Gentle Folks: Although I do not have any particular book to recommend to the list, I have been playing with the idea of editing a literary book on beekeeping: essays, poems, thoughts, anecdotes, fiascos, humors, non-fiction narratives, or whatever, collected in a book form. A moment, captured in our beekeeping activities, that seems to arrest the what-essence of life, offering us that sense of discovery which expands from beekeeping into life, that rare Aha-moment arrested in writing—-that is what I want. Nothing more, nothing less. For publishing, I will have to ask each contributor to defray part of the publication expense *upon acceptance.* The only criteria would be sincerity and intensity of the given work: no metrical- or rhyme-box stuffing. Length does not matter. I am NOT concerned with grammar as far as the content is genuine and sincere, for I prefer the humility in stutter to the glitz in any political speech: when one is sincere, one can stutter, one must, being truthful to oneself. [That's how we confessed our true love] Start sending me three to five samples to my email address. Here is a sample: SISTERHOOD Our abode is modest—small wooden boxes painted cloister-white, scattered upon a sunny hill. There we sustain our meager existence on eager diet of water, honey, and pollen we gather in the wild. We are all filial piety. We cluster around our Mother Superior, who bore us into our existence. We will defend her, our abode, and our way of worship to death. Kamikaze runs in our veins, and we each carry a dagger. Daily we divide our simple chores: baby-sitters, maintenance crews, guards, and hunter-gatherers. Practicing Puritan work-ethic, we trod miles to collect nectar, our bread and butter. Unsung environmentalists, we live in perfect harmony. We seldom talk, never balk, for we know talk is cheap. We communicate in silence and a few body-languages. We respect tranquility—-our modus operandi. We do have a few men around for emergency. Like most men, they wax their one-track minded thoughts day in day out. Large mouths, they consume three times as much, and when they are around, they call too much attention to themselves. They are expendable. At the first sign of frost, we abandon them, for they are big and fat and lazy and stupid. We rise to work at the first hint of dawn; we toil the natural soil till Vespers, the sixth of the seven canonical hours. Throughout our hard lives none of us whine—-we are content. When our body can no longer house our soul, we know the time has come. Quietly we leave our humble abode behind to meet the face of our maker, alone. Yoon http://intranet.stgregorys.edu/people/faculty/yskim/ :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: -- Visit www.honeybeeworld.com/BEE-L for rules, FAQ and other info --- ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::