Maryland is home to dozens of famous writers. Anne Tyler. Taylor Branch. John Barth. Lucille Clifton. James Michener. Stephen Dixon.

But perhaps the most famous writer of them all -- or infamous, depending on your view -- is our guv, William Donald Schaefer. He pumps out letters, notes and cards at an astounding rate, sometimes including fascinating illustrations and photographs. Give him a raspberry cheer at a rally today and you'll find a sour, dour letter in the mailbox tomorrow.

Sun Magazine wants its readers to take a shot at writing, Schaefer-style. It can be in the form of prose or poetry -- limerick or sonnet or whatever. Be as imaginative as you wish, but limit your submission to one page, typed and double-spaced. Include your name, address and daytime phone number. Send submissions to:


c/o Sun Magazine

501 N. Calvert St.

Baltimore, Md. 21278.

Submissions should be postmarked before 5 p.m. on Monday, Feb. 24. We'll publish the best of the lot in time for April Fool's Day.

To get you started, here are three valentines WDS might have sent to his "friends" this week.

To Lt. Gov. Melvin A. "Mickey" Steinberg:

A fella came to me and said:

"Your Worship, where's Mickey, that ninny?"

"Beats me," I said. "Why don't you ask

His buddies, Goofy and Minnie?

Or Donald Duck, maybe he would know,

Or Huey, Dewey and Louie.

This ain't the Magic Kingdom here,

The recession is making me screwy.

"But if it's Steinberg whom you seek,

That Judas -- I mean, FRIEND of mine,

I have the feeling you'll soon find him

In the unemployment line."

To a critical constituent:

You wrote a nasty letter,

It was printed in that rag.

You ripped me for my budget cuts,

That's all you do is nag.

Well, let me tell you something,

My melon-headed friend.

Your words were of no consequence,

Though our fences we can't mend.

So don't be shocked if there appears,

A sleek limo while you snore.

And an angry man (that's right, yours truly)

Banging on your door.

I'll demand you make me coffee,

Some good stuff, Taster's Choice.

Then I'll bend your ear for hours,

With my screechy, scratchy voice.

By the time I'm through with you, old pal,

You'll rue the day you thought,

To take crayon to paper and compose,

That garbage that you wrought.

To the electorate On the Eastern Shore

Dear Eastern Shore, I must confess,

I made a big boo-boo that's hard to redress.

When I finally retire to my trailer in O.C.

I'll build my own ----house for Shoremen's use free!

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