The Rik Files

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skip to main | skip to sidebarThe Rik Files

Essential reading for all students of the force of nature currently operating as Rik Roots. Here you will read Rik as he happens to other people, objects and occasional lines of verse. Complementary ice cream is served to selected guests on alternate Thursdays. Visitors are reminded not to complain about the kitten photos. No spitting, and no refunds!

Tuesday, December 02, 2014 Why do you give your books away for free, Rik?Let's talk about gardens.

I live in Hackney. Not the richest part of the capital. Yet, when I walk around Hackney, I often come across stunning examples of gardening. Sometimes an immaculate display fronting a council flat; sometimes a perfectly planned cascade of shape and colour from a window ledge.

Why do people do this gardening stuff?

Maybe they do it to increase the value of their home? Or perhaps they intend to sell the parts of their garden - professional gardeners in the making?

No. This is Hackney.

I ask people, sometimes: why do you do it? Some say they get a huge amount of pleasure from the act of gardening. Others take great pride from the results of their toil: a day is often made complete when a passer-by takes the time to congratulate the gardener on their efforts.

The fact is, gardens are part of our local environment. Through the efforts of individuals - for whatever reason - they add to the pleasures of Hackney.

And not a single gardener expects to be paid for their efforts.

As go gardens, so go books.

Literature is a part of our social, emotional environment. But at first glance it seems to be a very different sort of environment. Here, in the world of the imagination, great panoramas are locked behind cash chains. Entrance to view these image-driving monuments is exclusive, gated.

True, we have our bookish parks and verges, where public domain works by the graceful dead can be browsed for free pleasure. But to encounter anything less than 70 years old transactions must be entered into. Creators - and those who enable those creators - must have their wage.

It is an unhealthy environment. Especially now that the libraries are emptying their bookshelves for more immediate pleasures - assuming they still stand, of course.

This is why I give my books away. For free. I am not a professional writer, nor am I a 'mere' hobbyist. I am a gardener of words, and I want to make our collective, social environment a better, richer place. I enjoy the labour of creating stories and poems. I take pride in the finished products - verse chapbooks, a short story collection. Even my one-and-a-half novels (I'll finish writing book two next year. Promise!)

And, yes, if a stranger throws me a compliment for all my hard work, I find myself smiling for the rest of the day.

Such payments are worth far more than 'mere' wages!Posted byRikat8:43 pm1 comment: Tuesday, July 16, 2013 Worlds within Worlds #10.3

Here is a rock I know. It stands proud above theshoreline, like a miniature version of Fol Huun's spire. Downwind lie thelittorals and pools of my old gang my real gang. The outcrop marked theupwind limit of our territory.I hadn't recognised the landmark when I first saw it becauseI was approaching it from the wrong direction. The hinterland of my gang'sdomain is made up of a jumble of hills and ravines a difficult terrain towalk, but the cliffs here are generally low and the beaches wide. We used to doa good trade with other gangs, and the women, in bladderwracks and kelps, andmany flatfishes and rays made this shore their homeland.But the shoreline upwind of ours was taboo: dangerouscreatures buried themselves in those sands, and the rocks of the hills were toosharp and loose for women to tend. Other whispers, too, kept us away from thearea: murmurs of curses and madnesses that walked in the mists and foams thatflocked to the shore, and the fogs that lingered around the stunted trees.Only when I drew close to the spire, and recognised it, didthe shock of realisation smack through my limbs.You must rest. Myguardian was waiting for me to arrive. It perches no more than two feet fromwhere I rest at the base of the spire. Thecrabs know you are here. They will forbear.My journey has taken so long, I have almost forgotten mypurpose.'The man is still in his healing pool?'I remember him. I donot know him. You will help him.'How many men people are left?''Ak!'It is no use asking a guardian to count things. Vuanna hadtold me this.I close my eyes and try to fish that memory into my mind.'Why do you say this thing? Guardians do not talk.''Not to you maybe, little Kal. Not yet. But when they dotalk to you, remember that they cannot count things.'I open my eyes and look downwind. The shoreline here is lowand flat, curving gently to form a wide bay. It was a good place for buildingfeast fires a place where my gang mates could gather away from the judgmentaleyes clustered in the long house. Women, too, could come here and join usaround the fires. Each of us would bring gifts to be shared among us all, andall would leave their weapons stacked here by the spire: it was a safe place forthose who knew to barter, and trade comforts.Your other nestlingsstill breathe. The short one makes much water from his eyes. The tall onecomforts him. Feeds him rabbit. This news shall help you rest.In my eyes I can see a vision of the fires dotted across thesands. It was our duty to light them, tend them, as we gathered the seaweedswashed up on the low humps of sand. The work was not popular; most were glad tosee us leave the long house for a few sleeps. Jiar would come often, and Leicwhen he was not competing to be our leader. Geit would often come here on hisown.There is no rabbithere.Vuanna was often on the beach, I remember. She kept a gladenot far from here, a couple of thousand paces landwards over the rough terrain.'Come,' I say to the gull. 'I know of a safer place than thisspot.''Ak! Ak! Ak-ak!''There might be rabbit there.'
Posted byRikat9:08 pmNo comments: Labels:campNaNo2013,ST2_Worlds_Within_Worlds,writingThings I hate about the current publishing sceneThe following is an off-the-cuff list of things I'm currently hating about the publishing scene.

#10 - Only authors with a 'professional' attitude deserve to be taken seriously.

Okay, let's get this one out of the way straight off the bat. I loathe the word 'professional', particularly as it pertains to writers. When people talk about 'professional', what they're actually talking about is 'successful'. And 'successful' is their shorthand for 'sells lots of books'.

Jordan sells lots of books. England football players sell lots of books. These people are not professional writers; they are professional celebrities, whose key drive is to succeed at modelling or football (or both), and to make lots of cash from being talked about all the time.

I have a professional attitude towards my writing. I write damn good poetry, and damn fine stories. I am professional in that I take seriously my duty of care to the reader - everything I publish is proofread and spellchecked and formatted (as far as I am able to) to make the reading experience enjoyable for them, not frustrating.

People who tell me that not caring about sales, or not prioritising marketing over reader enjoyability, makes me unprofessional - those people can fuck off.

#9 - The best ways to build a publishing platform is to write lots of books.

Because writing lots of books builds an author's platform, maximises their exposure to potential readers, and generates sales from repeat customers.

Which translates as: if you're not writing/publishing 2-3 books a year, you're not taking this writing thing seriously. You're not being professional.

Fuck off.

Writing a book to a standard that is acceptable to me takes time. Heck, writing a good poem - a decent limerick! - takes time. To not put every last ounce of effort into writing the best story or poem that I am physically and mentally capable of ... that is to cheat myself, and my readers. And if that takes a lot of time, then so be it.

I spent the best part of seven years - on and off - writing Snowdrop, my story in verse. It is a slim book - just over 2,000 lines of poetry. But every single line, every word, has been considered and drafted and reconsidered and redrafted to make it serve my vision for the poem, and the story.

Writing my first novel - The Gods in the Jungle - took three years from first word to pressing the Publish Button on lulu.com. Since publishing, I've revised it twice, and I'm thinking of revising it again. Why? Because while the book is damn good, I want it to be better.

The world in which The Gods in the Jungle is set took THIRTY YEARS to develop. That work will continue until my last breath.

I have no respect - none - for people, writers, who dash off substandard work just to push up their book tally and book sales. Readers deserve better.

#8 - All authors must have a professional-looking website.

Here's a news flash: I've spent more time than I care to tally checking out author websites. They are all shit.

Why? Because they are all generic, based on the same outdated 20th century idea about what an author website should be: a bio; a link to the books; a (usually empty) events list; links to reviews; possibly a brief passage from a book, or a couple of poems; a (rarely updated) blog. Oh, and a photo of the author looking 'writerly'.

Oh, I'll accept that some author websites look prettier than others. A few are even capable of nodding towards current design aesthetics: a parallax header, a flat design, a considered palette, half-decent typography, even (gasp) a responsive layout.

Beyond that, they are all bollocks. A complete waste of time.

I don't have an author's website. I have websites for my books. Because at the end of the day it's the books that matter, not me. I just wrote them. I have a website for my poetry, and a website for my first book. I am planning to develop a website for my short stories and for my second book as and when I get round to it. If you want to know about me, the author of the books, you'll find a link to my bio somewhere near the bottom of the navigation pane. Right where it is supposed to be.

#7 - All authors must have a proactive social media strategy - twitter, facebook, blogtours, etc - and must work on it every day.

I think it is well know that I loathe Twitter with a vengeance. It has its uses, but book promotion is not one of them. Facebook - that's where I go and chat with my friends. Sometimes my friends have to put up with author-spam from me. I can only thank them for their forbearance: they deserve better than that from me, but sometimes I get a bit excitable about my writing.

I think my first book has its own Facebook page. I can't remember. I must have deleted the link from my left bar ages back, and I can't be arsed to check in on it.

Blogs - they have their uses. But they're shit for promoting stuff. Look at the lame attempts on this blog to promote stuff - sales generated: zero.

Facebook is for friends and family. Blogs are for bloggy stuff. Twitter is for twats. There's no more to be said.

#6 - If the book doesn't have a good cover, it's not worth checking out.

Apparently, there's websites devoted to taking the piss out of poorly designed book covers. Good luck to them: they'll have a fucking field day with my book covers - and I hope they get a good chuckle out of them.

If you're choosing which book to read based on what its cover looks like - you're nuts. Good book covers are made by damn fine artists and designers. Those artists and designers have ZERO input into the book's content. They didn't make any decisions on the story to be told, or the ordering of the poems, or the techniques and voices and characters used to convey reading pleasure to the reader. Not. One. Single. Decision.

All a good book cover tells you is that the artist is good at their job. And that the author, or publisher, was willing to pay good money for that artwork. Nothing else.

If you want to know how good the book is, ask your friends or colleagues. Alternatively, use the 'Look Inside' or 'Preview' buttons on the bookseller website to check out the blurb and the first few pages. If you like what you read, buy the book; if not, move on.

Buying a book because you like the cover is like buying a car because you like its colour. Serously, grow up.

#5 - Ebooks are secondary to printed books.

This peeve is directed mainly at publishers - big and small - who decide to publish eBooks without bothering to proofread them before pressing the Big Red Publish Button.

If this is you, you are a fucking twat. Be aware that I have hacked the internets to find your home address and I will be on your doorstep sometime in the near future with a baseball bat and an unquenched anger.

I pay money for these books. Money that I cannot really afford. And you sell me shoddy, unfit-for-sale goods. You deserve to be hurt.

And authors, if your publisher is doing this to your books? Sue their fucking arses to penury! Your readers deserve better.

#4 - Self-published books are shit.

Most self-published books are shit. Most traditionally published books are shit. Books that are written too quickly, that are edited and revised too clumsily, that are barely proofread - these books are shit. This is how much most publishers, and too many self-published authors, care about their customers.

If you, as a reader, come across a shoddily produced book, report it to your local trading standards office. Ask for a replacement of equivalent value. Or demand your money back.

People get away with selling shit books because customers let them. Authors, and publishers, will only learn NOT to sell unfit goods if there are real, tangible repercussions to their actions.

I leave this ball in the reader's court.

#3 - It is right, and good, to exclude self-published books from competitions and awards.

Fuck off. Seriously, fuck off!

I have no time for this stupidity.

#2 - Only people who win awards or who land big contracts with traditional publishing houses have the right to a point of view.

Yeah, right. How's that one working out for you?

#1 - If your books are not selling, you are a failure, a waste of everybody's time, a LOSER.

Can you tell from the last couple of answers that I'm getting bored of this rant? That's because it has cut into too much of my writing time. So I'm shit at marketing, and brown-nosing, and log-rolling. My websites are quirky. My cover designs are personal rather than professional. My books - all of them - are slow-cooked masterpieces rather than production-line tv dinners.

If that makes me a LOSER, I embrace it. I celebrate it! Because at the end of the day, only the reader matters - and I'd rather have ten utterly satisfied readers than ten million indifferent ones.

I can deal with it. Can you?Posted byRikat1:41 pm4 comments: Labels:publishing,rant Monday, July 15, 2013 Worlds within Worlds #10.2

'How did you stop your brother's shouts?'Four rabbits lie to one side of us in a bloody pile; for myown safety, I've told Maak-em-ay-are-see to stay on the other side of thehearth stone. He carries a stunned look in his face, as if it was I who hadpunched him.He shrugs at my question. 'He'll start again when he seesme.''We should have hunted him.''... kill him?''Release him back to the healing pool.'The man shakes his head: 'I can't ... this isn't the wayit's supposed to be!'I have no time for worries. I reach into my net and pull outthe fire pot all women kept a stash of these magic contraptions hidden intheir glades, sealed from dampness and rain by clay and beeswax. I have no ideawhy they work, just how: drag the stick across the rough clay and a flameerupts from it. This fire box is almost done only two sticks remain. It is a moment's work to set a flame within the tinder stackedon the hearth stone. 'You cannot let this fire die,' I tell the man. 'I don'tknow when I shall return.''Why do you have to go?''There are things I have to do. You've watched me hunt andgather you've near captured me in your bark work. You probably won't starve.''What things?'I sigh. I have no desire to share the guardian's news with him. 'You have what you want. Deal with it.''I don't want Sam like ... like this!''Then pull a knife across his throat. Or smother his facewith your hand. Or take a rock to his skull. Or drag him to the cliffs and drophim over. Burn him. Give him fruit laden with fretworms. Crush dagger berriesbetween his teeth. Go look for a spear snail and set it on his skin. Or ... orjust wait for the crabs to tire of his screams and let them snip him to shreds!Once he returns, his senses will be secure in his head again, and doubt willhave been banished by experience.'I don't realise how angry I am until I see it set in theshock of his eyes. I turn away to feed twigs to the new fire. 'There are thingsI need to do.'I take the man's silence as consent. Already I've slippedthe fire pot back into the net tied around my waist.
Posted byRikat9:25 pmNo comments: Labels:campNaNo2013,ST2_Worlds_Within_Worlds,writingWorlds within Worlds #10.110. New Things

Your nestlings do notlike each other.I feel no need to reply to this comment. I am too busy tryingto remember how to skin and dress rabbits.Across the bay, Maak-em-ay-are-see has tied brother Sam toone of the struts that hoists the long house into the sky. Sam sits, bound andscreaming, not far from where he had stacked my bones. My gang mate has notasked for my help in this, and I had not offered it; I'm keeping my words tomyself.The shorter one makesnoises that interest the crabs.The crabs can havethem both!The guardian perches on the lookout rock. It has been herefor a while, preening feathers and watching my work. For once, it is moretalkative than me.The more that I stare at the bloody carcass in my hands, themore I forget what I am supposed to do with it. Making the snares had been easyby comparison: I had let my hands do my thinking for me. They had the knowledgeof knots and shapes that created and tethered the noose while I hadconcentrated my ears and nose on sensing any approaching danger.Not that I can smell now. It took a while for the blood tostop dripping from its broken shape, after Maak-em-ay-are-see had flattened itwith his fist and dragged Sam's semi-conscious body through the water back tothe long house.The crabs thank youfor your bones. What is this new thing in your claws? I do not know it.I look up at the gull, surprised. Freed from my supervisionmy hands cut across the rabbit's belly, feel their way between skin and muscle,and rip the fur halves free in a single, even pull.Guardians knoweverything!'Ak! Ak! Ak-ak-ak!'I have no idea what the gull's cry means, but the look inits eye is one of laughter. My hands take my surprise as an opportunity todecapitate the head and paws from my prey and slice into its belly, spillingentrails over my foot.You have to knoweverything!What is this new thingin your claws?I resort to using my Outer Voice, forgetting mydetermination to keep my tongue still.'They're rabbits. You know this!'I do not know ofrabbits, nor do I remember them. I shall not help them.'You don't need to help them.' I take a slime of guts in my fingersand throw them towards the bird. 'You can eat them.'The guardian stretches its wings wide, then folds them againwhen the offal falls short of spattering its grey-white plumage. The look itoffers me now is hard, questioning. It cocks its head as if weighing options. Withinthree heartbeats it hops from its perch onto the pebbles and angles its beakdeep into the entrails.Across the bay, my gang mate is trying to tempt his brotherwith water. Sam sees the tattoos across the bag and screams louder: 'Get awayfrom me, you fucking zombie!'This offering is hot.She does not permit me to feast on hot flesh.'Gulls eat everything. I remember this.'I call to her; shedoes not answer.'You mean the other guardian? The one that was with you whenyou reminded me of my brother Luntas?'That one no: shealso is new. I do not understand her. It is the Great Albatross who does notanswer me.The guardian speaks of Fol Huun. I know this. The womenoften called Her "the albatross who stretches her wings between worlds,"though never within the range of a man's ears. I have met few men who are braveenough to spy on a clan gathering, where women meet to sing and cast theirspells. Luntas was one such man; Geyt another. And me.Do you talk to my gangmates the fledglings, I mean?The guardian makes a decision, grasps at a loop of intestineand flaps back to its rock, trailing the bloody string behind it.I do not rememberthem. I shall not help them.'You remember me.'I remember you, Kal ofTintuun. You I shall help.'What is a "tin-toon"?'The gull is huge; its beak is the length of my forearm and,by the way it rips so easily through the rabbit's guts, far sharper than mypoor glass knife.This is better thansnail, or fish. The heat feels good in my gizzard. You must go and save yourfledgling from the crabs.'The crabs can have them! They are not my gang mates.'The guardian is staring out to sea. 'Ak! Ak! Ak-ak-ak!' Frombeyond the bay's entrance, something answers.There is anothernestling, still in its egg. Downwind, beyond the cliff. The crabs growimpatient with it. Leave the rabbit here.
Posted byRikat3:50 pmNo comments: Labels:campNaNo2013,ST2_Worlds_Within_Worlds,writing Saturday, July 13, 2013 Worlds within Worlds #9.6

By mutual agreement, we have both trekked around the bay tothe place of rabbits so I can set traps. It will be good to taste a roast ofmeat after our meagre diet of moss and fruits.In the absence of men, the rabbits have grown both in sizeand in numbers. They haven't, however, lost their senses of smell and hearingso we were unable to catch them unawares.I've made Maak-em-ay-are-see a good spear with a sharp stonetip, far better than the weapon he used to help separate his Vital Breath fromhis flesh when he and Sam were camped on their beach. He told me he has someskill with javelins whatever theymay be so I've set him to be lookout, stood atop a rock that pushes into thewater.My traps are simple nooses looped around the rabbit holesand staked securely at one side. They will not be pleasant for the rabbits, butwill hopefully hold them long enough for me to reach and dispatch them with myknife. There are so many of them here that it is difficult to choose the bestholes to snare; their tracks are a mass of confusion.Brother Sam, too, has left a number of tracks around thelong house. Few of them seem to lead round to this side of the bay. Mostly, heseems to stick to the shoreline nearest the long house, with some longerexpeditions to the head of the bay and the processional avenue beyond it. I hadspotted the rotted remains of a brelfruit bush near to his tracks when we firstapproached the long house. Brother Luntas would not have had good words tooffer if he had seen the mess Sam had made when he tried to harvest them.Sam has made many messes. I was alone when I found theremains of my bones, stacked in a pile beyond the reach of the water, my skullbetween my feet. I felt nothing when I threw them into the bay. I could haveleft them, I suppose: the bone worms had already hollowed the longer shafts inpreparation for their final work. But bones would lead to questions; better tolet the crabs finish the job.I am setting my last trap when I hear branches crack. Iglance towards Maak-em-ay-are-see, and see a gaunt shape of mad intent rushingtowards him.My sentry is more interested in watching me!'Landwards!'But it is not my shout that makes him turn.'You're dead! Dead! Get away from me!'Sam throws something a rock at his brother ... whodoesn't even bother to duck!'Use the spear! Throw the fucking spear!'I watch as he lets the spear clatter out of his hands.'Sam! It's me, Sam. Marc!'Sam is not interested in listening. He barely broke stepwhen he threw the rock. With nothing left in his hands, he chooses to throwhimself at his brother. I watch them both topple as I sprint across pebbles.They splash together into the water, Sam's arms wrappedaround Marc's hips. And Sam is the first to surface. He may be famished, buthis rage makes him quick. As soon as he has disentangled his arms, he pushes themstraight down into the water. He screams as loud as the flayman when I took myknife to its neck!He doesn't notice my approach. When I reach the sentry rockI drop my knife and net and dive in, trusting that the water will be deepenough to receive my body. It is: I remembered well. I angle my body into a curve evenas I descend: my run has taken me past the men and I must turn quickly.In two strokes I pull alongside the men fighting on thesubmerged bank of pebbles. Without thought my hand scrabbles for a rock thatfits smoothly in its grip.Without hesitation I smash my fist into the back of Sam'shead and thrust him to one side as he starts his collapse. Maak-em-ay-are-see resurfacesin a fit of coughs; I offer him my arms as he struggles to find his feet.His fist is swift into my face.
Posted byRikat10:32 pmNo comments: Labels:campNaNo2013,ST2_Worlds_Within_Worlds,writing Older PostsHomeSubscribe to:Posts (Atom)All about RikRikLondon, United KingdomView my complete profileYou want a bit of me?



The Gods in the Jungle - a Kalieda novel

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Set on a planet far from Earth, The Gods in the Jungle is an investigation of the drives and desires, fears and beliefs of the various peoples and classes of a crumbling society, through the eyes of those immediately involved in events which threaten to bring an Empire to its knees.

The RikVerse

The RikVerse website is a living book of poems, regularly revised and updated with new work as the muse I ride sees fit





22 Facets of my Father

A set of poems loosely inspired by the Major Arcana tarot cards, investigating the relationship between a father and a son.

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Play Time

These 22 poems are some of my earlier work, from the poems that survived the post-puberty bonfire up to around the turn of the century.

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From Each Skull, A Story

None of the people described in these poems are real they've all emerged fully formed from my imagination. Feel free to draw whatever conclusions you like from this admission.

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Poems to Quote to your Lover

In this collection, I am proud to present you with some love. These poems deal with loves and relationships in all their wonderful and woeful manifestations.

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The RikVerse: volume 1

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A. with The New York Times this week that touched on faith, health and his slim and...8 years agoTony Williams's Poetry BlogThe Palm Beach Effect - You can now buy *The Palm Beach Effect: Reflections on Michael Hofmann* (edited by André Naffis-Sahely and Julian Stannard) from the CB Editions website. T...8 years agoSailor's DiaryProfit and the Child - The pleasure of sharing something with the dear ones is always been a relishing experience to me. Thats why I decided to share a special experience of my ...9 years agoScoplawThe Original Sins of Originalism - Stanley Fish writes in the Times about, well, nothing much. http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/02/06/politics-in-the-academy-the-same-old-song/ Some...9 years agoDIY Poetry Publishing CooperativeThe DIY Demos are back - I moved servers about a month ago but neglected to refresh the location info for the photos in the DIY chapbook demos. I didn't realize people were still...10 years agoPoets Who BlogLeave Links to Holiday Themed Poetry - Leave a link to a poem about the holiday season. Everyone else go check out the poems and comment.11 years agoWorld Class Poetry Blog - Blog of a Bookslut - Poetry Blog of 32 Poems Magazine - Mshairi - BloggingPoet.com - ambient witness - poetaday.com - Very Like A Whale - White Chicken Blog of Poetry and Poetics - Show 25Show AllLabelspoem(273)napowrimo(132)publishing(99)writing(94)rik(93)poetry(84)promotion(72)general(64)website(61)Gods_in_Jungle(55)ST2_Worlds_Within_Worlds(44)conworld(33)Snowdrop(31)PAC09(27)Poetry Advent Calendar(27)blog(26)nanowrimo(26)campNaNo2013(21)conlang(21)video(19)photos(17)rbs(14)Vreski_wards(13)story(13)22_Facets_video(11)SpinTrap(11)submissions(8)eBooks(6)newsgroups(6)work(6)animation(4)blender(4)jobsearch(4)reading(3)revisions(3)translation(3)Hugo(1)boardgame(1)coding(1)drawing(1)film(1)freelance(1)javascript(1)rant(1)scrawl(1)Blog Archive 2014(1) December(1)Why do you give your books away for free, Rik? 2013(47) July(46) June(1) 2012(13) September(1) April(9) March(1) February(2) 2011(46) November(1) October(6) September(1) August(1) July(1) June(3) May(1) April(24) February(2) January(6) 2010(79) December(7) November(2) October(4) September(3) August(8) June(2) May(6) April(30) March(12) February(3) January(2) 2009(169) December(31) November(13) October(10) September(8) August(12) July(13) June(12) May(7) April(35) March(5) February(9) January(14) 2008(86) December(8) November(1) October(6) September(5) August(2) July(7) June(3) May(5) April(34) March(6) February(8) January(1) 2007(119) December(14) November(18) October(3) September(8) August(25) July(3) June(5) May(1) April(30) March(3) February(6) January(3) 2006(126) December(7) November(8) October(4) September(13) August(8) July(7) June(8) May(5) April(10) March(20) February(20) January(16) 2005(72) December(22) November(16) October(7) September(6) August(8) July(8) June(2) May(1) January(2) 2004(1) December(1)Other stuff

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