Mary Janes and Liliputs
"The problem was, at the end of the night, someone had bled on my white Mary Jane shoes."
Apparantly, that's the opening line of a best-seller.
There was a writers' conference held in my little town for the Central Valley and the four professional agents and editors we had as guests critiqued opening pages. Today I submitted the first page from a novel concept I've been developing about a young Lolita who leads a criminal organization in the black art and antique market, yet her selfish ambitions are to gain hold of the authentic Marie Antionette dress depicted in the painting Marie Antionette a la Rose.
During the public critique, which was originally done under anonymous submissions, one of the agents said that from what was seen of the first page, it had the makings of a best-seller.
So after the session was over, I introduced myself to him and he invited me to have lunch with his partner to talk about the idea and about me...
Problem is, this is the only page I have, because I wrote it last night >.>
But I was given his card and informed to contact his company should I finish the manuscript.
And although realistically, I may not end up working with him or I may end up completing something utterly different, it was so good that my work is also appreciated and impressive on a professional level.
The problem was that, at the end of the night, someone had bled on my white Mary Jane shoes. The 3.97 million Euros, which was crammed into the coffin inside the Hearse, somehow managed to seem like a measly sum compared to the Princess Drop Chandelier shoes that had been imported from Japan to my doorstep only last week, now ruined. I doubt the company would take “incompliant hostage” as a liable excuse for a return.
“You could dye them,” Mark suggested from the driver’s seat. “You know, so they look like they just have red polka dots on them.” He had never struck me as very intelligent, despite the fact he was the only man with a shaved head to come out from a Detroit prison without highly distinguishable tattoos embedded in his neck.
“That bastard’s HIV may be soaking into my shoes as we speak and you are suggesting I pretend they’re Easter Eggs and whip out the pastels? Do you honestly believe I want to put on shoes in the morning which will always remind me of how incompetent you are?”
“I was simply following orders. You could have had more patience with him.”
Instead of trying to humor his logic, I smoothed out the wrinkles in the heavy material of my dress, making certain the lace roses at the bottom had not been unfortunate enough to capture the splatter that had resulted from a handgun cartridge entering the primary motor cortex of the brain.
“He used the dinner fork for the salad, Marcus. I could not tolerate him any longer.”
~~~~~~
I don't know her name yet but.... I like her.
Apparantly, that's the opening line of a best-seller.
There was a writers' conference held in my little town for the Central Valley and the four professional agents and editors we had as guests critiqued opening pages. Today I submitted the first page from a novel concept I've been developing about a young Lolita who leads a criminal organization in the black art and antique market, yet her selfish ambitions are to gain hold of the authentic Marie Antionette dress depicted in the painting Marie Antionette a la Rose.
During the public critique, which was originally done under anonymous submissions, one of the agents said that from what was seen of the first page, it had the makings of a best-seller.
So after the session was over, I introduced myself to him and he invited me to have lunch with his partner to talk about the idea and about me...
Problem is, this is the only page I have, because I wrote it last night >.>
But I was given his card and informed to contact his company should I finish the manuscript.
And although realistically, I may not end up working with him or I may end up completing something utterly different, it was so good that my work is also appreciated and impressive on a professional level.
The problem was that, at the end of the night, someone had bled on my white Mary Jane shoes. The 3.97 million Euros, which was crammed into the coffin inside the Hearse, somehow managed to seem like a measly sum compared to the Princess Drop Chandelier shoes that had been imported from Japan to my doorstep only last week, now ruined. I doubt the company would take “incompliant hostage” as a liable excuse for a return.
“You could dye them,” Mark suggested from the driver’s seat. “You know, so they look like they just have red polka dots on them.” He had never struck me as very intelligent, despite the fact he was the only man with a shaved head to come out from a Detroit prison without highly distinguishable tattoos embedded in his neck.
“That bastard’s HIV may be soaking into my shoes as we speak and you are suggesting I pretend they’re Easter Eggs and whip out the pastels? Do you honestly believe I want to put on shoes in the morning which will always remind me of how incompetent you are?”
“I was simply following orders. You could have had more patience with him.”
Instead of trying to humor his logic, I smoothed out the wrinkles in the heavy material of my dress, making certain the lace roses at the bottom had not been unfortunate enough to capture the splatter that had resulted from a handgun cartridge entering the primary motor cortex of the brain.
“He used the dinner fork for the salad, Marcus. I could not tolerate him any longer.”
~~~~~~
I don't know her name yet but.... I like her.