So my mother is reading aloud from the local newspaper. Nothing new here. I get a rundown of obituaries and political letters daily. And sometimes, rarely, she reads something that actually may be of interest to me. This time it was about a local author signing a book somewhere at some time. A kid’s book; my mother thought it was fascinating because it’s about a trip to Cape May, NJ, long a favorite vacation spot for those living around here, and on the way they stop at Storybook Land, a nostalgic Mother Goose park that I love. Surprisingly, she was correct–I am interested. but not for the reason she thinks. I’m interested because it has become the practice of things called newspapers to print whenever a local ‘author’ is signing regardless if the writer is legitimately published or not. Self published authors are treated as equals to legit writers. Which irks the hell out of me. If all it takes is to write something, anything, print it out and contact the local library or B&N and they agree to an in-store signing, then, hell, let’s all do it. I’ve got two semi-written bad mysteries, and an even worse memoirist thing–if I pay someone to slap the stuff between two covers and bring a wheeled bag full of my literary gems, maybe I could be considered equal to Ernest Hemingway or the latest Booker Prize winner, whomever that may be.