Put that down. It won’t help you here.
You all come clutching useless things: coins, talismans, weapons. Before the armed ones finish the crossing they’re usually scared enough to attack someone, and there’s no one here to harm except themselves. The rest of you clench your treasures in your hands and stare at them as if they could save you. Forget that. You’d best keep your hands and eyes wide open.
Yes, you heard me right. No one to hurt except yourself. I’m only a voice. You’ll be rid of me soon enough.
Dreaming? You could call it that. Yes, you’ll wake up in time. But what you’ll wake to.... that depends on what you do now.
Hush now. There were plenty of people to hear you before, and most of what you said to them wasn’t worth saying. There’s no one but me to hear you now. Stop talking. Look ahead.
Yes, it’s a narrow edge, but you can walk it. Go on. Staring longer at the drop on either side won’t make it easier to start.
Steady now. Watch your step. I see the lights over there as well as you do.
Stay between the marked lines at all times. Don't try to reach over them.
In the unlikely event of an emergency, follow the glowing arrows. I'll keep you safe.
Remember, you must be at least as tall as the line on the wall to ride this attraction.
Your adventure is about to begin. Don't forget to stop by the gift shop when you exit.
Opening: Joanna.....Continuation: Steve Wright
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Face-Lift 678
Guess the Plot
Dodging Bullets
1. Rock star Spike McGee takes his grandma to the Amazon jungle, only to be kidnapped by "Visionaries" who are high as kites. Meanwhile the authorities seem bewildered so Granny paddles upriver with her Smith & Wesson and Miguel, vowing to find those rat bastards or die trying.
2. Life as a vampire was never easy, but now that his arch-enemy has acquired an ample supply of silver bullets, Hugo Valle never gets a moment of rest. Which makes it ever so difficult to be as seductive and vain as the other vampires on Broadway. Still, he tries.
3. It is a dark day in Black Gulch when rival gangs of outlaws simultaneously hold up the stage coach from Tombstone. But thanks to handsome gambler Sam Birks and his man Jeeves, Miss Kitty and her Can-Can troupe escape the melee by fleeing into the wilderness.
4. Gay Republican Cody Carlisle lands a job--and a secret relationship--with White House adviser Kirk Rayne. Now Cody wants to break off the affair, but rumor has it Kirk murdered the last boyfriend who broke up with him. Can Cody get out without . . . Dodging Bullets?
5. When she married Bud, Maddy had no idea how caffeine affected him. Their safari honeymoon is ruined when she serves him Kenyan roast and he goes on a rampage with the elephant gun. Plus, a handsome rescue helicopter pilot.
6. Sarah Simpson is a plucky seamstress who is succeeding by selling her retro bullet-bras to Hollywood’s pointy-boobed elite. But she constantly unravels in front of Buck McClure, hunky action star. Will their love be a perfect fit? Or will they be seam-ripped apart?
Original Version
Dear Evil Editor:
Cody Carlisle is gay, Republican, and addicted to power. [What is it that would appeal to a gay guy about a political party that has gay guy death panels as part of its platform?] His friendship with his old mentor, now the President of the United States, has landed him a position on the staff of top White House adviser, Kirk Rayne.
The perfect job to support his habit, right? Nope. As the new guy, Cody's stuck reporting to Joey Ratansky--a man less ethical and more paranoid than Richard Nixon. [Cody and Joey sound more like the names of the Jonas Brothers than guys working in the White House.] So rather than scoring political victories and shrinking the government, Cody is busy foiling Ratansky's never-ending schemes to get him fired.
Cody has two choices: match Ratansky's deceit or lose his job. [What about telling his friend and mentor the president about Ratansky's dirty tricks?] When a hot tub incident exposes Kirk Rayne's attraction to him, [Another gay Republican? Is this science fiction?] [Where is this hot tub? Were they both in it when the "incident" occurred?]
[Hot Tub Incident:
Kirk: Mind if I join you in the hot tub?
Cody: You're naked.
Kirk: Yes, meet Captain Kirk.]
Cody ignores his inner ethicist and uses a secret affair with Rayne to supplant Ratansky.
[Rayne: Sorry Ratansky, I'm gonna have to let you go.
Ratansky: Why?
Rayne: You're not the type of guy I want handling my staff.]
Although the relationship helps Cody climb into the president's inner circle, [Can't you come up with a better nickname for it than "inner circle"? The Urban Dictionary suggests Rusty Sheriff's Badge.] dating an old man gets ... well, old, and Cody resolves to end it.
As he considers how to break up with Rayne and still maintain his influence, Cody learns that Rayne may have murdered an ex-boyfriend. On the day the ex dumped him. [I'd change the period after "boyfriend" to an ellipsis or dash.] Fearing that ending the affair could make him Rayne's next victim, Cody must solve the murder to escape the relationship.
I conceived of Dodging Bullets: The Perilous Journey of a White House Pol--complete at 70,000 words--while finishing my PhD in political science at Rutgers University. During my graduate studies, I also taught in the Rutgers writing program.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
Sincerely,
Notes
Cody's goal is to dump Kirk but continue working for him? I don't see Kirk going for that, whether he's a murderer or not, so why bother solving the murder?
And you'd better explain how Cody thinks he can solve a murder that no one else was able to solve.
If the main plot is Cody gets involved with his boss in order to advance his career and later wants out but fears for his life, I don't see the need for Ratansky to even be in the query. He's a subplot, and he's delaying your getting to the murder. By the time you get to the murder, I've settled into believing the book is about politics and scandal. Maybe you need to open with a statement like: Cody Carlisle never thought his dream job in the White House would land him in the middle of a murder investigation. A clue about where the story goes. Right now it feels like the murder comes up in the last chapter.
Monday, September 28, 2009
New Beginning 689
I hate guns. I went to a party when I was sixteen and my friend's maw pulled a revolver on her ex-husband in the dining room. Me and my friends were sitting around the table drinking cheap beer, and right out of nowhere there was this crazy bitch on the loose. She yelled at him to get the hell out of her house, but his arms went up real slow and his fingers crossed behind his head. He leaned back in the chair like it was a joke. All of us kids got up and ran out of that house like we were stealing candy from the 7-11 and we got caught. I remember turning around to look at the last minute, before I made it outside, and what I noticed was the difference between the two of them. His face looked flat and peach, as if he didn't give a shit at all. She had a red face that shook and twisted--she was a human pit bull ready to attack. Thinking back, I realize crazy doesn't always look like you think it's going to. That man was nuts, and he took two bullets in the chest because of it. Anyway, that's why I hate guns.
However, I sense that you boys don't quite share the same sentiment, and given the late hour and the part of town we're in, I guess on this occasion I would be willing to, ah, part with the Rolex and my money. Just stay calm there, boys, while I reach for my wallet . . .
Opening: Aimee States.....Continuation: Anon.
However, I sense that you boys don't quite share the same sentiment, and given the late hour and the part of town we're in, I guess on this occasion I would be willing to, ah, part with the Rolex and my money. Just stay calm there, boys, while I reach for my wallet . . .
Opening: Aimee States.....Continuation: Anon.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Cab Ride 7
‘Where ya headed?’
‘5th Avenue. Cinnderellas.’
‘The bun bar? Jeez, you’re my fourth today.’
‘That so?’
‘Heck, yeah. Some weird chick in dungarees, then a business guy, then some wasters from one of those grunge bands, yanno, like Nirvana. I’m a people watcher, see.’
‘That so?’
‘Oh yeah. Ain’t nothin’ escapes my beady eye, and when I’m done drivin’, I write it all out, like a novel. Some day I’m gonna be a famous author.’
‘That—’
‘Problem is, do I set it in space, in the past, or the dinosaur age? Or do I go for the whole fantasy world thing?’
‘I—’
‘What’s it about? Hey — a guy in a taxi. Kinda semi-autobiographical. Only instead of it being me, it’s some other guy in a taxi. Maybe even a different taxi. That’s where the fantasy element comes in. And I figure, got one fantasy, gotta have ‘em all. Like, I dunno — Pokemon. Hence the space thing. Maybe it’s a flying taxi. Maybe I’m an android. Hunting dinosaurs. But not just for the thrill of it. That idea’s been done to death. A “trope”, they call it. Like a dinosaur park is now a trope. So my dinosaurs are all gonna be from the future. Hence the past. The taxi driver is in the past. So it’s like a time travel thing...
* * *
‘...and the monkeys, hell, the monkeys — they’re the guys who poisoned the dudes from the second incarnation after the zombie lords got trashed by the princess, so that all ties in with the burst tyre in chapter 29. Still ain’t decided whether to write it out in prose or rhyming couplets, but I figure — Jesus! How the hell did we end up in LA?’
--Whirlochre
‘5th Avenue. Cinnderellas.’
‘The bun bar? Jeez, you’re my fourth today.’
‘That so?’
‘Heck, yeah. Some weird chick in dungarees, then a business guy, then some wasters from one of those grunge bands, yanno, like Nirvana. I’m a people watcher, see.’
‘That so?’
‘Oh yeah. Ain’t nothin’ escapes my beady eye, and when I’m done drivin’, I write it all out, like a novel. Some day I’m gonna be a famous author.’
‘That—’
‘Problem is, do I set it in space, in the past, or the dinosaur age? Or do I go for the whole fantasy world thing?’
‘I—’
‘What’s it about? Hey — a guy in a taxi. Kinda semi-autobiographical. Only instead of it being me, it’s some other guy in a taxi. Maybe even a different taxi. That’s where the fantasy element comes in. And I figure, got one fantasy, gotta have ‘em all. Like, I dunno — Pokemon. Hence the space thing. Maybe it’s a flying taxi. Maybe I’m an android. Hunting dinosaurs. But not just for the thrill of it. That idea’s been done to death. A “trope”, they call it. Like a dinosaur park is now a trope. So my dinosaurs are all gonna be from the future. Hence the past. The taxi driver is in the past. So it’s like a time travel thing...
* * *
‘...and the monkeys, hell, the monkeys — they’re the guys who poisoned the dudes from the second incarnation after the zombie lords got trashed by the princess, so that all ties in with the burst tyre in chapter 29. Still ain’t decided whether to write it out in prose or rhyming couplets, but I figure — Jesus! How the hell did we end up in LA?’
--Whirlochre
Cab Ride 6
"Airport? Gotcha." The cabbie slipped onto the wood anti-sweat cushion. Not that it did any good. The back of the cab smelled of sweaty butt-crack, dog, and recycled beer all topped of with a whiff of vomit--the perfect nosegay for a lousy day.
"Hey, you were at dat Writer's convention didn't you? Well How'd a like to hear my story. Gotta be better than all desperate crying would-be authors crying their eyes out over some guy who kept saying no, no, no. I got a real story. It's fiction, not semi-half-lies like those glibertarians you see on the political screamfests but a real, gung-ho mystery."
"I'm not getting starbursts." EE slid behind the cabbie, trying to hide. The cabbie adjusted the mirror so he could see EE.
"It starts with an old crone screaming, harpy-like. She's hot and mad like Our Lady of Perpetual Outrage. She big time voodoo momma: I warned you boy's not to drink old man dickface's moonshine but you boys could never listen to what your elders tell ya. Now look at what you become... Dumb as dirt, roach-infested zombies. I could've turned you idjuts into goats and you'd still be alive. No one wants zombie goats."
EE noticed the highway sign and spoke up. "Uh driver. It's Newark airport, not Kennedy."
"Aw shit! You shoulda said 'Newark' when you got in. Now it's goin' to take two hours to get to Newark."
"I'm so lucky."
"Don't go all pearl clutchy fella. You'll make your flight. This gives me time to tell you all about my climax. I got a really fierce orgasmic ending. It's kinda like Macheath's not being hung, but instead of Deus Queen Lizzy as Machina, I give'em a walkin', talkin' Clenis issuing a pardon."
"Driver, you can let me out here."
--Dave F.
"Hey, you were at dat Writer's convention didn't you? Well How'd a like to hear my story. Gotta be better than all desperate crying would-be authors crying their eyes out over some guy who kept saying no, no, no. I got a real story. It's fiction, not semi-half-lies like those glibertarians you see on the political screamfests but a real, gung-ho mystery."
"I'm not getting starbursts." EE slid behind the cabbie, trying to hide. The cabbie adjusted the mirror so he could see EE.
"It starts with an old crone screaming, harpy-like. She's hot and mad like Our Lady of Perpetual Outrage. She big time voodoo momma: I warned you boy's not to drink old man dickface's moonshine but you boys could never listen to what your elders tell ya. Now look at what you become... Dumb as dirt, roach-infested zombies. I could've turned you idjuts into goats and you'd still be alive. No one wants zombie goats."
EE noticed the highway sign and spoke up. "Uh driver. It's Newark airport, not Kennedy."
"Aw shit! You shoulda said 'Newark' when you got in. Now it's goin' to take two hours to get to Newark."
"I'm so lucky."
"Don't go all pearl clutchy fella. You'll make your flight. This gives me time to tell you all about my climax. I got a really fierce orgasmic ending. It's kinda like Macheath's not being hung, but instead of Deus Queen Lizzy as Machina, I give'em a walkin', talkin' Clenis issuing a pardon."
"Driver, you can let me out here."
--Dave F.
Cab Ride 5
Just come from the writing conference, 'ave yer, gov? Thought so. Bet that was a barrel of laughs, knowwhatImean? All them authors.
Bet none of them was any quality, right, knowwhatImean gov? Bet none of them had a romantic paranormal thriller, 139,000 words, title "Intercourse with the Vampire", Mrs. 'Oskins at the writing group said it was dead good. Bet none of them 'ad class like that, knowwhatImean gov?
I blame all them foreigners, knowwhatImean gov? All them Europeans. Them bloody Portuguese, comin' over 'ere, nicking our Nobel Prizes. And them bloody Swedes are worse.
I mean, who wants to read all that lit'rary stuff, when they could be readin' a romantic paranormal thriller, 139,000 words, title "Intercourse with the Vampire", Mrs. 'Iggins at the post office said it was dead good an' all? Well? But them bloody European litr'ary types 'ave got it all stitched up, knowwhatImean gov?
I mean, I can't even find a bloody agent these days, knowwhatImean gov? Things was different in the old days. I 'ad that Miss Snark in the back of me cab once. Straight up. You can still see the stiletto marks in the ceiling, knowwhatImean gov?
But you can't get a bloody agent for love nor money these days, knowwhatImean gov? Not even for proper quality like a romantic paranormal thriller, 139,000 words, title "Intercourse with the Vampire", Mrs. 'Arris down the supermarket said she'd never seen nuffink like it.
I mean, I blame the EEC, knowwhatImean gov? Prob'ly got a lit'rary fiction quota or sumfink like that. Everyone's got to read that Portuguese lit'rary stuff, there's no room for yer home-grown writer, knowwhatImean gov?
.... Gov?
.... Gov?
Bloody 'ell, 'e's done a runner. Fifth one this week. Bastards.
--Steve Wright
Bet none of them was any quality, right, knowwhatImean gov? Bet none of them had a romantic paranormal thriller, 139,000 words, title "Intercourse with the Vampire", Mrs. 'Oskins at the writing group said it was dead good. Bet none of them 'ad class like that, knowwhatImean gov?
I blame all them foreigners, knowwhatImean gov? All them Europeans. Them bloody Portuguese, comin' over 'ere, nicking our Nobel Prizes. And them bloody Swedes are worse.
I mean, who wants to read all that lit'rary stuff, when they could be readin' a romantic paranormal thriller, 139,000 words, title "Intercourse with the Vampire", Mrs. 'Iggins at the post office said it was dead good an' all? Well? But them bloody European litr'ary types 'ave got it all stitched up, knowwhatImean gov?
I mean, I can't even find a bloody agent these days, knowwhatImean gov? Things was different in the old days. I 'ad that Miss Snark in the back of me cab once. Straight up. You can still see the stiletto marks in the ceiling, knowwhatImean gov?
But you can't get a bloody agent for love nor money these days, knowwhatImean gov? Not even for proper quality like a romantic paranormal thriller, 139,000 words, title "Intercourse with the Vampire", Mrs. 'Arris down the supermarket said she'd never seen nuffink like it.
I mean, I blame the EEC, knowwhatImean gov? Prob'ly got a lit'rary fiction quota or sumfink like that. Everyone's got to read that Portuguese lit'rary stuff, there's no room for yer home-grown writer, knowwhatImean gov?
.... Gov?
.... Gov?
Bloody 'ell, 'e's done a runner. Fifth one this week. Bastards.
--Steve Wright
Cab Ride 4
Airport, eh? What're you, a pilot?
No.
Baggage handler? Flight attendant? You don't drive one of them carts around with the beeping noise, do you? That'd drive me crazy.
No.
Well shit, what're you goin to the airport for?
I'm a passenger on a plane, you idiot.
Oh yeah, right. Shoulda guessed. Where you headin?
Home.
Here on vacation?
No.
Business?
Yes.
What business?
I'm an editor.
Hey, I'm a writer! My novel's about the world's tallest midget.
Fascinating . . . Uh, how tall is he?
5 foot 9.
Tall. For a midget.
He starts a traveling circus freak show, but everyone in it is just a normal-looking person. There's him and there's the world's shortest giant, the world's thinnest fat lady, the world's handsomest elephant man.
So it's a scam.
Supposedly, but it turns out the show is a hit and everyone who comes just stands there laughing and staring at the normal-looking people like they're really freaks. The "freaks" can't handle it, even though they're rolling in dough.
Enough. Be quiet a minute, I need to make a phone call . . . . Hello, Mrs. Varmighan? It's me . . . No, Evil Editor! . . . I don't care if I sound like Harrison Ford, just listen. Get the Coen brothers on the phone. Tell them I've got them another winner.
--Evil Editor
No.
Baggage handler? Flight attendant? You don't drive one of them carts around with the beeping noise, do you? That'd drive me crazy.
No.
Well shit, what're you goin to the airport for?
I'm a passenger on a plane, you idiot.
Oh yeah, right. Shoulda guessed. Where you headin?
Home.
Here on vacation?
No.
Business?
Yes.
What business?
I'm an editor.
Hey, I'm a writer! My novel's about the world's tallest midget.
Fascinating . . . Uh, how tall is he?
5 foot 9.
Tall. For a midget.
He starts a traveling circus freak show, but everyone in it is just a normal-looking person. There's him and there's the world's shortest giant, the world's thinnest fat lady, the world's handsomest elephant man.
So it's a scam.
Supposedly, but it turns out the show is a hit and everyone who comes just stands there laughing and staring at the normal-looking people like they're really freaks. The "freaks" can't handle it, even though they're rolling in dough.
Enough. Be quiet a minute, I need to make a phone call . . . . Hello, Mrs. Varmighan? It's me . . . No, Evil Editor! . . . I don't care if I sound like Harrison Ford, just listen. Get the Coen brothers on the phone. Tell them I've got them another winner.
--Evil Editor
Cab Ride 3
"Lotta traffic coming and going from the hotel today." The cab driver slammed the trunk closed.
Geoffrey murmured something that sounded vaguely like agreement. He didn't want to talk. All he'd done for the past three days was listen to aspiring writers tell him why their novel was the next “big thing”. He was tired of smiling and feigning interest, knowing that even though these writers were passionate about their works, they didn't have that elusive ... it.
They rode in blessed silence for too short a time.
“So, you a writer?”
“No, editor.” Damn! Why had he answered?
“Really?”
OK, here it comes.
“You know, I got an idea for a book …”
He sighed and prayed for patience.
“Everybody tells me I should write it. Says it’s like nothing else…”
Of course, it isn’t.
“It’s about this cab driver …”
Really? Shocking!
“…and all the weirdoes that he picks up in his cab …”
Never heard that one before.
“…and one night he picks up this couple and they start makin’ it in the backseat of the cab …”
Oh, women’s fiction?
“…but it turns out they’ve just killed the chick’s husband …”
That’s … different.
“…and he overhears them talking about it.”
Who? The dead husband?
“Whaddaya think?”
They pulled up in front of the airport terminal. Geoffrey forced another smile and opened his wallet as he stepped out of the cab. Handing the cabbie his fare and a tip, he tried to sound sincere.
“Here’s my card. Send me a query and remind me of our conversation.”
“Hey, thanks!”
As he followed the skycap into the terminal, he smiled to himself. The sheer joy on the cabbie’s face was enough to ease his headache if only for as long as the walk to the security checkpoint.
--JosiJodiBaby
Geoffrey murmured something that sounded vaguely like agreement. He didn't want to talk. All he'd done for the past three days was listen to aspiring writers tell him why their novel was the next “big thing”. He was tired of smiling and feigning interest, knowing that even though these writers were passionate about their works, they didn't have that elusive ... it.
They rode in blessed silence for too short a time.
“So, you a writer?”
“No, editor.” Damn! Why had he answered?
“Really?”
OK, here it comes.
“You know, I got an idea for a book …”
He sighed and prayed for patience.
“Everybody tells me I should write it. Says it’s like nothing else…”
Of course, it isn’t.
“It’s about this cab driver …”
Really? Shocking!
“…and all the weirdoes that he picks up in his cab …”
Never heard that one before.
“…and one night he picks up this couple and they start makin’ it in the backseat of the cab …”
Oh, women’s fiction?
“…but it turns out they’ve just killed the chick’s husband …”
That’s … different.
“…and he overhears them talking about it.”
Who? The dead husband?
“Whaddaya think?”
They pulled up in front of the airport terminal. Geoffrey forced another smile and opened his wallet as he stepped out of the cab. Handing the cabbie his fare and a tip, he tried to sound sincere.
“Here’s my card. Send me a query and remind me of our conversation.”
“Hey, thanks!”
As he followed the skycap into the terminal, he smiled to himself. The sheer joy on the cabbie’s face was enough to ease his headache if only for as long as the walk to the security checkpoint.
--JosiJodiBaby
Cab Ride 2
God, I was glad the convention was finally over. I slid into the back of the taxi, let go a long sigh of relief, and said one word, “Airport.”
Unfortunately, the cab had barely rumbled out into the street before the driver cranked his head around and opened his yap.
“Say, you're that Evil Editor guy, aren't you?”
I gave him the barest of nods.
“It’s great to meet you! My name’s Kim Luckman, but I hate that name. My friends all call me…”
“Let me guess, Lucky.”
“No. Spike,” he said, taking off his cap to reveal a Mohawk haircut greased into multi-colored spikes. “Anyways, the reason this is so cool is that I’ve written a great book, and since we have a twenty minute ride to the airport, I can tell you all about it. What could be better than that?”
:”Something like, KEEPING YOU EYES ON THE ROAD!”
Spike gave a glance forward. “Shit!” he yelped, simultaneously swerving, blasting the horn, and flashing the finger. He laughed, turning back around again. “Alright, so back to the book. See, it’s about this old lady who’s got crazy tattoos and rides a Harley Sportster, who takes a tour across the badlands and meets up with some Hell’s Angels who give her shit because she has a big stuffed lion named Linus riding in her sidecar. Remember that old cartoon song from the sixties – ‘Linus the King, Linus the Star, Linus the Lion Hearted!’”
“How could I ever forget that?”
“Yeah, I figure this story has it all: A feisty old lady, a loveable lion, some crazy Hell’s angels, and…”
“Hopefully not an orangutan named Clyde.”
“No. Just a run-in with a pack of weredingos
“WEREDINGOS!” I exclaimed, pulling a contract from my briefcase. “I like the sound of that!”
--Mark Mosher
Unfortunately, the cab had barely rumbled out into the street before the driver cranked his head around and opened his yap.
“Say, you're that Evil Editor guy, aren't you?”
I gave him the barest of nods.
“It’s great to meet you! My name’s Kim Luckman, but I hate that name. My friends all call me…”
“Let me guess, Lucky.”
“No. Spike,” he said, taking off his cap to reveal a Mohawk haircut greased into multi-colored spikes. “Anyways, the reason this is so cool is that I’ve written a great book, and since we have a twenty minute ride to the airport, I can tell you all about it. What could be better than that?”
:”Something like, KEEPING YOU EYES ON THE ROAD!”
Spike gave a glance forward. “Shit!” he yelped, simultaneously swerving, blasting the horn, and flashing the finger. He laughed, turning back around again. “Alright, so back to the book. See, it’s about this old lady who’s got crazy tattoos and rides a Harley Sportster, who takes a tour across the badlands and meets up with some Hell’s Angels who give her shit because she has a big stuffed lion named Linus riding in her sidecar. Remember that old cartoon song from the sixties – ‘Linus the King, Linus the Star, Linus the Lion Hearted!’”
“How could I ever forget that?”
“Yeah, I figure this story has it all: A feisty old lady, a loveable lion, some crazy Hell’s angels, and…”
“Hopefully not an orangutan named Clyde.”
“No. Just a run-in with a pack of weredingos
“WEREDINGOS!” I exclaimed, pulling a contract from my briefcase. “I like the sound of that!”
--Mark Mosher
Cab Ride 1
“Nice weather. The trees are wilting with their luminous leaves.”
EE looks up, alert like corn at the sound of a locust. He belatedly notices the cab driver’s spectacles, and the calluses on his thumbs from hitting the space bar repeatedly. EE’s joke that a writer would be desperate enough to pose as a cab driver and kidnap him in order to worm his way into a contract has become reality! He lunges for the door. The locks slam up. He tugs at the handle, but it doesn’t move. EE relaxes back into his seat with pretended nonchalance. He even checks his manicure. “That’s good, real good. You ever consider becoming a writer?” he asks with no trace of sarcasm.
Cab driver glances at EE in the mirror. “Yeah, funny you ask. 5000 rejection letters for my masterpiece, “Lord of Flatulence.” I’m still waiting for a response from a guy called Evil Editor. It’s my last chance. Do you know him?”
Evil Editor shrugs. “No, but he’s a big cheese. They say he would eat writers for lunch, but they aren’t rich enough.” Evil Editor discreetly checks the door handle again, yup, locked.
Cab driver says, “Lord of Flatulence is a 124,895 word epistle on the loveliness of frogs in the sunshine. It is a classic romance which will sell millions of copies.”
Evil Editor nods. “Sounds like beans on toast. A real bestseller.” He mutters, “If we were all frogs.”
Continues cab driver, “I also have another novel entitled “The Loveliness of Cab Drivers,” 35,678 words, more or less. A cab driver walks into a bar and….”
Evil Editor interrupts. “Really good. You should teach this stuff.” He jimmies the lock with his Evil Editor Writer Escape Kit, lifts one eyebrow, and escapes into the sunset.
--Anonymous
EE looks up, alert like corn at the sound of a locust. He belatedly notices the cab driver’s spectacles, and the calluses on his thumbs from hitting the space bar repeatedly. EE’s joke that a writer would be desperate enough to pose as a cab driver and kidnap him in order to worm his way into a contract has become reality! He lunges for the door. The locks slam up. He tugs at the handle, but it doesn’t move. EE relaxes back into his seat with pretended nonchalance. He even checks his manicure. “That’s good, real good. You ever consider becoming a writer?” he asks with no trace of sarcasm.
Cab driver glances at EE in the mirror. “Yeah, funny you ask. 5000 rejection letters for my masterpiece, “Lord of Flatulence.” I’m still waiting for a response from a guy called Evil Editor. It’s my last chance. Do you know him?”
Evil Editor shrugs. “No, but he’s a big cheese. They say he would eat writers for lunch, but they aren’t rich enough.” Evil Editor discreetly checks the door handle again, yup, locked.
Cab driver says, “Lord of Flatulence is a 124,895 word epistle on the loveliness of frogs in the sunshine. It is a classic romance which will sell millions of copies.”
Evil Editor nods. “Sounds like beans on toast. A real bestseller.” He mutters, “If we were all frogs.”
Continues cab driver, “I also have another novel entitled “The Loveliness of Cab Drivers,” 35,678 words, more or less. A cab driver walks into a bar and….”
Evil Editor interrupts. “Really good. You should teach this stuff.” He jimmies the lock with his Evil Editor Writer Escape Kit, lifts one eyebrow, and escapes into the sunset.
--Anonymous
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Friday, September 25, 2009
Book Chat 19
Book Chat 19: Jose Saramago/Death with Interruptions
September, 2009Evil Editor said...Welcome Book chatters. Before we start, breaking news: the author of our October book, Sway, is hoping to join our chat. That means we could have the author present for five of our next seven books. Not this one, however; I couldn't afford a translator.
Dave F. said...The moth on the cover of the hardback is a Death's Head Moth. Hannibal Lecter made it famous.
Evil Editor said...Perhaps we can start by discussing the overall makeup of the book, by which I mean the fact that the main character (the main human character: the cellist) doesn't show up until more than halfway through, and up till then it's mainly setup. Of course the setup is an intriguing one; is it intriguing enough to hold your attention until the cellist arrives?
Robin S. said...I liked the extended setup and what it says about social constructs.
Dave F. said...The Cellist arrived about the time I was tiring of the satire. 100 pages of satirizing government and officials was fun and wicked but it reached a point of so what.
Evil Editor said...I thought by changing the situation from no one dying to one-week notices to the inexplicable returned letters he kept it interesting. If it had stuck with no one dying I'd have gotten sick of it, but the one week notice of your death was an even more intriguing situation to consider.
Robin S. said...I agree about the interest - and i also think this book shows that the 'showing, not telling' rule can be turned on its ear by a good enough storyteller.
Dave F. said...At first I was giggling at the razor sharp skewering of the government and various groups - organized crime and undertakers and family relations. After a while I was left wondering where the story was going.
Steve Wright said...Felt to me as if Saramago had milked the initial situation for all it was worth, so decided to change direction abruptly ...
Dave F. said...No "death" was easier than "one week's notice"... I'm not sure that I would want to know even a week in advance of any death. well, in fact I have known a week in advance that a relative is going to die and it isn't fun. There is a gradual personalization of "death" as feminine and as something more than just the grim reaper.
Robin S. said...I've seen death handled both ways, by totally different people. One took it on the chin, said it was time, and those of us who loved her went in to her room alone to say goodbye. I've never been more impressed with a human being as I was with her. The second wouldn't go in a hospital room to say goodbye to her husband, who was not conscious, because she 'just couldn't see him'. So that meant others had to take care of it all. Depends upon the inner strength of the person, and if they have huge regrets, or not, I think. Which is why I find the topic so fascinating, I suppose.
Evil Editor said...It seems like when we do literary fiction we keep running into authors who take liberties with punctuation. It took a while to get used to the lack of paragraphing in dialogue and the dearth of periods. Is this common in his books, or is it meant to show something in this book?
sylvia said...The syntax in Blindness is the same, conversation in a single paragraph without full punctuation: As the blind man had said, his home was nearby. But the pavements were crammed with vehicles, they could not find a space to park and were obliged to look for a spot in one of the side streets. There, because of the narrowness of the pavement, the door on the passenger’s side would have been little more than a hand’s-breadth from the wall, so in order to avoid the discomfort of dragging himself from one seat to the other with the brake and steering wheel in the way, the blind man had to get out before the car was parked. Abandoned in the middle of the road, feeling the ground shifting under his feet, he tried to suppress the sense of panic that welled up inside him. He waved his hands in front of his face, nervously, as if he were swimming in what he had described as a milky sea, but his mouth was already opening to let out a cry for help when at the last minute he felt the other’s hand gently touch him on the arm, Calm down, I’ve got you. They proceeded very slowly, afraid of falling, the blind man dragged his feet, but this caused him to stumble on the uneven pavement, Be patient, we’re almost there, the other murmured, and a little further ahead, he asked, Is there anyone at home to look after you, and the blind man replied, I don’t know, my wife won’t be back from work yet, today it so happened that I left earlier only to have this hit me. You’ll see, it isn’t anything serious, I’ve never heard of anyone suddenly going blind, And to think I used to boast that I didn’t even need glasses, Well it just goes to show.
Evil Editor said...Thanks for saving me a trip to Amazon, Sylvia. While I may not know why he doesn't paragraph more etc., it's interesting that I eventually adapted. As I got used to Rushdie and Auster.
Dave F. said...That's why I asked about his writing style in Portuguese and the translation. I wondered how well his style was preserved and maintained from language to language. I also still wonder if there is some verbal or poetic quality to his Portuguese that doesn't translate. My first reaction to the page of type was "my eyes are going to hurt for two weeks thanks to this" ...
sylvia said...I had real issues with the style, I have to admit. I tend to read before bed and the syntax, with the very long sentences and two page paragraphs, seemed to act like a sleeping draught on me.
Dave F. said...I can read this style very fast. I want to read it slow because of the deliciousness of the story and the meanness of the satire.
Robin S. said...There's a really interesting passage on page 146 of the paperback. Blends several things I liked about the book...Sorta what you're talkng about EE- the lack of capitalization - say for the catholic church, senies institutions high standing. Makes them part of the fray. And what S. says on this page about death - that people needed a spiritual tranquilizer, even those who hadn't needed one before. I like it that he doesn't pull any punches about the human condition, and I think his lack of common use of caps and punctuation speaks to that.
Evil Editor said...There was a short passage in which the narrator said something about Death not needing to worry about punctuation or something like that. Made me wonder if Death was the narrator. If nothing else, lack of paragraphing cuts printing costs. Putting dialogue in paragraphs would have added 50 pages.
Steve Wright said...I may be playing devil's advocate on this one - I was much less impressed than I was expecting to be. I know lots of people rate this Saramago bloke, but surely that can't be based on this one? The cynic in me remembers Scott Adams talking about how you tend to over-value things you've paid a high cost for. Is it possible, my inner cynic wonders, that people over-value Saramago because his style makes him hard to read? (I don't think the lack of capitalization and inverted commas actually adds anything ... It does make for a different reading experience, but different isn't necessarily good.)
sylvia said...Steve: I think your dislike of it doesn't mean that other people are overvaluing it necessarily :)
Steve Wright said...I didn't exactly dislike it ... It's more a case of me wondering what all the fuss is about. The "skewering" of authority figures would be more convincing if those authority figures came across - to me - as anything more than straw men. And the overall situation - well, to a genre-dwelling bottom-feeder like myself, it all seemed too familiar. Demographic effects of unnatural longevity? John Wyndham did it in Trouble with Lichen. Death as hot babe? Neil Gaiman's Sandman. Death getting too involved with mortal life? Terry Pratchett, passim. It made it seem rather ... stale. To me, anyway.
Dave F. said...I thought about "death" as a character when I wrote that short story last year. One can ascribe all sorts of powers and abilites and limitations to Death. Take the Ghost of Future Christmas in Dickens or Terry Pratchett's HogFather with Death playing Santa Claus, or the Nightmare before Christmas and The Corpse Bride. By the way, Neil Gaiman's SANDMAN deals with Morpheus, the lord of dreams and not Death, although Death is a character in the books.
Sylvia said...I found it quite readable once I got used to the idea but as I say, it also seemed to make my eyes slide down the page until the next thing I knew, it was morning and I had page prints on my forehead.
Robin S. said...I can't remember where I read it, but I remembering reading that this wasn't one of his 'best'. I enjoyed it - if that's the correct word - but I agree, Sylvia - this is not the right prose for right before bed. I'd need something easier to digest for that. I reread old favorites or something, so I don't have to really take in what I'm reading. Reading this novel was a job, but with rewards - but I had to be on my game to catch it all. I had to read in pieces because of that.
Evil Editor said...I Googled our book and read two reviews. The New York Times reviewer said it wasn't one of his best, while the New Yorker reviewer liked it a lot.
The idea of setting up a situation and detailing the ramifications as in this book and Blindness is what's happening in the new TV show Flash Forward. Anyone else see it?
Dave F. said...Yes, I watched Flashforward. I unfortunately read a bad review of flashforward which spoiled it somewhat. The review was bad, written by an idiot, not the show.
Robin S. said...I haven't seen the show. Is it about people being warned what's gonna happen to them?
Dave F. said...Flashforward asks the question "if you knew the future, could you change ir or are we predestined to live it out?"
Evil Editor said...Everyone on Earth blacks out for a couple minutes and lives a couple minutes of their future.
Robin S. said...I'm not a believer in predestination, exactly, but then neither do I think we have absolute free will, given our personal circumstances and raising.
Dave F. said...Saramago asks that same question in the violet envelopes. She assumes that everyone will be happy to put their affairs in order and calmly meet death, making amends and ordering life's end...yeah, right sure.
Dave F. said...I like the story and I like appreciate the way he wrote it. But it reinforces my belief that all these "rules" promulgated about books being this way or that way are just foolish barriers. It's a form of hazing set up by agents (who don't write books) and teachers (who write textbooks for sale) to keep themselves in business. Now that's a little cynical even for me.
Robin S. said...Dave, I agree. The prose if good enough (and once you have a good reputation) can be done mnhy more ways than the rule guys tell us. Like the telling not showing done so well here, in my opinion.
Dave F. said...The other very cynical statement is that if you tell a good story, no one cares that the writing is goofy. ala Dan Brown and Harry Potter.
_*Rachel*_ said...Dave, I think you'll agree the writing definitely matters. One book I read, for example, had a really good premise (one I'd tried to use before, too). Somewhat awkward writing and characters who struck me as way too obvious and predictable. IE, I could tell the book's ending by the time I'd met the girl, her boyfriend, and her boyfriend's friend. So, no matter what the story, the writing matters.
Dave F. said...Yes Rachel, I was being confrontational in my statements.
sylvia said...We've had exactly 1.5 inches of rain but this being Spain, the power has gone out. If it doesn't come back soon, I'll disappear without warning. If so, sorry! I think Saramago really showed me that you better be damn good at what you are doing if you are going to start ignoring conventions.
Dave F. said...By the way, this is the plot of the old movie "Death takes a Holiday" where death does take corporeal form and falls in love. In that we actually get a dinner where the young lady introduces death to her parents.
_*Rachel*_ said...As far as books with death as a character/narrator go, there's The Book Thief. That was a good one.
Evil Editor said...We seem to be discussing the premise and ignoring the cellist. Is he just another character like the family at the beginning? Or is he the focus of the whole book?
Dave F. said...It's a love story. Death has an affair thanks to some unknown power causing one of her letters to be returned.
Robin S. said...I don't think the cellist is the focus as much as I think death is the main character and her love for this man give the book a humanity at the end.
Dave F. said...The cellist? That's what musicians do when they perform. They pour everything of their being into the performance and that makes great music.I've had season tickets to the Pittsburgh Symphony for 30 years and I know what happens on stage when they all play as one.
Robin S. said...Steve - are you glad you read it?
Steve Wright said...Robin - on balance, yes. If nothing else, it makes me want to read more of Saramago, just to find out what makes people think he's so good. It is well-written, obviously. It just seemed rather slight. To me.
Robin S. said...Steve, After I read the novel, I dug around to find out about Saramago, who, I'm unhappy to admit, I hand't heard of. Fascinating life, and you can catch reasons behind the subjects he chooses.
Dave F. said...There's a DVD out there of the Pittsburgh Symphony playing Mahler's 2nd for Pope John Paul 6, and they play their fingers to the bone (to borrow a phrase). You can see it in the musicians attitude and you can hear it in the hall. Nothing is more emotional or spectacular. That's the magic of live performance.
Evil Editor said...I know what you mean Dave. I attended a couple Grateful Dead concerts back in the day.
Robin S. said...EE a Dead Head. How about that?
Dave F. said...We know in a live performance when it really works. So can the Grateful Dead. They transcend the venue and become something more. That's our cellist.
Face-Lift 677
Guess the Plot
Lily of the Lamplight
1. Lily the Moth's affection for Rupert, the lightbulb who hangs out over the porch, is red hot, but it quickly flames out.
2. Everyone in town knows that the ghost of Lily Lawrence lurks by the streetlight near Shady Acres Cemetery. Jaden and Mike have rounded up cameras and recorders. They're going to prove Lily is real . . . or die trying.
3. Oliver uses his sexy neighbor Lily as the model for a character in the video game he's designing. When Lily disappears, Oliver is suspected of murdering her. If only he'd used his other neighbor, Zelda.
4. When 17-year-old Steve gets into botany and turns the basement into an ultraviolet growing chamber, his mother has mixed feelings. It's great that he's taken an interest in science, but this obsession with horticulture? Won't his classmates tease him? Yet suddenly he's Mr. Popular.
5. Lily Maury spends her retirement collecting antique lamps and reflecting on the past that wasn't, while her family plots to get rid of the junk and dump her in an elderly care facility.
6. Growing up over her parent's pub might look like fun to the other kids, but Lily's room is right over the loo and she's sick of listening to people puke. She embarks on a campaign to turn the Lamplight into the first alcohol-free pub in Britain.
Original Version
Dear Evil Editor,
I would love for you to consider my 60,000 word YA suspense novel, Lily of the Lamplight.
Oliver believes he’s about to have the best summer of his life. He’s graduated from high school, working as a video game tester, and living in downtown Seattle with his best friend, Max. [Not to nitpick, but "He's" is short for "He has" in this sentence. If you change "graduated from" to "finished with," it would be "He is," which works with "working" and "living." Or you can keep "He's graduated from" but change the rest to "gotten a job testing video games and moved to downtown," so everything works with "He has." Or do nothing and assume no one cares.] He and Max are designing a video game that must be finished by the end of the summer in order to gain acceptance to an elite gaming academy [The last thing you want is to settle for a lower-class gaming academy where they teach you to program Pong.] in Seattle, and thus, live the dream of spending their entire lives with an XBOX control in their hands. [Good plan. I remember when I was living the dream of spending my entire life with an Atari control in my hands. How'd that work out?]
But, Oliver makes the dual mistake of using his beautiful neighbor as model for his kick-ass cyber heroine and falling in love with her. After she goes missing, he discovers real women are far more dangerous than virtual ones when he finds himself the number one suspect in her death. [How long has she been missing? How do they know she's dead? And who are these real women who are dangerous?]
I worked in video games both as a freelance writer for Nintendo Power Magazine [I've never forgiven Nintendo Power for not rating The Lost Vikings as the best game ever.] and as a video game tester. This is my first novel.
Thank you,
Notes
You might want to mention that the neighbor's name is Lily (if it is).
This is all set-up. Here's my character, here's his situation. But what actually happens? Do they find a body? What evidence do they have against Oliver? Are there other suspects? Has Lily magically disappeared into the video game? What's Oliver doing to clear his name? Is there a bad guy? Is Oliver in danger? Where's the suspense?
The good news is it doesn't seem to be based on a video game or on your most recent game of Dungeons and Dragons.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
New Beginning 688
“Don’t drive out there with all that trouble. Don’t go,” is what people said.
But other people couldn’t help themselves. They had to go.
People called it the hellhole highway, and they weren’t kidding.
Sometimes people called it that because it sounded good when they said it, like they knew what they were talking about, saying it and smiling big and nodding when they said it.
Sometimes they said it because it proved they watched the 11:00 o’clock news and they were informed; and it proved they didn’t live out in the South End with the assembly-line workers and the knifings and the drunks.
But mostly, mixed in with the other reasons, they called it that to warn their good girls about what could happen to them in a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am kind of way without warning if they found themselves driving out close to that end of the county line, out by the rundown tinderbox houses and the human-built sludge of shopping strips and the tacky string of neon signs fired up at night like a mad carnival place.
Yes, people did like to talk about the hellhole highway. They did talk, and that is what they did.
She ponders this as she applies her bright-red lipstick. Janice Baddington can't say no to the hellhole highway. It attracts her more than she can stand.
Tonight, a full moon; beads of sweat gather on her smooth brow like pearls on a string. Her keys flash in the silvery pale moonlight and she slides into her car, one long leg after the other. She is ready to watch and to wait and to hope . . . for trouble.
The drive is long. Long to the South End, to the hellhole highway. Sometimes people call the drive a writhing snake. Janice Baddington prefers to call it “Justice.”
She turns on the car radio. Madonna belts out “Like a Virgin" as Badd--for that is what she prefers to call herself--drives past the tacky string of all-night porn shops, past the rundown, 24-hour pawn shops with their prison bar windows, past the machine-built sludge of doughnut shops with their cop cars out front like piglets suckling at a sow's teats.
The hellhole highway is the colon of the South End. But how else is Janice Baddington supposed to get to the Wal-Mart?
Opening: Robin S......Continuation: Anon./EE/Stacy
But other people couldn’t help themselves. They had to go.
People called it the hellhole highway, and they weren’t kidding.
Sometimes people called it that because it sounded good when they said it, like they knew what they were talking about, saying it and smiling big and nodding when they said it.
Sometimes they said it because it proved they watched the 11:00 o’clock news and they were informed; and it proved they didn’t live out in the South End with the assembly-line workers and the knifings and the drunks.
But mostly, mixed in with the other reasons, they called it that to warn their good girls about what could happen to them in a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am kind of way without warning if they found themselves driving out close to that end of the county line, out by the rundown tinderbox houses and the human-built sludge of shopping strips and the tacky string of neon signs fired up at night like a mad carnival place.
Yes, people did like to talk about the hellhole highway. They did talk, and that is what they did.
She ponders this as she applies her bright-red lipstick. Janice Baddington can't say no to the hellhole highway. It attracts her more than she can stand.
Tonight, a full moon; beads of sweat gather on her smooth brow like pearls on a string. Her keys flash in the silvery pale moonlight and she slides into her car, one long leg after the other. She is ready to watch and to wait and to hope . . . for trouble.
The drive is long. Long to the South End, to the hellhole highway. Sometimes people call the drive a writhing snake. Janice Baddington prefers to call it “Justice.”
She turns on the car radio. Madonna belts out “Like a Virgin" as Badd--for that is what she prefers to call herself--drives past the tacky string of all-night porn shops, past the rundown, 24-hour pawn shops with their prison bar windows, past the machine-built sludge of doughnut shops with their cop cars out front like piglets suckling at a sow's teats.
The hellhole highway is the colon of the South End. But how else is Janice Baddington supposed to get to the Wal-Mart?
Opening: Robin S......Continuation: Anon./EE/Stacy
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Distillery
Leah Libresco sent this link to a page that should help you distill your plot, no matter what it is, into one sentence.
Face-Lift 676
Guess the Plot
Gifted
1. When the package arrives, Ernestine believes it is her long-overdue oven-mitts, until a vaporous genie wafts out and volunteers to fix her problems with Stan. Unsure about trusting her love-life to a mirage, she suggests they start with a new career in optometry and the genie agrees. Hilarity ensues.
2. When Santa and the reindeer crash on Christmas Eve, all the cavemen are excited about the sudden abundance of free food. Mugoo fires up the barbeque while Santa searches the snow for his broken time turner so he can get back to the right century and save Christmas. Plus, seven angry elves.
3. Laura Lowman is a genius high school student. Bullied mercilessly, she welcomes the chance to join a local community organization for other brilliant but asocial teens. When it turns out the organization is planning a bloody revenge on the dumber students, will Laura join in or help her classmates?
4. "Gifted" Anna Foster has to build Wankel rotary engines in the cellar blindfolded just to get her parents' attention. She's ready to end it all, until science club co-geek Brian Flanders spots her in the drug store and stays her self-destructive hand as it reaches for the blond hair dye.
5. Fresh out of high school, Celeste Hopewell is offered a position leading an organization that serves people with supernatural powers. What the heck, it's gotta be more interesting than going to college.
6. Something sinister is afoot when the insurance office does its Secret Santa drawing and everyone draws Lucretia's name. Lucretia gets 35 gifts -- and a bullet in the head. Only mailroom boy Clark Cooper can both solve the mystery and deal with the Returns office at Macy's.
Original Version
Dear Ms. ___________,
I recently read the write up on the Paranormalcy book deal to HarperTeen in Publishers Weekly. I believe that you will find my book fits in a similar vein commercially.
Celeste Hopewell, a telepathic ‘09 high school graduate, is forced to discern [decide] whether she should act for the greater good or pursue her own dreams when she is recruited as the successor to an ancient and clandestine organization [One person is recruited as the successor to an entire organization?] that protects the secrecy of Gifteds, a race of people who have supernatural powers. [TMI] [Usually when I say TMI it's because people are telling me things about themselves that I really don't want to know. In this case, however, it's because that sentence contains more information than the average agent can process without losing consciousness.] She finds love, both encouraged and forbidden, in two vastly different men and is forced to choose between the two [If you're given two choices, and one of them is forbidden, there's no problem at all:
when the existence of Gifteds and humans is threatened. GIFTED is a 90,000 word young adult adventure novel steeped in romance with a strong female protagonist.
I started my own business at age 22, Puppy Cake, LLC, using my degree in International Business and Marketing from Grove City College (’07). [TMI.] Channeling my vivacious imagination [No no no no no. If you want the agent to know you have a vivacious imagination, demonstrate it by summarizing a vivaciously imaginative plot.] and the flexibility of entrepreneurship allowed me to write my first novel. I currently live with my husband and two [extremely fat] dogs in Pittsburgh, PA.
I greatly appreciate your time and consideration. More information about GIFTED and the first three chapters are available on my website _____________. I am prepared to send the full manuscript upon request. [If there's any information on your website that would make me want to read your book, it should be in the query where there's a chance I'll see it.]
Sincerely,
Notes
You have three sentences about you, and two about what happens in your book. Admittedly one of the latter is long enough to be a paragraph, but all we know is that Celeste is a high school grad who must decide between the good of the many and the good of the one, and between the sexy bad boy and the nerdish nice guy. And we already know nice guys finish last.
I want to see a mix of eight simple and compound sentences in which you tell me what happens. Here are some things you might bring in: Why is Celeste chosen? What does she use her telepathy for? What are these supernatural powers the Gifteds have? Is one of them Aquaman? Who are these two men vying for Celeste's love? And most importantly, what is it that's threatening the existence of Gifteds and humans?
Protecting the secrecy of the Gifteds' existence doesn't seem so important now that I know everyone's about to die. I thus assume revealing their existence is what puts everyone at risk. If that's the crux of your plot, explain it. What's the danger, who's the bad guy, and what's our plan? We do have a plan, right, a million-to-one shot at survival?
If you're an ancient organization charged with keeping a secret from the world, the last thing you're gonna do is tell a seventeen-year-old kid the secret.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
New Beginning 687
Coach Chahuank greeted me. He had an amazing deep red complexion. "You're going to tell me you want to win," he said. He knew my thoughts before I knew them, a man of second-sight, sibylline even. I wanted to be the quintessential older athlete who might never have the full bloom of youth again but could still be a champion. In this, the most important interview of my life, I filled myself with bravado.
"I want to be the best ever," my answer.
"The Olympic team might have accepted you but for that video."
"Supposed to be private. I sued the distributor but the internet protects anonymous real well. I'm not proud of it and I won't apologize."
"It's one thing to wank for the camera. It's another to throw yourself at six men."
"An acting job. It paid four years of my Bachelors degree. One of the stupid old farts governing swimming actually called it the crime that dare not speak its name, like we're living in Victorian England."
"And the dolphin?"
"They told me it was a man in a suit. I didn't realize it was real until it was too late."
Chahuank nodded, slowly. "I guess that's understanda--"
"Their loss, it was. Look at me now. Third interview today, eleventh of the week. My fame precedes me like the feathers of a peacock walking backwards. Discipline, dedication, hard work, it's all very well, but for a shot at that elusive target--fame, fortune and your own reality show--follow Pamela, Paris, all the greats: whore yourself out on Youtube.
Opening: Dave F......Continuation: Khazar-khum/Anon.
"I want to be the best ever," my answer.
"The Olympic team might have accepted you but for that video."
"Supposed to be private. I sued the distributor but the internet protects anonymous real well. I'm not proud of it and I won't apologize."
"It's one thing to wank for the camera. It's another to throw yourself at six men."
"An acting job. It paid four years of my Bachelors degree. One of the stupid old farts governing swimming actually called it the crime that dare not speak its name, like we're living in Victorian England."
"And the dolphin?"
"They told me it was a man in a suit. I didn't realize it was real until it was too late."
Chahuank nodded, slowly. "I guess that's understanda--"
"Their loss, it was. Look at me now. Third interview today, eleventh of the week. My fame precedes me like the feathers of a peacock walking backwards. Discipline, dedication, hard work, it's all very well, but for a shot at that elusive target--fame, fortune and your own reality show--follow Pamela, Paris, all the greats: whore yourself out on Youtube.
Opening: Dave F......Continuation: Khazar-khum/Anon.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Face-Lift 675
Guess the PlotWereWhat?
1. Johnny Wilson tries to improve his love life through chemistry, but now he changes into something different every month. He's been a werewolf, a werellama, a werelion, a werevelociraptor.... Can he cure himself before his new girlfriend finds out?
2. Three baseball players named Who, What, and I Don't Know consult a pair of PR experts to find the perfect name for their team.
3. Jack Hoboken could have put up with everyone in his family turning into wereanimals if it weren't for the gargantuan lobsters. Can he convince them to leave Hobokenstone Manor before he gets pincered? Plus, torch-wielding villagers.
4. Detective Fred "Zombie" Jones must solve the mystery of the WereThing before it devours another tourist, or Miss Nannette will have to sell her chicken ranch to a mob of developers who plan to turn WhoVille into WhatNot.
5. Tina's crush on Todd is going nowhere as sinister forces counter the efforts of this wee lass. Plus, an army of diabolical robots, the WhoDo.
6. After joining the Peace Corps, Tilda struggles to comprehend existential philosophy in Romania. Plus a terrifying WhereWho.
7. O, Dingo, Dingo, Werefore art thou? When 16 year old Juliet Jones introduces her new boyfriend, Dingo Smith, to the wrinklies, they are not amused. When they catch a glimpse of him and Juliet naked under the harvest moon, they get their pitchforks. Hilarity ensues.
8. TimeiscompressedtoaninstantasBertquestionsthe
existenceofGODandtheBigBangatomizeshim.
Original Version
When the Hobokens learn they’ve inherited a mansion from a great aunt they didn’t know existed, 12-year-old Jack Henry thinks it’s just another move to yet another house.
But Hobokenstone Manor isn’t even close to anything he could have imagined. [This makes it sound like he was imagining something mildly fantastic.] It’s not so bad that it’s located by the sea [An awkward way of saying At least it wasn't near the sea.] (even if there are . . . shudder . . . lobsters). He could even learn to live with the fact that the rooms move and that there's no real comics store in town – eventually. Nope, it’s not until his entire family turns into WereAnimals at his belated birthday party that Jack Henry realizes life at the manor is even more complicated than the plot of The Gargoyle Knight vs. the Changeling Monster.
Now Jack Henry must face gargantuan lobsters, [Are they werelobsters, or is this a different problem altogether?] deal with the ghosts of his evil ancestors and convince his parents that turning into WereAnimals isn’t normal if he’s ever going to get his family out of Hobokenstone Manor and find somewhere they can call home. Of course, they have to make it past the pitchfork- and torch-wielding villagers first.
WereWhat?, an mid-grade novel, is complete at 60,000 words.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
(Author’s note: WereWhat? comes from the fact that each member of the Hoboken family turns into a different WereAnimal on the full moon and Hobokenstone Manor turns out to be a WereHouse that changes to fit the needs of each individual.)
Revised Version
When the Hobokens learn they’ve inherited a mansion from a great aunt they didn’t know existed, 12-year-old Jack Henry thinks it’s yet another move to yet another town with yet another school.
But Hobokenstone Manor is no ordinary house. For one thing, the rooms move around like puzzle pieces. And the place is haunted by the ghosts of Jack's evil ancestors. And let's not forget the gargantuan . . . shudder . . . lobsters.
He could live with all this, and maybe with the fact that there's no comics store in town. But when his entire family turn into WereAnimals at his birthday party, Jack Henry realizes life at the manor is even more complicated than the plot of his favorite book, The Gargoyle Knight vs. the Changeling Monster.
Now, if he’s ever going to get his family out of Hobokenstone Manor and find somewhere they can truly call home, Jack Henry must convince his parents that turning into WereAnimals isn’t normal. Of course, they'll also have to get past the pitchfork- and torch-wielding villagers.
WereHouse, a mid-grade novel, is complete at 60,000 words.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
Notes
It sounds like kids would enjoy the book. But the query is disorganized: no need to mention lobsters twice, the paragraph about the house not being normal has too much in it that's not on topic, too listy. It was easier to reorganize it than to pick at it.
It seems like if the family name is Hoboken, the house would be known as Hoboken Manor.
Apparently Jack's parents argue that turning into wereanimals is normal. That's odd, if it never happened until they moved here. Do they realize that they turn into wereanimals? Do they do bad things when they're wereanimals? Does Jack Henry change too?
WereHouse is a better title, unless it's already been used a lot.
It might be amusing to provide examples of the kinds of wereanimals the family change to. Presumably weredingo is one of them. It would be refreshing if none of them was a werewolf.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
PirateSpeak Sermon 9
"Avast, ye sons of biscuits," I shouted. "Our Cap'n may've drunk his last communion grog, but ye'll not be headin' home to watch TV sports, not till ye've heard a sermon, even if I must gie it meself."
The congregation groaned as one, but filed back into their seats.
"That be better, me hearties," I said. "I see the program be callin for a discussion of the parable of the lost sheep, but I've a tale ye might like better, ye scurvy dogs. 'Tis the parable of the lost ship, a tale I've told many a time elsewhere, but ne'er to this crowd. If someone would be dimmin the lights I'll get me slide show started. Arrrgh.
So thar ye have it, landlubbers. Now get yarrselves home and no sinnin till Monday arrgh ye'll be walkin the plank.
The congregation groaned as one, but filed back into their seats.
"That be better, me hearties," I said. "I see the program be callin for a discussion of the parable of the lost sheep, but I've a tale ye might like better, ye scurvy dogs. 'Tis the parable of the lost ship, a tale I've told many a time elsewhere, but ne'er to this crowd. If someone would be dimmin the lights I'll get me slide show started. Arrrgh.
So thar ye have it, landlubbers. Now get yarrselves home and no sinnin till Monday arrgh ye'll be walkin the plank.
PirateSpeak Sermon 8
Arrgh. Vell, mateys, me ol’ mate the Apostle Paul, ‘e was a tentmaker. Arr, ‘e made tents. ‘Cause sometimes, ye just havta reelize a city don’t want no preachers. Arrgh?
AARRRGGHH!!
Aye, mateys, I see that you agree with me. Now y’see, cities that don’t want no preacher don’t generally mind people who do a hard day’s work. Same goes for other places, like the high seas. Arrgh?
AARRRGGHH!!
So when I came here, I says to meself, girl, when in Rome. And I got meself a cutlass, and booty for me feet. You remember what I said about me ol’ mate Paul?
AARRRGGHH!!
So here I am, good sirs and possibly ladies, too. Arrgh?
AARRRGGHH!!
--_*Rachel*_
AARRRGGHH!!
Aye, mateys, I see that you agree with me. Now y’see, cities that don’t want no preacher don’t generally mind people who do a hard day’s work. Same goes for other places, like the high seas. Arrgh?
AARRRGGHH!!
So when I came here, I says to meself, girl, when in Rome. And I got meself a cutlass, and booty for me feet. You remember what I said about me ol’ mate Paul?
AARRRGGHH!!
So here I am, good sirs and possibly ladies, too. Arrgh?
AARRRGGHH!!
--_*Rachel*_
PirateSpeak Sermon 7
"Well there it is. Death at a funeral.
Avast me hardies, Captain Death has crept out of a bunghole and seized upon the right reverend Deadheart and like the landlubber Albert Camus once said "life is short and meaningless." Well shiver me timbers NOT. Captain Death has left the room like a Velvet Elvis flees from chumbuckets. Blackhearted bastard as he is, the Almighty decreed he only take one true pirate at a time.
But Sam the Shark who lies before, well he be the last of a long line. Great, great grandson of a would-be privateer who married a thieve'n injun squaw and made their way to the Floridas for the big par-lay over De Leon's bones. Put him into the bunt the slack of the clews (not too taut), the leech and foot-rope, and body of the sail, may your sail not luff in the cool breezes of paradise. It is to the happy waters of Augustine that we send Sam to his forbears.
An aahrr-phan boy like the pirates of lore, his Mom and Pa lurking in Davy Jone's locker off the coast Bermuda. He know what it is to be an aahrr-phan boy and I can tell ye, it was not greatly to his pleasure. He comes here rum all out, his jib outstretched and his body bound by hempen rope.
Now do not shed tears like scurvy bilge rats. Sam would not be proud of ye for crying. He would call ye goat buggers and worse. So Bar the doors Molly against the dastardly constable, raise the mizzenmast high and bring us all a noggin of rum-fortified grog and drink a hearty cup to the memory of Sam the Shark Hayes. Now say Aye-Aye and Amen and be going on your ways.
--Dave F.
Avast me hardies, Captain Death has crept out of a bunghole and seized upon the right reverend Deadheart and like the landlubber Albert Camus once said "life is short and meaningless." Well shiver me timbers NOT. Captain Death has left the room like a Velvet Elvis flees from chumbuckets. Blackhearted bastard as he is, the Almighty decreed he only take one true pirate at a time.
But Sam the Shark who lies before, well he be the last of a long line. Great, great grandson of a would-be privateer who married a thieve'n injun squaw and made their way to the Floridas for the big par-lay over De Leon's bones. Put him into the bunt the slack of the clews (not too taut), the leech and foot-rope, and body of the sail, may your sail not luff in the cool breezes of paradise. It is to the happy waters of Augustine that we send Sam to his forbears.
An aahrr-phan boy like the pirates of lore, his Mom and Pa lurking in Davy Jone's locker off the coast Bermuda. He know what it is to be an aahrr-phan boy and I can tell ye, it was not greatly to his pleasure. He comes here rum all out, his jib outstretched and his body bound by hempen rope.
Now do not shed tears like scurvy bilge rats. Sam would not be proud of ye for crying. He would call ye goat buggers and worse. So Bar the doors Molly against the dastardly constable, raise the mizzenmast high and bring us all a noggin of rum-fortified grog and drink a hearty cup to the memory of Sam the Shark Hayes. Now say Aye-Aye and Amen and be going on your ways.
--Dave F.
PirateSpeak Sermon 6
I hobbled up to the front of the room and whirled around. Peg legs offer a convenient pivot point. The parrot on my shoulder dug its talons into my tattered waistcoat as I gripped the sides of the podium.
“Arrgh vey,” I said. I told you I was going to use that line. “It seems me matey Rabbi Cohenbergenstein has walked ye proverbial plank. Now he’s gettin stuffed into Davy Jones’s locker like a wee landlubber on his first day o’ learnin. So now it’s up to me to complete this bris.”
The parrot on my shoulder whistled and squawked, “Polly want a foreskin.”
“At least the bilge rat was kind enough to swab the dick with a wee bit o’ grog,” I said as I drew my cutlass. “It should be as clean as the bung hole on me best barrel o’ rum.”
As I raised the blade and prepared to make the cut, a voice called out for me to stop.
“Avast ye scurvy dog, ‘fore I gets me cat o’ nine tails out. I got work to do,” I scowled, for scowling is an important aspect of pirate-speak. “Aye, well sink me, this little hornpipe ain’t got enough meat to cut.”
“That’s what I was trying to tell you. It’s a girl. This is a baptism, you fool.”
“Well shiver me timbers! This wee one squats on the head to pee. Not even me mateys up in the crow’s nest could ‘ave seen that one comin.”
--Rick Daley
“Arrgh vey,” I said. I told you I was going to use that line. “It seems me matey Rabbi Cohenbergenstein has walked ye proverbial plank. Now he’s gettin stuffed into Davy Jones’s locker like a wee landlubber on his first day o’ learnin. So now it’s up to me to complete this bris.”
The parrot on my shoulder whistled and squawked, “Polly want a foreskin.”
“At least the bilge rat was kind enough to swab the dick with a wee bit o’ grog,” I said as I drew my cutlass. “It should be as clean as the bung hole on me best barrel o’ rum.”
As I raised the blade and prepared to make the cut, a voice called out for me to stop.
“Avast ye scurvy dog, ‘fore I gets me cat o’ nine tails out. I got work to do,” I scowled, for scowling is an important aspect of pirate-speak. “Aye, well sink me, this little hornpipe ain’t got enough meat to cut.”
“That’s what I was trying to tell you. It’s a girl. This is a baptism, you fool.”
“Well shiver me timbers! This wee one squats on the head to pee. Not even me mateys up in the crow’s nest could ‘ave seen that one comin.”
--Rick Daley
PirateSpeak Sermon 5
“I held my breath, my breasts trembling, nay, swelling over the neckline of my churchiest bustier. It had been quite a day already, what with running out of Cocoa Puffs and the minister collapsing all over poor Mrs. Trumble's plastic hip. But when the man with the sexiest peg leg I had ever seen clomped his way to the front of Our Lady of the Perpetual Flogging's congregation, I knew this Sunday would be special. Even more special than the day the choir rapped about birth control.
The riveting man, with his riveting wood, leaned on the podium and swilled Father Peter's rum, which he had left there before vomiting blood. They'd never get that stain out of Jesus's loin cloth.
Then, the stranger's shoulder-parrot spoke. ‘Yar, the message in today's sermon be givin' t' th' poor. Dubloons not be growin' on trees, mateys. Before ye find yerselves in Davy Jones’s locker, damned for all eternity fer ye selfish ways, ye be needin' to make a small donation, ye scurvy dogmas. Polly want a cracker, brawk!’
Well, I certainly didn't know what crackers had to do with it, and my name isn't Polly, but I felt stirred down to my churchiest g-string. The stranger’s companions, many with colorful jungle pets of their own, milled through the pews, gently turning worshippers upside-down and shaking them.
The man himself hobbled to me, his remaining eye fixed on my overflowing booty. He snapped his fingers and the parrot squawked, ‘Ye make me Jolly Roger fly, brawk!’
I hadn’t heard such romantic squawking since Sister Mary Pat drank too much holy fire water. He crushed me against his frock coat and kissed me until his bird looked uncomfortable.
And that, officer, is all I know. Tell me, how did you lose your leg?”
--Lucy Woodhull
The riveting man, with his riveting wood, leaned on the podium and swilled Father Peter's rum, which he had left there before vomiting blood. They'd never get that stain out of Jesus's loin cloth.
Then, the stranger's shoulder-parrot spoke. ‘Yar, the message in today's sermon be givin' t' th' poor. Dubloons not be growin' on trees, mateys. Before ye find yerselves in Davy Jones’s locker, damned for all eternity fer ye selfish ways, ye be needin' to make a small donation, ye scurvy dogmas. Polly want a cracker, brawk!’
Well, I certainly didn't know what crackers had to do with it, and my name isn't Polly, but I felt stirred down to my churchiest g-string. The stranger’s companions, many with colorful jungle pets of their own, milled through the pews, gently turning worshippers upside-down and shaking them.
The man himself hobbled to me, his remaining eye fixed on my overflowing booty. He snapped his fingers and the parrot squawked, ‘Ye make me Jolly Roger fly, brawk!’
I hadn’t heard such romantic squawking since Sister Mary Pat drank too much holy fire water. He crushed me against his frock coat and kissed me until his bird looked uncomfortable.
And that, officer, is all I know. Tell me, how did you lose your leg?”
--Lucy Woodhull
PirateSpeak Sermon 4
Aargh, I’m a pirate giving a sermon to a bunch of church-loving scrumpets. Walk the plank, walk the plank. You may think that’s what I want you to do. But there you’d be wrong, mates. I’m a pirate, see, and I respect the church, the God up there. Cause otherwise we get struck down, see. Yeah, do unto others… Well, who says so. That’s not God. Read the Bible, it’s about power, land, booty, respect. I read the Bible, yeah, I read the fight scenes. Argh. Treachery, argh, that’s the Bible.
Here goes, a sermon for you mates, a raw carrion sermon served with peppers and cannon balls and Jolly Rogers. Toasted nicely, don’t you think. Argh. Let’s have a swig here.
I’d rob you lot, but you’re too poor. No gold here. Ah, the sermon. Yeah, that’s it.
Hey, there, sit down or I’ll blow your balls off. You, you in the plaid with the turnip on your head. That’s it, ease it back down. Yeah. Argh.
This one’s for you kids, you boys who want to be men some day. Argh, I’m a pirate, a role model, you see. Always watch your back. Yeah, even if your boss says you’re fine. Always watch your back. Cause it’s your back. There’s no heaven. That’s made up for sissies. So, if you get it, you know what I mean, you’re done. Yeah, one-eyed Sharky, and Bulltoad Robbin, and Angel-Eyes, all gone, cause, right, they didn’t watch their backs. And, mates, they ain’t in heaven. They are Gone. Yeah. Had to blow Sharky away myself cause of the booty. Argh. Honor situation, that’s what it was, booty, that’s the lifeblood. Bloody pirates, bloody booty, bloody life. Argh.
That’s it folks, go home, eat good, tend your little gardens. Argh.
--Anonymous
Here goes, a sermon for you mates, a raw carrion sermon served with peppers and cannon balls and Jolly Rogers. Toasted nicely, don’t you think. Argh. Let’s have a swig here.
I’d rob you lot, but you’re too poor. No gold here. Ah, the sermon. Yeah, that’s it.
Hey, there, sit down or I’ll blow your balls off. You, you in the plaid with the turnip on your head. That’s it, ease it back down. Yeah. Argh.
This one’s for you kids, you boys who want to be men some day. Argh, I’m a pirate, a role model, you see. Always watch your back. Yeah, even if your boss says you’re fine. Always watch your back. Cause it’s your back. There’s no heaven. That’s made up for sissies. So, if you get it, you know what I mean, you’re done. Yeah, one-eyed Sharky, and Bulltoad Robbin, and Angel-Eyes, all gone, cause, right, they didn’t watch their backs. And, mates, they ain’t in heaven. They are Gone. Yeah. Had to blow Sharky away myself cause of the booty. Argh. Honor situation, that’s what it was, booty, that’s the lifeblood. Bloody pirates, bloody booty, bloody life. Argh.
That’s it folks, go home, eat good, tend your little gardens. Argh.
--Anonymous
PirateSpeak Sermon 3
Ten minutes into the tribute launching the new ship and the pirates decided the priest needed to be introduced to Davy Jones’ Locker. I was not sure what that meant but I got a good idea when his body was tied to the anchor and he was thrown overboard. I guess he shouldn’t have mentioned the burning in hell part for pillaging and murdering.
Being the only one left qualified to bless the ship, (only because I had a Bible and could read and prayed once in awhile – usually in a, “Oh my God,” kind of way), I stepped up to the Aft or port or bunker – well I don’t really know where I stepped up to but it wasn’t the poop deck because you know there wasn’t any. “Arrg, thar mateys. Begad, the bilging,” I began.
They were staring at me. I tried again.
“Sail oh! . . Err . . . ship-shape the nose and let’s sail the high seas with a bottle of rum or grog or . . . you scurvy dogs.”
A sailor growled and then a few more growled. Then they were all growling. It was ugly and getting worse.
The captain, who by the way looked nothing like Johnny Depp, Captain Hook or for that matter, Keith Richards, yelled, “Just be blessing it thar lass. So we be weighing the anchor.”
“Oh . . . okay. God bless this ship and may the pirates get the booty.”
I broke the champagne on the rail and. . .well they were planning on drinking it. Things have gone south from there; worse than killing a priest. I guess I’m going to be dancing with Jack Ketch and if he looks anything like the captain . . . oy vey.
--Vivian Whetham
Being the only one left qualified to bless the ship, (only because I had a Bible and could read and prayed once in awhile – usually in a, “Oh my God,” kind of way), I stepped up to the Aft or port or bunker – well I don’t really know where I stepped up to but it wasn’t the poop deck because you know there wasn’t any. “Arrg, thar mateys. Begad, the bilging,” I began.
They were staring at me. I tried again.
“Sail oh! . . Err . . . ship-shape the nose and let’s sail the high seas with a bottle of rum or grog or . . . you scurvy dogs.”
A sailor growled and then a few more growled. Then they were all growling. It was ugly and getting worse.
The captain, who by the way looked nothing like Johnny Depp, Captain Hook or for that matter, Keith Richards, yelled, “Just be blessing it thar lass. So we be weighing the anchor.”
“Oh . . . okay. God bless this ship and may the pirates get the booty.”
I broke the champagne on the rail and. . .well they were planning on drinking it. Things have gone south from there; worse than killing a priest. I guess I’m going to be dancing with Jack Ketch and if he looks anything like the captain . . . oy vey.
--Vivian Whetham
PirateSpeak Sermon 2
Well, ye wenches an' biscuit eaters, hear ye this; 'tis a simple lesson Father Ahern was after tellin' ye today before he went aft tae Fiddler's Green: 'Tis a mighty sin to covet yer neighbour's treasure.
Shiver me timbers- ye thar, the scurvy lad in the starboard pew- aye, ye- look lively or ye'll be walkin' the... er... walkin' the... pulpit. Nae, we'll keelhaul ye o'er the steeple, ye scallywag!
Now, as I were sayin', ye'll go straight tae hell via Davy Jones Locker if yer caught covetin' yer neighbour's booty, and especially if yer so bold as to covet yer neighbour's wife's booty. 'Tis a mystery deeper than the very ocean what Father Ahern would have had tae say aboot it, now he's gone tae that great crow's nest in the sky, but I'll tell ye what yer to do: just go ahead an' take it, and that'll solve yer problems, see? Nary a covet more, if ye jes' take the stuff.
Now. That were easy enough! Aye!
Oh, Father Ahern did leave one wee note, 'tis the topic of next week's sermon. “Thou shalt not steal-” oh, bugger. Well, blow me down.
--Mother (Re)produces
Shiver me timbers- ye thar, the scurvy lad in the starboard pew- aye, ye- look lively or ye'll be walkin' the... er... walkin' the... pulpit. Nae, we'll keelhaul ye o'er the steeple, ye scallywag!
Now, as I were sayin', ye'll go straight tae hell via Davy Jones Locker if yer caught covetin' yer neighbour's booty, and especially if yer so bold as to covet yer neighbour's wife's booty. 'Tis a mystery deeper than the very ocean what Father Ahern would have had tae say aboot it, now he's gone tae that great crow's nest in the sky, but I'll tell ye what yer to do: just go ahead an' take it, and that'll solve yer problems, see? Nary a covet more, if ye jes' take the stuff.
Now. That were easy enough! Aye!
Oh, Father Ahern did leave one wee note, 'tis the topic of next week's sermon. “Thou shalt not steal-” oh, bugger. Well, blow me down.
--Mother (Re)produces
PirateSpeak Sermon 1
“Gar, I be in charge of this voyage now, and ye be bowing ye heads now as a token of respect for our good friend and matey who be taken now by the sawbones, until he return to reclaim his place amongst the noble and fine, such as you are.
“So what have ye then? What manner of swabs be ye that come to hear the words which will spare ye from the tempest to come? Be ye the salt of the sea, or not? For knowest ye not that should ye lose the salt, ye be no better than a scurvy wretch laying in the bilge. Ye shall be cast adrift into the sea.
“So take ye heed to the swells which the sea rages against all sailors, fair and foul alike. Have the courage to climb the mast, untie the sheets and let your sails billow in the wind. For ahead is the course and behind only water. For the Captain of All does cover our misdeeds as the sea covers its dead. He marks the course, but ye must navigate it at the wheel. Keep your hand steady that ye may steer a true course through the channel, else ye be washed up against the rocks and dashed asunder by the sea’s angry fury. For the sea is not concerned about neither rocks nor shore. The sea is forever, and we must abide it as best we can. When the tide be high we sail fine and true, but when the tide be low, the rocks threaten the hull, and the shoals to stay the voyage.
“There be no assurance save to trust in the Captain. So man the decks and heed the orders. Our course is set.
“And now, it be time to collect the treasure.”
--Bevie
“So what have ye then? What manner of swabs be ye that come to hear the words which will spare ye from the tempest to come? Be ye the salt of the sea, or not? For knowest ye not that should ye lose the salt, ye be no better than a scurvy wretch laying in the bilge. Ye shall be cast adrift into the sea.
“So take ye heed to the swells which the sea rages against all sailors, fair and foul alike. Have the courage to climb the mast, untie the sheets and let your sails billow in the wind. For ahead is the course and behind only water. For the Captain of All does cover our misdeeds as the sea covers its dead. He marks the course, but ye must navigate it at the wheel. Keep your hand steady that ye may steer a true course through the channel, else ye be washed up against the rocks and dashed asunder by the sea’s angry fury. For the sea is not concerned about neither rocks nor shore. The sea is forever, and we must abide it as best we can. When the tide be high we sail fine and true, but when the tide be low, the rocks threaten the hull, and the shoals to stay the voyage.
“There be no assurance save to trust in the Captain. So man the decks and heed the orders. Our course is set.
“And now, it be time to collect the treasure.”
--Bevie
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Friday, September 18, 2009
New Beginning 686
IF SHE HAD stopped to think about what she was getting into, Callie would have turned the job down flat.
She looked up at the island while the wallowing ferry that carried her and half-a-dozen other commuters docked at its weathered pier. Short, rough cliffs and jagged rock prevented docking anywhere but under the dead eyes of long-deserted watchtowers.
Both crew and passengers had hoods pulled up close to protect their faces from the lashing rain; Callie suppressed a shiver as she looked at the bent, shuttered figures; they looked more like ushers on the river Styx than human workers on their way to a bedraggled historic landmark.
The sudden burst of bad weather brought dark clouds with it, and they still hovered as the rain sputtered to a stop; it was early spring just off the Pacific coast of the United States, but it felt more like one of December's wrenching storms. Everything - trees, straggling leafless shrubs and dilapidated buildings - looked beaten down and hopeless. Callie wore a rain slicker that had long since given up on keeping out the lashing rain and the salt spray of the roiling ocean. The optimism she had felt about the project in her sunny office overlooking Coos Bay was nowhere to be found at the moment.
They docked, and one of the hardy few already on land, face hidden by the dim light and the hood of his rain slicker, turned and offered her a callused hand as she scrambled up the slick ramp onto the dock.
Callie followed the crowd as far as the courtyard before she paused, surrendering to the lashing rain as it whipped her face and neck—a punishment, she was beginning to realize, she heartily deserved.
It was worse than she thought. A total disaster. She could see that now. Even the smell of hazelnut wafting through the moldy corridors and rusted barbed wire couldn’t console her.
Her company had finally done it, crossed some invisible threshold into the darkest depths of festering soulless depravity. That it had been her idea made it all the more depressing, but, like the relentless lashing rain, she could deny it no more: a Starbucks on Alcatraz was a shitty idea.
Opening: Debhoag.....Continuation: Blogless_Troll
She looked up at the island while the wallowing ferry that carried her and half-a-dozen other commuters docked at its weathered pier. Short, rough cliffs and jagged rock prevented docking anywhere but under the dead eyes of long-deserted watchtowers.
Both crew and passengers had hoods pulled up close to protect their faces from the lashing rain; Callie suppressed a shiver as she looked at the bent, shuttered figures; they looked more like ushers on the river Styx than human workers on their way to a bedraggled historic landmark.
The sudden burst of bad weather brought dark clouds with it, and they still hovered as the rain sputtered to a stop; it was early spring just off the Pacific coast of the United States, but it felt more like one of December's wrenching storms. Everything - trees, straggling leafless shrubs and dilapidated buildings - looked beaten down and hopeless. Callie wore a rain slicker that had long since given up on keeping out the lashing rain and the salt spray of the roiling ocean. The optimism she had felt about the project in her sunny office overlooking Coos Bay was nowhere to be found at the moment.
They docked, and one of the hardy few already on land, face hidden by the dim light and the hood of his rain slicker, turned and offered her a callused hand as she scrambled up the slick ramp onto the dock.
Callie followed the crowd as far as the courtyard before she paused, surrendering to the lashing rain as it whipped her face and neck—a punishment, she was beginning to realize, she heartily deserved.
It was worse than she thought. A total disaster. She could see that now. Even the smell of hazelnut wafting through the moldy corridors and rusted barbed wire couldn’t console her.
Her company had finally done it, crossed some invisible threshold into the darkest depths of festering soulless depravity. That it had been her idea made it all the more depressing, but, like the relentless lashing rain, she could deny it no more: a Starbucks on Alcatraz was a shitty idea.
Opening: Debhoag.....Continuation: Blogless_Troll
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Face-Lift 674
Guess the Plot
My People
1. They'll call you -- no matter where you are or what you're doing. You don't need a phone to do business with them. Or sanity. And when they're done, you will be too. Shall we do lunch, or would you like to start running?
2. Lady Chumley attempts to rally her kin to resolve the troubles of the day, namely, the matter of Fred, the price of chicken, and that vampire thing in the basement.
3. 10-year-old Angela doesn't believe college students collect little kids--until she looks in her sister Kimmy's closet.
4. Anna, AKA Torture Lady, tries to impress Ana, AKA The Salvadoran, but Ana doesn't respect her. What's a girl gotta do to make friends at summer camp?
5. Thomas Fredericks wants to save a corrupt world. He decides to start a cult, gain power and influence, and force the world to be more peaceful. Can he lead his people long enough to effect change before it all falls apart in violence, scandal and disgrace?
6. Mark Freeboon hasn't spoken to anyone who isn't a Lego since he was two. They are his people. They love and protect him. And tell him he will go straight to hell if he doesn't do what they say. Like liberate their brethren from FAO Schwartz.
7. The puppet master of Croydon wows audiences in London with the antics of his spry little creations -- until Inspector Birks proves the toys are actually vampires that prey on pigeons and stray dogs at night.
8. My People, Jeanette Morton's memoir of oppression and woe--which reveals all the horrors and foibles of her family's past--hits number one on the bestseller lists, only to be derided and ridiculed by her next-door neighbor, an ignorant witless tart with six trunk novels under the sofa and a brain the size of a pea.
Original Version
Dear Editor,
13-year-old Anna Brooke wants to be brave, to make a difference in the world. Going to the Conservation Leadership Institute’s summer camp is one small part of her plan. So of course when she sees a big kid shaking a little kid she makes him stop. She didn’t mean to get nicknamed Torture Lady. [That's like a cop arresting a shoplifter and they start calling the cop "Serial Killer."] [Even if it made sense for Anna to get the nickname, wouldn't it be Torture Girl?] Or to be introduced by that name to Ana Reyes, the Salvadoran refugee girl who has the poise and courage Anna craves. [Your main characters are named Anna and Ana? Whether you've done this so there can be hilarious incidents of mistaken identity in the book or just to make your proofreader's life miserable, consider that it may be more confusing to readers than it is to the camp counselors.] [Or is it because all your character names are palindromes? That I could live with. Are we about to meet Bob and Hannah? Interesting palindrome thoughts:
1. You can't have palindromes without repeated letters, yet "palindromes" is the longest word in the English language that has no repeated letters.
2. Palindrome? Shouldn't the word be "emordrome"?
3. There should be a superhero named Palindrome who captures criminals and then lets them go.
4. Emit no SOS on time. I just made that one up.
5. I would buy a book that had a one-sentence palindrome hidden in every chapter.]
Anna spends the rest of the week trying to prove herself to Ana, and incidentally to herself. She sticks up for James, who’s accused of being gay; she tells off the kid who grabs her butt; she tried to get her new best friend Allison, who shares her liberal ideas but has considerably more money and tact, to admit that some of the rich kids at camp are bullies. [This place sounds even more miserable than Camp Swampy, where my parents sent me every summer, with its two-hour vesper services and Counselor Bob's nightly nude camper inspections.] Soon many of the campers won’t speak to her--including James and Ana. Naturally, Anna tries harder. The camp petition drive doesn’t go according to plan either, but it does reveal enough of Ana’s past to shake Anna’s assumptions about bravery, and her understanding of what you have to do to make things change. [Not clear what you mean by a petition drive revealing Ana's past. Make it clear or just say, When Anna learns the sordid truth about Ana's past . . . ]
My People is a bittersweet, sometimes funny MG novel about the courage to grow up. I’m submitting it to you because (insert long list of real good reasons.) [A list of reasons for submitting to a specific person should have a range of from zero to one items.] (Pages, synopsis, whatever they say they’ll take) are attached. Thank you for taking time to read and consider this submission.
[--EE, this is a WIP, so there is no word count.]
Notes
Does "My People" mean Anna's people? Because no one at this camp seems to be Anna's people.
Shouldn't a middle grade book about summer camp have some monsters or a guy in a hockey mask? Something to make kids want to read it?
The list of things Anna did that supposedly caused everyone to stop talking to her doesn't sound like such bad stuff. Telling off a kid who grabs her butt makes her a pariah? She sticks up for James, and he won't talk to her? It seems to me that a camp that focuses on leadership rather than fun and games would attract a better clientele. Or at least would have counselors preventing stuff like bullying and taunting and turning fellow campers into social outcasts.
The main theme is coming through, but mainly through lists of things that happen. Make it feel more like a story than a series of unfortunate events.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
New Beginning 685
November 14, 9a.m.:
Fucking Faeries. They thought I wouldn't notice the hollow bit of dry skin, crinkling like an old plastic carrier bag, where our Monine used to be. They thought I wouldn't notice the soulless wheezing of this creature. They thought I wouldn't know where they'd taken her, know the old stories or their names; but Gran told me everything. They thought--
They thought I wouldn't come after them alone. I'm sure they were watching you, Niesh, waiting till you went away on business. And I can hardly go to the Garda with a faery story, can I? So I load this- this- thing, this changeling into the Baby-Björn like a baby, though it turns my stomach. The creature's all the creepier for it's closeness to humankind, like a half-starved, hollow-eyed infant.
I'm off. I regret for the first time our decision to go carless. The busses all either arrive or depart after dark and the faeries will be watching. The days are so short this time of year. I hope, my love, that you never have to read this, but if I don't make it back with our baby, you should know why. I can't just sit here, thinking of their skeleton fingers digging into her fair skin. I'll get as far north as I can today, and write again.
Niesh finished reading and shook his head. She thought I wouldn't notice she wrote the whole thing out in cocaine? Jesus, didn't one of the neighbors see her dragging the bedroom mirror out onto the front lawn and scraping all that powder around? They coulda called the cops or at least called me. Shit, there goes our nest egg with the next gust of wind.
He pulled out his cell phone and called his friend Rick who worked at the sheriff's office. "Yeah, just like the other week. She won't be hard to spot, carrying an E.T. doll around in a snuggly."
That does it. We're never getting a car OR a kid.
Opening: Mother (Re)produces.....Continuation: John
Fucking Faeries. They thought I wouldn't notice the hollow bit of dry skin, crinkling like an old plastic carrier bag, where our Monine used to be. They thought I wouldn't notice the soulless wheezing of this creature. They thought I wouldn't know where they'd taken her, know the old stories or their names; but Gran told me everything. They thought--
They thought I wouldn't come after them alone. I'm sure they were watching you, Niesh, waiting till you went away on business. And I can hardly go to the Garda with a faery story, can I? So I load this- this- thing, this changeling into the Baby-Björn like a baby, though it turns my stomach. The creature's all the creepier for it's closeness to humankind, like a half-starved, hollow-eyed infant.
I'm off. I regret for the first time our decision to go carless. The busses all either arrive or depart after dark and the faeries will be watching. The days are so short this time of year. I hope, my love, that you never have to read this, but if I don't make it back with our baby, you should know why. I can't just sit here, thinking of their skeleton fingers digging into her fair skin. I'll get as far north as I can today, and write again.
Niesh finished reading and shook his head. She thought I wouldn't notice she wrote the whole thing out in cocaine? Jesus, didn't one of the neighbors see her dragging the bedroom mirror out onto the front lawn and scraping all that powder around? They coulda called the cops or at least called me. Shit, there goes our nest egg with the next gust of wind.
He pulled out his cell phone and called his friend Rick who worked at the sheriff's office. "Yeah, just like the other week. She won't be hard to spot, carrying an E.T. doll around in a snuggly."
That does it. We're never getting a car OR a kid.
Opening: Mother (Re)produces.....Continuation: John
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