Book Chat 1

We're discussing Perfect Circle, by Sean Stewart. If you haven't read it, you might want to get a copy and read it; the transcript of the discussion will be available when you finish.

To join or observe the discussion, click on the "comments" link below. We begin about 6PM eastern.

Face-Lift 508

Guess the Plot

Tony's Horrible Journey Throughout the Universe

1. First, the spaceship only served Lox and Bagels and they weren't even the good bagels, they were the cheap kind. Then they lost his luggage in a solar flare. Now, they can't even find his planet?

2. Tony's pizza business has gone sour since Vito's moved in down the street. Now his quest to find the best pizza recipe in the universe takes him on a perilous journey across seven galaxies and through Hell itself.

3. From the polyp clusters of Mucodromeda to the fecal swamps of Slakkbauul, android Tony is pursued through the cosmos by badly programmed cyber-harpies hungry for the 43.7 grams of pure Cerebretanium at the molecular core of his carapace.

4. Tony, a sub-microscopic ion, recounts in crisp and snappy monologue his birth at the center of a flaming plasma-jet in deep space, and his subsequent journeys being squeezed through the glowing torturous hell-like plasma threads that lace the universe together until he arrives at Earth's gentle sun and is spat toward the planet.

5. A decade of study with Tibetan monks hasn't prepared Tony Declan for the reality of enlightment. Turns out, the universe literally IS God...and life's journey is through His alimentary tract.

6. When Tony makes a wish--to get out of town--he has no idea his wish will be granted. And he definitely has no idea how far out of town he's about to end up. Or for how long. Or that he'll endure so much human torment he'll wish he was never born.


Original Version

Dear Agent or Publisher,

"Tony's Horrible Journey Throughout the Universe" is a middle-grade novel complete at 30,000 words.

Poor Tony is unhappy with life. Four older sisters and bossy, no-good parents....UGH! So when he makes a wish to get outta town, Wink-the-mouse happily obliges with his magical powers. Trouble is, Wink is a bad, bad seed, and he loves getting into trouble. Every time Tony makes a wish, Wink adds his own personal touch. [For instance, when Tony wishes his sisters and parents were dead, Wink kills them, which is good, but then he frames Tony for mass murder, which is typical Wink.]

Tony doesn't realize the depths of Wink's mischeviousness (sp.) until it's almost too late. When they both find themselves in the midst of the most horrible adventure of their lives, they will have to work together to arrive home safely. Will they make it? Will Mother Mouse put Wink in the time-out of his life for tormenting a human kid? [Spoiler alert.] Probably yes to both.

Time-outs have never worked for Wink, and there are lots of kids wishing they could start over with nicer parents, better brothers and sisters, and definitely cooler toys. This could be a series that goes on forever. Or at least until Wink grows up. [This makes it sound like the series will be about Wink but not Tony. If that's not the case, I'd replace "and there are lots of kids wishing they could start over with nicer parents, better brothers and sisters, and definitely cooler toys" with "so". If it is the case, I think it's Wink and not Tony who deserves his name in the title.]

Thank you for considering my work.


Notes

There isn't enough about what happens. What's "no good" about Tony's parents? How about an example of Wink's "personal touch" when granting a wish? What's the "most horrible adventure of their lives" that they find themselves in the midst of? What's this about "throughout the universe"? For all we can tell they don't get past the county line.

In short, more specifics.

Cartoon 38

Caption: Anonymous

Your caption on the next cartoon! Link in sidebar.

Writing Exercise Results

...are below. The task was to write a scene reminiscent of the movie Misery, in which someone (possibly you) has discovered Evil Editor unconscious in a car wreck and dragged him to their home.

Writing Exercise Result 11 (last one)

He blinked and raised his head before dropping it back to the bed with a groan.

I sipped my rioja and gave him another few minutes to come to before standing and placing myself in his field of view.

"Hello there, EE."

Confusion washed over his face. He tried to sit up again and finally noticed the ropes. He stared at me for a moment and then spoke. "You tied me up?" A master of the obvious.

His voice was deeper than I expected. Huskier. I would not have realised who he was, except for the boxes of books in the back. Who else would drive around with 752 copies of Novel Deviations Volume 3 in his car?

"Did you think I wouldn't notice? Every GTP, ignored. Continuations, buried down in the comments. You skipped over every submission I made, EE, and you expected me to bend over and take it. Well, now you are going to have to face the music." My eyes were steely.

"Are you going to hurt me?"

"Hurt you? I'm going to make you regret you were ever born. You will be screaming for mercy by the time I'm done with you. Begging me to stop."

"Oh God," he whispered. "You aren't going to read me your manuscript, are you?"

"You should be so lucky, " I told him as I settled down in the comfy chair and turned on my laptop. "No. I'm going to read you a year's worth of blog posts." I paused. "Not my blog."

He watched me warily.

I waited a moment and then pulled the laptop towards me. "Let's start. What's playing on on the iPod right now?"

His screams echo'd off of the walls but there was no one to save him. Revenge was mine.

--Sylvia

Writing Exercise Result 10

“Ah, you wakin’ up. That’s good.”

“Where? Where am I?” mumbled Evil Editor as he floated into consciousness.

“Why, this here’s Delta Dawn’s. Try a little lemonade, you must be parched.”

Evil cast an eye on his surroundings. The windows, shuttered against the brilliant rays of sunset and the drone of an air-conditioner nearby, still radiated the air’s humidity on invisible waves. The last thing he remembered was watching a hockey game in Duluth. “So, are you Delta?”

“Ah am a minion, a mistress, a priestess, a winged-creature of the skies, an earth-bound serpent and I’m also a writer.” she said, stroking a strange, semi-feline creature. “

Evil felt his hands go clammy and the adhesive on his fake muttonchops loosen. He’d occasionally worried that one day some cyber-nut from his blog site would stalk him, but he’d never really believed that it would happen. “So, you’re a writer. Do you have a blog?” He lifted up from the cushioned divan and reached for the coolness of the wet glass of lemonade while his still groggy mind finally supplied a name for the strange creature in the woman’s lap: it was a meerkat.

“Ah do have a little website, but mostly with you I’ve been anonymous.” The mysterious woman was enrobed in silken layers of fabric. She let the meerkat slide onto the floor.

“So why am I here? Did your query have way too many words in blue?” He noticed that there were now many meerkats in the room, and they were restless.

“Why yes, as a matter of fact it did, but that’s not why I brought you to the delta. I’m just a writer in my spare time. Dahling, you here because of these meerkats.”

Evil was truly terrified and worried for his life. “Do, do the meerkats have a blog?” he stuttered.

“Nah, dey just be zombies who want to eat your brains.” she chortled from the veranda as she locked the doors and drifted into the dimness of early evening.

--Anon

Writing Exercise Result 9

"Where am I?"

"Ah, you're awake. Finally."

"Who are you? Where are my glasses? I can't see--"

"Calm down. You were in a wreck. I saved you."

"Why am I tied down?"

"It's for your own protection."

"Whattaya mean? Untie me! What's going on--"

"Easy. Didn't you ever see the movie Misery?

"Good God, you're Kathy Bates?"

"Well, I look more like Jamie Lee Curtis, but--"

"I gotta have those glasses."

'You'll get them when we're finished."

"I get it. We're reenacting the movie."

"Exactly."

"You want your lame continuations in Novel Deviations 4? You want me to edit your crappy novel? You--"

"Nothing like that. I'm not even a writer."

"Then what? You said we were reenact--"

"We are. It's the scene where I crush your ankles with a sledgehammer. Now bite down on this towel. It'll reduce the screaming."

--EE

Writing Exercise Result 8

Well, it was like this. I dragged, I mean, I helped him to my writing cabin while he was still sorta, you know, out of it, and I really was awfully helpful, holding on to him and feeling of him there in the flesh with me, through his soft blue shirt, the way I’d imagined so many nights before, as he made his way up the one step onto the smooth-planked porch, and then on inside.

And I gave him some cool, cool water and I said he could rest up there with me until help arrived. He smiled a grateful smile with that beautiful bowed lower lip of his all hurt and needing to be loved on. Then he nestled down in my big bed and passed on out again.

I fed him chocolate-covered cherries for sustenance when he came up to find some consciousness; they kept him sugar-highed and happy, and a little sleepy, too, which was, after all, what I wanted, until I was ready for him to wake up the rest of the way.

After he’d woken up enough to notice the soft cords of golden satin wrapped right around his wrists, I leaned over and I kissed his ear, and I licked on it a little bit, too, because men do like that when it tingles like a tickle, when they fight the gorgeous torture of getting those nerve endings all taut and tense, and the tension traveling downward to the core, as it were, of the male parts that matter. “Don’t be messin’ with a Southern woman, Sparky. ‘Cause that’ll never do,” I said.

“Wha…What do you mean,” my baby said, tensing hard in all the right places.

“I’m sayin’ it’s time you reconsidered all those well-formed words I’ve sent your way.”

“When is help arriving?” he moaned.

“Oh,” I moaned right back at him, “it’ll be coming soon.”

--Robin

Writing Exercise Result 7

Beavis and Butthead, now retired, hear a car wreck against the dead tree outside their trailer.

Beavis: "This guy looks like a civil war reenactor with those muttonchops."
Butthead: "His driver's license says EE The Magnificent, says his profession's 'scourge'."
Beavis: "He's dat editor that rejects everything I write."
Butthead: "Really, so he's the one, heh-heh?"
Beavis: "Yup heh-heh, rejected my romance 'Little Annie Fanny's Ascension to Astoria'."
Butthead: "How about 'Butt Babe's Bombastic Booty Conquers Buffalo'?"
Beavis: "And my history-laden book 'Lothario Lenin's Luscious Lola Does the Ass-Kissers of the KGB'."
Butthead: "Now that deserved a Pulitzer."
Beavis: "You said Puller... Remember my poem 'Softly goes the anus.'"
Butthead: "Heh-heh."
Beavis: "Rejected my song 'Your butt might smell but mah hound loves ya, so I gots ta keep you by my side...'"
Butthead: "Even that?"
Beavis: "Word, Dog!"
Butthead: "Needle-dick dog boner."
Beavis: "And 'The Beagle of Bishop's Bottom Betrays the Axis of Evil' rejection; Said it sucks swamp water."
Butthead "Crimea River, I'll never see WW2 the same. What about 'Little Oral Annie's Balls Fall Off.'"
Beavis: "Well that did lack joie-de-vivre."
Butthead "Dat stories I wrote for the hairy French vaginas at the Flanders Flatulence Festival, rejected."
Beavis: "Best stinky cheese ever. I haven't changed my sock since."
Butthead: "So Mister Evil Editor, just how evil are you? heh-heh."

--Dave F.

Writing Exercise Result 6

Donnn wurrrreeee Iiiyallll tayyy carrrrre uvvvv yeeuuuuuuu

“Well, look at you!” Her chirpy demeanor comforted him, leading him to believe he might be okay.

“You had a car accident. You’re lucky I just happened by or you would have died in the blizzard.”

“H-how bad?”

“Not bad at all. I’m on my seventh rewrite and finally hitting my stride.”

“I mean me. H-how bad am I h-hurt?”

“Oh, silly me, of course you mean you! You’ve got some nasty bumps, but no broken bones.”

“Can’t move.”

She chuckled and said, “You know, you’re just an ol’ dirty birdy. You said my manuscript was cock-a-doodie.”

“Can’t move. I -- can’t -- fuckin’ -- MOVE!”

“While you’re here, I must insist upon no swearing. It has no nobility.”

“I’m tied down! Why am I tied down?”

“To help me rewrite my book, of course!”

“I’m not a writer.”

“I know you’re not,” she snapped.

“Who are you and why are you doing this to me?”

Her bubbly face darkened into granite as her eyes morphed into black slits. “I’m Ms. Leslie Fleigelschmidt. Does that name mean anything to you?”

Memories of his pet rabbit stewed, his family photos violated, the seemingly never-ending letters and manuscripts, and the hundreds of phone calls at all hours of the day and night.

Her eyes remained fixed as her mouth stretched into a grotesque gash. “Yes, I’m that Ms. Leslie Fleigelschmidt. So you had better start showing me a little appreciation, MR. MAN!”

--Kitty Myers

Writing Exercise Result 5

Evil Editor stirred. Too many times he'd opened his eyes after a major binge, and it hadn't been pretty. Still, he wasn't doing any good as a stump, so he flicked his eyes open, staring at some sort of ceiling.

Darkness, nothing but pure--

"Shit." He'd never drank himself blind before.

"Hi there," said a deep voice.

Evil froze.

"Enjoying the sofa and fire?"

"Fire?" Evil looked to his left, focusing his eyeballs on an orange glow. "Oh, that. Where the hell am I?"

"Dear, sweet Evil." A musky scent floated his way before the woman sat next to him. "I'm Jennie, Jennie DeMoron."

Evil blinked three times.

"I've been sending you stuff for six months now, but not even a rejection letter," Jennie said, standing up, going to the right side of the fireplace.

Oops.

She turned. "You don't remember me at all, do you?"

Evil sucked in a breath. If he said no, would she stuff him into the fire? But he was more afraid to say yes, afraid she'd strip him naked and have her way with him. Then Evil's member moved. "Sure I do."

Jennie sat down again, hiding something behind her back. "You do?"

Evil licked his lips. "You send me your full every two weeks."

"Snail mail's a bitch, huh?" Jennie wriggled closer.

So she was the one who sent the fat package he always chucked out. He tried not to think about her musky perfume, her pouty lips, her chin stubble...

"What the hell?" Evil jumped up.

"What's wrong?" Jennie asked, standing.

He winced as something metal clattered to the floor. "You're..."

Jennie smiled. "Yeah. I'm a man, baby."

Evil sweated bullets until his prick moved again. Then he shrugged. "What the hell." At least Jennie wasn't bugging him about her fucking manuscript.

--Nancy Beck

Writing Exercise Result 4

I felt around for Outback Lonnie - but I was clearly in someone elses’ bed.

As I opened my eyes, my ears flapped shut from the sudden roar of a chainsaw. The woman whirling it over my head made Cthulhu look like a pin-up girl. Wherever I was, it had Archetypal Ramshackle Hillbilly Hut Of Slaughter written all over it.

The woman grinned and sliced open a huge wooden chest with frenzied swings of her weapon. Manacles rattled, rubber squeaked and as the lid lifted, my nostrils screamed from a nauseating melange of stale breath and old ladies’ soap.

As gimps went, he was the Full Monty - right down to the Tarantino tattoo visible under his goggles. He hobbled towards me, cupping his exposed balls with a wooden ladle. I thought of Arnie and flexed my butthole - but to my surprise he crossed to another, slightly smaller, wooden chest by the wall.

The ladle, it seemed, was a key; its turn springing a dislocated midget who moved like an injured spider. That’s when I noticed all the other chests piled way up to the ceiling - and nearly swallowed my tongue.

For several agonising minutes, I watched helplessly as manservant after underling after slave consented for the next obsequious pet to be released, till they thronged around me in the slip of their own sweat like a gibbering A to Z of Sub-Dom.

After a slurping intake of drool, the hut fell silent.

From under the bed I heard a frantic scratching sound. A scrawny rodent in a hessian thong scrambled its way up my legs and onto my favourite sky blue waistcoat, dragging a bundle of crumpled papers in its teeth - papers labelled MANUSCRIPT.

'1 - 2 - 3,' whispered the Cthulhu woman.

'Happy birthday to Ratty! Happy birthday to Ratty...'

WO

Writing Exercise Result 3

= Chapter 1 =

EE bore down and tried to speak clearer. “Where are they?”

“Where are what?”

“My pills! I can’t function without my pills!”

“You’re gonna have to. You’re too sick. Too broken up. I’m afraid they’d kill you if you got into them in your condition.”

The woman hipped her hands and splayed her elbows. This widened stance was meant to show her position on this matter, but all EE agreed with were old and tired breasts hanging weighty and pleasantly before his eyes, unrestrained by any under things and crowned by large and feisty nipples!

“Are you the vision that revived me with your sultry lips?” he tried.

“You’re the famous Angry Editor?” the woman queried, a wordy book project playing like an old B movie in the back of her mind.

EE sighed. “I am. Why? Are you going to show me your life story?”

The eyes on this woman mirrored the nipples, and they too glared at EE. A feeble erection rose from him- perhaps a swordsman’s attempt at a final parry- barely stirring the heavy duvet that was draped over his large and fulfilled middle and tucked rather motherly about his neck.

“See?” EE pointed over the mound that rose before him. “See! I need my pills!”

“No!”

“Please! I must insist! For without them, I cannot function! And if I cannot function, I cannot read!”

The woman simply glared. When she shook her head, her breasts danced and raked across the inside of her blouse. In this light, she resembled a tall Mother Teresa with a grander bosom but possessing the same austere and depriving eyes.

“I will dole them out to you, chapter by chapter.”

“Deal! Now let’s get to chapter one!”

(This woman was like an angry nun with a frying pan. EE would later lose his sanity from a blow to the temple. The twelve remaining Viagra tablets he consumed at the last would give him one final hour of old glory, and then he’d dot his final “I“.

But not until he’d read it first. Not until he’d read the whole thing aloud to her, and told her why he’d liked it.)

“Chapter 1,” he began. “How I Lost My Virginity…”

--Scott from Oregon

Writing Exercise Result 2

Slowly, Evil Editor drifted back to consciousness. His vision was still blurred, and his head ached. Other parts of him hurt, too. He remembered the crash, and eventually the subsequent events came back to him: how he’d been found by that ridiculous minion Talpianna, who had loaded him into a wheeled laundry basket to take him to her home. He thought at least one of his arms was broken. Well, at least Tal was one of the saner minions, except for her mole obsession—God only knows what Robin would have done to him!

“Here we are!” chirped Tal. EE blinked; all he saw was a huge mound. “I live in mole style, you know. It’s an earth house; the solar panels are on the other side of the molehill. Now we’ll just maneuver you onto the elevator….”

No sooner said than done.

EE cleared his throat. “Talpianna, I’m really very grateful. I guess I owe you an apology for jeering at your fantasy about living with moles.”

Tal gave him an odd, measuring look. “A bit late for that, since you’ve made me the laughingstock of the blog. I really DO live with moles, you know. And don’t think it’s easy.”

They emerged into a short tunnel, then into a large room, dimly lit; but he caught sight of dozens upon dozens of little beady eyes glinting in the gloom.

“Moles have to eat their own weight every twenty-four hours just to stay alive, you know; I have the devil of a time finding fresh meat for them….”

--talpianna

Writing Exercise Result 1

It was time. I knelt by the bed. I could have pulled over the armchair and sat in it, but somehow kneeling seemed right. The razor lay on the carpet beside me, the blade winking gently in the soft yellow light dropping from the nightstand.

What's in a name? Evil. Was he? As I had dragged him from the debris that had been his car, he had felt more like a man; a heavy man at that as I tugged his flopping weight through the snow and back to the cottage. He lay on the bed; saliva snailtrailing from his mouth, tangling itself in the jungly grey sideburns, like an old man fallen from his position of power on the commode, tumbled to a cracked tile floor, reaching in vain for a emergency cord to alert a nurse, and then falling unconscious as he waited for help.

Help that would never come. No nurses here. Just me and my razor blade. Without moving from my kneeling position, I reached across the bed and pulled back the covers, rolling them down to his yellow feet with their hooklike nails. He lay naked before me, pathetic and shrivelled.

Evil. I think not. I raised the blade and then lowered it again. The grey pelt across his chest rose and fell, its curls fluffy and inviting, like the hair on the poodle I had as a child. Tentatively I reached out a hand and my fingers slid between the curls to the soft skin below, stroking and then gently tugging.

He spoke. One word. 'Lower'.

Now, three days on, I can say I truly know evil.

--McKoala

Cartoon 37

Caption: Tracey S. Rosenberg

Your caption on the next cartoon! Link in sidebar.

New Beginning 475

Mike let himself into the lab for the last time, noticing everything as if for the first time. The way the key wouldn't fit easily into the lock, but yawed this way and that. The stench of disinfectant. At least the lighting hadn't changed. He glanced down at the scuffed floor, newly cleared of his equipment. Apart from fresh scratches on the grey vinyl, it looked the same. Sterile. Finished with. He stepped inside and pushed the door shut. Even his lab coat was gone from the hook on the back of the door. He wondered if he'd reached a stage beyond anger. Or if resignation had set in.

They'd taken everything down from the walls, too. Not neatly--too much to ask. Diagrams, charts, little "happy notes", all gone.

The door creaked, then opened slowly, as if unsure it should be opening it at all.

"It's okay," he said. "I won't bite." A head came round the door, appearing first as a pointy little nose topped by a pair of glasses. Then adding some close-cropped brown hair. Fitch smiled a little frightened smile, still keeping everything beyond her ears out of sight.

"I'm so sorry," she said, glancing nervously around. Then she stepped into the room. "We'll miss you."

They hugged, an awkward, quiet moment. "It's okay," Mike said. "Now that I'm gone, I wish you the best."

Then the director cut to commercial, and that was the end of Mike's run on the poorly-rated America's Next Top Chemist.


Opening: BuffySquirrel.....Continuation: freddie

Cartoon 36

Caption: Anonymous

Your caption on the next cartoon! Link in sidebar.

New Beginning 474

She raised her head from her forearm in a slow arc, screening her barely open eyes both with the fall of her hair and the shadows across her face from the dying fire. The slight movement allowed a cold draft into the warm sleeping bag and helped to jolt her to full awareness. She breathed slowly, shallowly, thinking I’m Still Sleeping thoughts and hoping the thing stalking her campsite was fooled, even as her fingers shifted to close about the grip of the pistol. It was just a small noise, but a chilling one nonetheless. Something from out of nightmares. Something she’d hoped never to hear again.

It came again, the slow scrape of a clawed foot, something like fingernails on chalkboard crossed with the whine of a rusty hinge. A noise you didn’t forget. An image you didn’t forget. Iron claws on granite, a creature that should have been impossible… They weren’t supposed to be able to follow her here.

But one had. Now, the question was what to do about it before the graindall decided to attack.

But the graindall that had decided to follow her, the graindall that would soon decide to attack, had another thing coming.

Because iron claws on granite might be one frightening sound, but the screams of animal fury welling up and about to explode from she who had just returned from the land of Still Sleeping made the fingernails on chalkboard granite-walking sound of the graindall seem like a sonic vacation destination.

There would be some scraping sounds this night. Yes. And they would be chilling. But they’d be coming from the sleepy psycho bitch who had just started her period and who was, this night, looking for something on which to release her wrath.

That testosterone-loaded graindall was soon to be . . . fucking toast.


Opening: Writtenwyrdd.....Continuation: Robin S.

Writing Exercise

It's like that movie, Misery. But instead of finding one's favorite author in a car wreck, one finds Evil Editor, and drags him to one's cabin. "One" can be you or anyone else, real or fictional. Even Jamie Lee Curtis. EE can be the person's dream editor or the bastard who rejects everything sent to him. Write the scene as he regains consciousness. Deadline: Sunday morning at 8 eastern. 300 words max. Don't send anonymously if you want credit.

Cartoon 35

Caption: Whirlochre

Your caption on the next cartoon! Link in sidebar.

Face-Lift 507

Guess the Plot

An American in London

1. This edgy travel memoir is loaded with amusing anecdotes about British vs. American culture, like when the author goes grocery shopping in a strange new land and when she samples England's gourmet foods. Also, traveling with children.

2. This traveler's dictionary provides useful translations of the phrases the American tourist is most likely to hear when interacting with the people of London, alphabetically arranged, from Arsehole to Wanker.

3. Set to the plaintive strains of Hayden's London Trio as they move classical music into Windsor Palace, a pack of plaid shorts, Hawaiian shirts, gartered socks and flabby arms in muscle tees invades Piccadilly Circus while the new Minister for Cultural Sensitivity quietly climbs to the top of Big Ben and blows his brains out.

4. After years of dreaming and saving, Mabel Abeline from Houston is able to realize her dream -- a two week trip to London, England. At first, though, she is disappointed. Everything is so much smaller than back home, yet so expensive. Then, visiting Trafalgar Square, she finds Nelson and is mighty impressed by the size of his column.

5. Don Liebnitz is overweight and looks ridiculous in his Hawaiian shirt and Bermuda shorts. His camera lens is way too big, he wears sunglasses even though it's raining and he tries to start conversations in the tube (I mean, really!). He goes to expensive restaurants, talks too loudly to the waiters and orders with everything "on the side". Why can't he go back to Yankee-land where he belongs? Wanker.

6. Jovial American tourist Hoagy Williams Jr. mistakes the Queen for a hooker he bedded in college and is sentenced to twenty years in prison for thrusting his tongue into her ear as she presides over the opening of a new branch of Shoppers' Nirvana in East Acton.


Original Version

Dear Evil Editor,

Two years ago my husband, our two small children, and I moved from Kansas (98% culture-free) to London (diverse metropolis) and I was eager to experience a different country's culture. However, I was surprised that in the process of learning about British culture, I also made a few discoveries about my own.

[Things I learned about British culture and my own:

1. Once you leave London, the place is just like Kansas, except they call it moors and we call it a wasteland.

2. Steak tastes better on a grill than in kidney pie.

3. Counter to assumptions I made thanks to Hugh Grant and Sean Connery, most guys with British accents are not sexy.]

I have completed a 44,000-word manuscript, titled An American in London, describing the joys, surprises and frustrations I encountered as we adjusted to our new European home. Instead of a day-to-day account of our tenure overseas, my travel memoir is more of a collection of essays that lovingly compare and contrast American and British cultures. Humorous, irreverent, and sometimes edgy, [(Did you know they call an eraser a rubber?!)] think of David Sedaris meets Bill Bryson, and then they get into a death match and are coached by Elizabeth Gilbert and Rebecca Ramsey, respectively, and Frances Mayes is the referee. [If that was supposed to give me a better idea of what you meant by "humorous, irreverent, and sometimes edgy," it failed. Right now all I'm thinking about is Elizabeth Gilbert, Rebecca Ramsey, and Frances Mayes mud wrestling. If they don't look like Miss May, June and July, I don't want to know it.] In fact, this book will rock your world…okay, maybe not. But you will enjoy the journey I take you on and perhaps even laugh out loud. You will walk with me as I learn to do grocery shopping without a car, [I was about to suggest you provide some specifics, but if that's the best you've got, forget it.] taste blood pudding (two words that shouldn't even be in the same sentence let alone describe something you eat),

[Wrong. Sentences that include the words "blood" and "pudding":

"Eat your pudding, Bobby, and then we'll get to your daily blood-letting."

"I don't know what that was, but it tasted like blood and had the consistency of pudding; can I have some more?"

"Mommy, there's the blood of a Chinese man in my tapioca pudding."]

travel around Europe with an infant and a four-year old (a task not for the faint of heart), and ponder the question at the forefront of every Brit's mind: Is James Hewitt Prince Harry's real biological father? [You don't need "real" there . . . unless there are imaginary biological fathers.]

I chose you as the first agent to solicit (you lucky bastard) [Yes, I was just thinking that myself.]for numerous reasons (okay, two):

1) I thoroughly enjoy your blog and have learned from it.
2) You represent Iwanna Beyou, the author of Expat Fever, which is similar to my manuscript (yet different; see above comments).

Thank you for your time and consideration.

Sincerely,


Notes

Is your audience people who love to travel, or people who never travel? The former group might not find your experiences any more interesting than their own, unless you're holding back your best stuff. And it might be hard to find an agent who handles travel books and wants to handle one for the latter group.

Even if this is going to someone who mainly handles travel writers and is thus familiar with all the authors you name, that space would be better utilized making your adventures sound exciting and hilarious. Tasting blood pudding may be amusing in the book, but in the query it's no big deal unless you also puked it up on David Beckham.

Maybe that's the way to go: embellish your mundane experiences. Like you go grocery shopping without a car, and buy so much you can't carry it, but then Clive Owen happens along and gives you a ride back to your flat and kisses you. And you puke blood pudding all over him.

Note that I said Clive Owen "gives you a ride" rather than "gives you a lift." To those crazy Brits, a lift is an elevator!

If you can prove James Hewitt knew Princess Di nine months before Prince Harry was born, you've got a bestseller. Otherwise you'd better enclose a couple of your essays with the query, as it's a better way to demonstrate your voice than through frequent use of parentheses.

Also, the title sounds too much like An American Werewolf in London. Either add a werewolf (recommended) or change the title to Blood Pudding? Am I in London or Transylvania?

Cartoon 34

Caption: Peter

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New Beginning 473

Chance McCloud had been in Paris when news came of his brother Jim's death. Unfortunately, Chance didn't do the kind of work that could be walked away from in an afternoon. He had been forced to supervise the winding up of Jim's modest estate from a distance, scrambling to wrap up his own business so that he could get back and make sure that his brother would rest in peace. Waiting now, in a Paris cafe at an outdoor table, sipping coffee and hoping his employer would be on time, Chance took out the newspaper article he carried in his wallet and studied it again.

RIDGECREST, CA - The death of seven men, including the pilot, in a small twin-engine commuter plane, has been confirmed by the US Navy. The men were all civil employees at the China Lake Naval Base, except for the pilot. There was no sign of foul play in relation to the crash. The plane apparently developed engine trouble in the mountains, and crashed into the side of Burton's Peak at approximately 2:15 pm on Sunday. Names of the deceased are being withheld pending the notification of family.

See, now that's style, Chance thought. That's how Jim should have bought the farm. A plane crash, or lost at sea. He read on.

MODESTO, CA - Home improvement enthusiast and Darwin Award nominee, Jim McCloud, did it himself for the last time yesterday when he tried to fix a leaky fuel oil tank by welding it. Fireman Bill McIntyre, first to the scene, described it as an inferno, adding: "The guy really should have emptied the tank first. Here's hoping he was the last swimmer in his gene pool."

Time to move on, Chance thought. He unscrewed the wick from the small light on the table and poured a little of the lamp fuel on to the newspaper clipping. The smell made him sneeze and he spilled oil on the tablecloth and in his lap. Shit, he thought. My new pants. He shrugged and reached for his lighter.


Opening: Anonymous.....Continuation: ril

Cartoon 33

Caption: Evil Editor

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New Beginning 472

"Behind--!"

Jerome whirled to deflect the sword thrust with his rapier. Soon the last attacker lay in a pool of blood on the cobblestones. The lanky man scanned the street for threats before he stomped over to where Kit huddled behind a rain barrel. "Why the hell are you still following me? Did you think I was out for a pleasure stroll and wanted a child for company?"

Kit shook her head so hard that her braids flew. "No, never thought that." She couldn't understand why her brother wanted her to follow this mean fellow, but the man fit the description he had given her. She frowned. "You are Jerome, right?"

Jerome gave a bitter laugh. "Yeah. I'm out to avenge my father, and it's dangerous to be around me. So why are you still hanging about? I don't need your help."

Kit gave him a reproachful look.

"What?" Jerome peered at the little girl. "Do you think with all my years of training, I still need the protection of a ragamuffin?"

Kit scowled and shook her head until her eyes rattled. "No, never thought that."

"Then why, little girl, do you follow me?"

She narrowed her eyes and took a deep breath. "My brother said to find you and tell you he misheard; your father's okay, the Smythe boys didn't do 'im in, they just beat 'im at Gin. His bad."

Jerome looked at the bodies sprawled across the cobbles. Bugger.


Opening: Deborah K. White.....Continuation: Anonymous

Cartoon 32

Caption: Freddie

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Face-Lift 506

Guess the Plot

The Way of Dispossession

1. When an honest yet poor Nigerian actually finds $10 million US in a dead account, he tries desperately to find someone somewhere in the world willing to help him get it so he can use his ten percent share to get his dying mother a kidney transplant. Why will no one help him?

2. Alaina Gredeinian is a leader in the Sancian resistance, fighting the occupying Fredians. Her roommate Cathy Donaldson is a pacifist. When Alaina's cell blows up a major bridge in the capital city, will it put a strain on their living arrangement?

3. Allan Keanes is a financial "Mr. Fix It". When he's called into one of the country's biggest banks to help sort out their sub-prime losses, he thinks it's just a matter of foreclosure--until he discovers the money markets are in fact possessed by an evil spirit.

4. Harry knows his life is in the dumper, what with the alcoholism, the drug abuse and the trans-gender issues he refuses to face. But when his family stages an intervention with the order of the Monks of Forced Enlightenment, things get a little out of hand.

5. Adex is a mid-level demon inhabiting a 12-year-old girl in Fresno when he is unexpectedly evicted from his home by an exorcist. He finds himself in a shadow realm occupied by displaced fiends, imps, and fallen angels. Only one thing to do: Form a rock band!

6. After giving all his wealth away to a cult, Luke realizes that he has been scammed and that he will never find inner tranquility until he gets his money back. Follow him as he breaks into the cult HQ and faces the leader with only his head, hands and feet as weapons.

7. Rich, successful and empty, Daniel Piermont cannot get his life on track; everything he worked for means nothing. In a bid to find his true self, he dispossesses himself of everything he owns; but when he falls in love with Liana, he realizes happiness is more easily attained with wealth. That's when he remembers his twenty-million-dollar off-shore account in Bimini.


Original Version

Dear Almighty Evil Editor,

I am seeking representation for my novel, The Way of Dispossession.

For almost three years, the nation of Sancia has been ruled by Fredia, its neighboring country. During that time, the underground movement has worked to bring down Fredia’s oppressive regime. The story revolves around Alaina Gredeinian, a leader in the Sancian resistance; Cathy Donaldson, her roommate, a pacifist; and Terrence Harlin, her long-time friend and partner in the resistance. When Alaina’s cell blows up one of the capital city’s major bridges, the government threatens to shut down the city. [Attention, residents of the capital: we're closed. Everybody out. Oh, and it's recommended that you not leave via the western bridge.] In response, the resistance steps up its efforts to smuggle food and other supplies into the city. [Why does food have to be smuggled into the city? Surely shutting down the city doesn't mean no more food for anyone?] Alaina finds herself being run ragged [How about "runs herself ragged," or "is run ragged"? "Finds herself being" is a long way to say "is," and makes it sound like a surprising discovery.] to support this effort, and during one mission, she accidentally reveals her identity to a Fredian soldier. [In other words, she makes a Fredian slip.]

[Soldier: Halt! Who are you and where are you taking that food?

Alaina: I'm Alaina Gredeinian and . . . doh!]

She, Cathy, and Terrence are all imprisoned and interrogated, and Alaina’s family is arrested in retaliation for her involvement with the resistance.

Just before Alaina’s execution date, [Oppressive regimes shoot first, then set the execution date.] the resistance rescues them; however, they are still in danger. Ronnie Hartson, a wilderness guide, [Ronnie Hartson is no name for a Sancian wilderness guide, and Grizzly Adams is taken. How about Wolverine McGuff?] is assigned to help them get to Laucasia, another neighboring country. But hiking over mountains, relying on a chain of “safe houses,” and avoiding Fredian troops are just part of their journey. Alaina deals with her family’s arrest and the aftermath of her prison experience, which was more brutal than either of her friends’. Terrence struggles with his feelings for Alaina and her tendency to push him away. Cathy tries to figure out whether, in light of her beliefs, her minimal participation in the resistance was justified. [Also, she must deal with her unexpected crush on Ronnie Hartson, wilderness guide, right?]

Even arriving in Laucasia does not alleviate their problems. [It may not solve all their problems, but if it doesn't even alleviate them, what was the point of going there?] And when they are eventually called back to Sancia for a final attempt to completely overthrow the Fredian government, they all must confront their fears and issues head-on.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

Sincerely,


Notes

I'm not finding it that exciting, though I feel I should be. Maybe more about the rescue or the danger and less about the details. How many Fredians are they up against? How many are in the resistance? Their comrades rescue them from prison, their guide gets them to Laucasia . . . when do they do something to help the cause, and what is it? If these three people are ultimately responsible for victory, I'd rather hear about that than about how incompetent they are.

Are these three people so vital to the final attempt to overthrow the Fredians that the assault is being put off while they make their way back through a string of mountain safe houses?

If they can safely return to the capital and stay safe during the final attempt, why couldn't they stay safe after being rescued from prison? Going all the way to Laucasia only to turn around and head back accomplished what?

For some reason I find it jarring that a character named Alaina Gredeinian, a leader in the Sancian resistance, has a roommate named Cathy Donaldson and a wilderness guide named Ronnie Hartson. It's like reading a book about a high school girl named Madison and her BFF is named M'lota Larg and her guidance counselor is D'Ghor of the house of Kanjis.

You write Fredia, but I think Frieda, the Peanuts character with naturally curly hair.

Have you considered making the countries Freudia and Jungia?

Klingon names generated here.

Cartoon 31

Caption: Evil Editor

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New Beginning 471

After shoehorning himself into the space along the curb, Graham tried deciphering the sign above his car to determine his risk of being towed. Which Tuesday of the month was it? The pavement was rapidly burning a hole in his shoes, so he hoped for the best and set off in search of the office. He wasn't far from Faneuil Hall, and he heard the echoes of a street performer barking through a fuzzed-out amplifier. He crossed behind the Customs House and found the address - a dingy five story building crammed in among the banking towers like a dirty paperback on a shelf full of classics.

He opened the door, hoping for a gust of air conditioning, but was instead rewarded with a musty lobby that seemed sliced out of time. A directory of plastic letters pressed into faded brown felt listed the building's occupants. Lawyers, dentists, and oculists. Graham blinked. He hadn't heard of an oculist since Gatsby. Some of the directory's letters had fallen to an alphabet soup jumble at the bottom of the case, leaving darkened silhouettes in the fabric.

Well, this was the place Kurt had recommended. If anyone could get the grasping hands of the IRS from up Graham's arse, supposedly this guy could.



Three hours later, Graham winced his way down three flights of steps. It had been more painful than he'd expected. He glanced again at the directory on his way out. An honest mistake; there's not that many letters difference between Tax Attorney and Taxidermy.

At least the guy had thrown in a pretty nice Elk's head once they realized the error.


Opening: Benwah.....Continuation: Anonymous

Cartoon 30

Caption: Freddie

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Writing Exercise Results...

...are below. The task was to write a query for a randomly chosen fake plot that has appeared with one of the critiques on this blog. There are 11.

Fake Query 11

Little Suze Hanford loves her pet banana slug Hope. But when Hope starts spelling out hot stock tips with her slime trail, she's kidnapped by Suze's next door neighbor, an unscrupulous day-trader. Will Suze ever see her pet again?


Dear Editor:

When Hope, her pet banana slug, goes missing, Suze Hanford is despondent, not only because she loves the cute little bugger, but because Hope has helped parlay Suze's lemonade stand profits into a three-million-dollar nest egg. Hope uses her slime trail to spell out stock tips, and so far the little detritivore is batting a thousand. Without Hope, Suze knows she'll squander her fortune and end up working for a living when she grows up, possibly as a prostitute.

Day-trader Snidely Turkovich, Suze's next-door neighbor has been as successful as a three-legged greyhound lately, and if he doesn't start picking winners, he'll lose his house. Snidely is the obvious suspect; with Hope in his corner, his luck would surely change. But when Suze catches the slimeball with Hope, he claims it's not Hope, but Warren, his own banana slug stock forecaster.

Suze calls in a favor from the CSI squad, who discover that every banana slug has a slime trail as unique as a fingerprint. They compare Snidely's slug's slime trail with a slime trail in Hope's terrarium. A perfect match. Hope and Suze are joyfully reunited, and the now-hopeless Snidely is ruined.

Trail of Hope is a 95,000-word commercial novel that should appeal to those who enjoyed Mollusk Fever and I, Gastropod. Thank you.

--EE

Fake Query 10

Porn stars Viv Lickum and Gary Coonch are shoe-ins to win the year's Best Love Scene Award, until they learn of a young couple who are burning up the cameras. Can Viv and Gary turn the heat even higher in their new movie Love Inferno, or will they have to kill the competition?


Dear Evil Editor:

Never one to (only) lay down on the job, when Viv Lickum discovers that her dreams of winning the year’s Best Love Scene Award, a milestone achievement in her long and illustrious career in the porn industry, are threatened by a young, up-and-coming actress, she takes matters into her own hands -- and bludgeons the competition to death with the “Daddy from the ‘Natti,” a vibrating rabbit she can always trust to get the job done…

LOVE INFERNO explores the nastier side of the porn industry, giving the readers the inside story of the people behind the cameras. The players are vicious, competitive, and will screw anybody in the pursuit of making it to the top . . . to earn the title “porn star.”

Can Viv get away with murder and win the award she’s coveted for so long? Will she find true love with her on-screen lover, Gary Coonch, and finally have the happily-ever-after of a Herpes medication commercial? She’s guaranteed to end up in handcuffs . . . but will they be in furtherance of her career, or will they mean the end?

Upon your request, I will be delighted to send you sample chapters of LOVE INFERNO (and a photograph of me with the Daddy from the 'Natti, if you so desire). Thank you for your consideration.

Sincerely yours,

--A.

Fake Query 9

They don't call him Casanova Krebs for nothing! In this tale of high adventure, follow our hero as he impersonates the paying customers at an expensive brothel.

Dear Mr. Editor,

Virginal accountant Carmichael Krebs has a new Wall Street job, finding rationales for the executive luxuries piling up on company credit cards. When he uncovers the brokerage’s expense account at an exclusive pleasure house, Carmichael starts slipping into brothel bedrooms booked in his bosses’ names, romping with five-diamond hookers five days a week in ever-bawdier adventures.

Strung up by Mistress Madison and her Whip of Wails, he soon confesses his misuse of the company account. Then he learns it’s on digital video. He must obey her every command, including those involving insider trading, or he’ll be on Youtube and then on trial. Can Casanova Krebs wiggle out of bondage to the Machiavellian Mistress, or will he be paying restitution from prison on every one of those high-class Stolen Pieces?

Stolen Pieces is complete at 69,000 words.

My previous writing credits include Expense Accounting for Fun and Profit, The Auditor’s Nightmare, and My Months with Mistress M (a memoir). Research for this novel was accomplished during my three years in a Wall Street accounting department, and the manuscript was workshopped extensively at a fine federal retreat recently redecorated by Martha Stewart. Erotic adventures were field-tested for accuracy prior to incar-- my writers retreat. Video verification is available on request (you keep the videos if I get the publishing contract).

Yours truly,

--jeb

Fake Query 8

His Majesty could have driven a Jaguar or a Mercedes, so why is he so obsessed with the rusted Ford Falcon that once belonged to Steven King? He claims that it talks to him, but is King George insane, or is an automobile running the kingdom?


O Highest Evil One:

The warden may make the rules, and the guards may enforce them, but everyone knows former gang leader George “King” Ramone is the true ruler of San Antonio’s California State Prison. His ruthless ways have made him feared and respected—but mostly feared. Even the guards are forced to call him “Your Majesty,” especially when they find themselves backed into a tight corner.

One fateful day, an old rusted Ford Falcon comes through the prison shop to be fixed. The car, George learns, can talk, and used to belong to Stephen King, who just happens t