she-cat whose claws were set to tear into his hide.

Pick up your copies of  Borealis and Borealis II Science Fiction anthologies at Desert Breeze Publishing today!

No Excuses

I’ve been remiss on my posts, lately.  Nope, I don’t have an excuse.  I’ve been a bad girl, and let myself get distracted by other things.  I really need to set myself a schedule (maybe even an alarm! lol)…

Hope everyone is having a great week, and I’m going to work doubly hard to make sure that I get this week’s Flash Friday post up, and get started on some other blog events that I’ve got in the works! :)

I’m beside myself with rage and disappointment, and I’m inches away from filing charges under the Americans with Disabilities Act, but I needed to get it off my chest, so I hope you don’t mind my ramble, here…

I have a disability.  Without getting into specifics, I have a medical condition that causes me a great deal of pain (some of it chronic, some of it more severe and passing) and illness.  However, between the attacks, I’m quite capable of working.  As such, I don’t have the desire to even attempt getting Social Security.  I figure, with reasonable accommodations for the fact that I have a problem that sometimes puts me in such severe pain that even breathing is a chore, I can be a capable and productive member of society.

However, I’ve recently discovered that my employer is anything BUT reasonable.  Though I have the ability to work from home (which logic would suggest means I can be a productive member of the team when I’m incapable of driving clear across town – a trip of 12 miles one way – to my job), my manager is unreasonable and demands that I come in to work, anyway, meaning that I’m forced to rely on a cane, barely moving and in such excruciating pain that all I want to do is either burst into tears or curl up and die.  And though I have lots of Paid Time Off available (including time I purchased from the company with the knowledge that I would likely need it because of my condition), I’ve essentially been forbidden to use ANY of it.

By nature, I try to go with the flow… I’m the kind of person who believes in compromise, and who will often give away more in a compromise than I ever ask.  I’ve asked very little in this – merely that my employer make a reasonable effort to understand and help me be able to continue to be the “valuable member of the team” that they give so much lip service to.  A little human kindness doesn’t cost anything, and the rewards they could reap from that would be beyond what they could imagine… However, if I end up dead or hospitalized from this, there will be severe repercussions I don’t think they quite understand the depth of, yet.

Truth is, I don’t honestly believe it’s the whole company.  But, by them not putting a stop to the actions of one man (my manager), they’re all legally culpable, and if I’m forced to go to extreme measures, I will have to implicate the whole company in my complaint, not just the one man.

Flash Friday Delayed

Sorry, everyone… I didn’t have a chance to post, this morning. I’ll post the Flash Friday piece tonight… Still don’t know what it’ll be… Guess it’ll be a surprise to all of us! lol

Happy Black Friday, everyone!  I know most of the US is out shopping today… But if you get a moment or two in front of your computer, here’s a little something for you to read that won’t cost you a cent!

Today’s Flash Friday comes from my upcoming release, TAMIA.  This first book to my previously published and extremely popular SF series, Underground, is due out from Under The Moon the end of December (in e-book).  Then, look for it coming to a comic/gaming store near you in print, starting in March of 2009!

As always, please leave comments after you’re done reading!

“Dangerous Mistakes”

copyright 1992 by Esther Mitchell

            The COMlink went silent, and Rick tensed.  The next few moments would make or break their entire mission.  Tamia had only one bullet in her sniper rifle – a highly lethal, illegal Kriomite bullet.  The kind of thing only a terrorist would use.  Just the cover their undercover operation needed.

            Time stretched, and Rick held his breath.  What was taking so long?  Then, suddenly, Tamia’s voice came to him, concerned.  “I can’t do it, Ace.  I can’t draw a bead on him.”

            God, was she cracking?

            “Try,” he murmured into his mouthpiece.  “Just try.”

            “I am trying.”  She sounded frustrated, rather than indecisive.  “The motherfucker’s playing hide’n'seek.  Every time I get my sights on him, he moves out of the kill box.”

            She wasn’t frozen.  She had a worse problem than that.  He swore under his breath.  “Blade, listen to me.  There should be a port in the duct, a little ways to your left.  Can you see it?”

            He heard her intake of breath.  “Yeah, I see it.”

            “Can you make it there?”

            A pause.  “Yeah, I think so.”

            “Good.  Listen carefully.  That port will give you access to the panels above the room.  There’s a gap there, in the center panel.  Go slowly, and don’t touch the glowing ones.  They’re pressure-sensitive glass.  You’ll be in his lap if you do.”

            “Right.”

            Rick held his breath for a long moment as he listened to the sounds of movement from the COMlink.  Then, Tamia’s voice again.  “Hey, not bad!  I’ve got a clear window here.”

            A hiss-pop sound relayed the discharge of her silenced weapon, followed by a sudden wail of an alarm.  Tamia’s voice came then.  “Shit!  What the Hell’s that?”

            Rick’s blood congealed.  The room was pressurized!  That was why there were no exterior openings.  Now, the whole damned building was getting ready to blow.  In that instant, he forgot protocol completely.  All that mattered was her life.

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