The Internet is chock full
of the first type. All those complaints we're hearing about ``junk
mail'' on the Internet, especially on popular service providers
like America Online, are largely directed against fast-buck operators
attempting to lure us into a get-rich-quick scheme.
Many of these scams are built on a pyramid structure where the
early birds make money, but the suckers at the tail end come up
empty.
Other scams give the illusion of something-for-nothing that in
the end winds up costing quite a bit.
The best defense against this type of scam is keeping one's wallet
or purse closed. Slap your hand when you reach for the credit
card or checkbook to aid and abet the ``small donation'' appeals
of ``you-can-make-thousands'' barkers.
If a scam artist can e-mail 100,000 people and get just
one percent of them to part with five bucks, that hypemeister
is $5,000 richer. And be sure of this: e-mailing 100,000 people
on any given morning in today's techno-cyberspace is about as
easy as buttering toast.
Then there are scams that appeal to our vanity.Of course, intelligent
and savvy persons such as you and I never fall into such appeals,
do we?
See how easy it was for me
to win your agreement. All I had to do was drop a compliment,
or appeal to vanity.
This vanity appeal is rampant in the creative writing subculture.
Our world abounds with would-be poets and fiction writers. Every
person who has ever put pen or pencil to paper to record some
experience in free verse or lines that scan holds a dream of seeing
his or her artistic work in print.
These amateur poets are great targets of connivers who gladly
take their money in return for an overpriced collection of doggerel
and unsophisticated verse.
Jenijoy LaBelle is professor of literature at Caltech
and a critic of modern poetry. In order to read Prof. La Belle's
gripe about the scam artists I've described, one would have to
subscribe to the Chronicle, the newspaper of The Associated Writers
Program. I doubt many readers of this column have seen that publication,
so I'll summarize the professor's investigation.
I hope this will alert many sincere and devoted amateur poets
to hang on to their money and share their writings with trusted
friends, mentors and established and reputable publications.
Prof. LaBelle conducted a test stimulated by an ad for a poetry
contest. I've seen this ad in magazines such as The Atlantic Monthly.
``New Poetry Contest $48,000.00 in Prizes,'' the headline of the
ad screams.
The ad explains that ``The National Library of Poetry to award
250 total prizes to amateur poets in coming months.''
Suspicious, Prof. La Belle talked three friends into
submitting entries to one of The National Library's contests.
Her first friend submitted a patchwork poem comprised of random
sayings collected from Chinese fortune cookies. A second friend
copied a lyric poem of Emily Dickinson's and en--tered it in the
contest under her own name. The third friend wrote an original
piece of irrational doggerel about female breasts.
All three of Prof. LaBelle's friends were notified that they were
semi-finalists in the contest and that they should be ``genuinely
proud of this accomplishment'' because they were possessed of
``a rare talent.''
By now you see how the bait and the vanity have been hooked. The
next step, like one lifted from ``The Sting,'' is to get the ``poet''
to part with his or her money.
``We wish to publish your poem in a forthcoming anthology,'' Prof.
LaBelle's friends were informed. To have a copy of this book,
entitled, ``Sparkles in the Sand,'' the winners were urged to
send in $49.95, plus $4 for postage and handling.
For an additional $20, the
publishers would add a short biographical note about the poet.
This note was allegedly designed to bring the writers to the attention
of the media and the public.
Later, these ersatz poets were offered a chance to have
their poems mounted under Lucite on a walnut plaque, an offer
costing $38. Furthermore, they could have their poems recorded
on a cassette tape for $29.95.
The tape, according to The National Library of Poetry, would feature
a well-known narrator and baroque music accompaniment.
LaBelle' friends were offered a chance to join the International
Society of Poets, with a membership fee of $125. Each one was
notified he or she had been nominated as ``Poet of the Year,''
and could attend an induction ceremony in Washington, D.C., for
a convention fee of $495, plus travel and hotel
expenses.
``Whoever sends in some lame lines becomes a semi-finalist,''
LaBelle notes. From that point on, the scam is on.
The published anthologies, according to the literature
professor, are ``jumbles of trivial or downright bad verse.''
Vanity and gullibility, LaBelle concludes, allow this operation
to exploit would-be poets for its own greed and profit.
``Maybe nothing illegal is going on,'' LaBelle writes, ``but something
unethical as well as unpoetical certainly is.''
And our vanity, this little test shows, can be costly when plied
by a scam artist.
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