I noticed an article in the Sunday Seattle Times (in the section with the crossword, which is what I was really interested in) about this author, Shelley Jackson, that fancies herself an artist. What she's done is write a short story, 2,095 words to be exact, and she's asked for volunteers to each have one word of the story tattooed on their bodies. She has some requirements about how it's to be done, restrictions on location, font, etc. And no one gets to choose their word, you have to take what you're assigned. And the biggest gimmick of all? This is how she's "publishing" it. And only the people who volunteer will get to know the entire story.
Frankly, this might be intriguing if one could be sure that the story would be any good. If it was something classic and enduring. But it might end up being some trite, hackneyed piece of trash that one has irretrievably committed oneself to being a part of. No thanks. And just because she was creative with her "publisher", doesn't make this endeavour any more "artistic" or have any impact on the quality of her writing. It may be great, it may be awful, but it has nothing to do with the tattoos.
(note: I had to edit the title of this post because Blogger apparently couldn't handle the "does not equal" sign.)