(no subject)
I don't even want to go into talking about my weekend. I raced, slept in a sleazy hotel, skiied at practice the next day, came home, got ready in 30 min, went to semi, and CRASHED. That's about it, summed up in much less than I usually would rant on about. Please ignore the last incoherent statement.
So the major piece for creative writing is due on Tuesday, and I am DONE. Yes. I have officially written a beginning, middle, and most impressively, END of a story, and I have rewritten, polished, and pretty much slaved away over this piece of shit - I mean, art - until it has all of the necessary elements for a REAL STORY:
-Character that vaguely resembles someone very familiar (ahem, MYSELF. Except she's stupider. And prettier. I couldn't have the poor fictional character be TOTALLY unfortunate.)
-Non-cliche details
-Conflict (And loads of it...They say you're supposed to write about what you know, but to be perfectly truthful, I was pulling most of this conflict out of my ass. The most conflict I've ever had in my trite and meaningless life is "Should I watch CSI, or go in the hot tub? Ehhhhh...")
-Themes (The main theme here is lies. Like I know much about those. Riiiiight. Except for the whole, "Oh, Patsy, I REALLY have to go to the bathroom...but don't worry if I'm gone for 40 min of your class, or see me making out with some guy outside your classroom. I really have to go to the bathroom. Really.")
-Ending (I don't know WHY I've never been very good at ending stories. I think it's the whole commitment issue all over again. I can never finish a story, because I don't stick with it long enough to finish it, because I realize I have no talent and I just stop. It prolly helps that this was for a grade...And had a deadline. Maybe I just work better under pressure...)
So those are the elements of MY story. Unfortunately, it will never be published. Here's what you need in a story if you want to make millions of dollars, and become well-known as a sleazy soft-back writer:
-Characters that are EXACTLY THE SAME as all the other ones in your previous books. I love Carl Hiasson, but give me a break buddy; STOP WRITING ABOUT THE FOOTBALL PLAYER TURNED GOVERNOR OF FLORIDA TURNED ROAD-KILL EATING HOBO, and his buddy, the black patrol trooper, Jim Tile. Seriously, these characters are in every one of his books. They're pretty recognizable, Carl, I think your adoring public might catch on. Dick Francis does this same thing, except his reoccuring characters aren't so entertaining. In fact they kind of suck.
-Cliches. C'mon, what's a best-seller without enough cliches to shake a stick at? You must be as dumb as a doorknob not to know that. It’s as easy as pie to write stories without clichés in them. You just can’t teach a dog new tricks.
-Over the top conflict, i.e. sex, religion, royalty, and mystery. All at the same time. I bet I can write a story with all those conflicts right here.
“Oh my god!” he shouted, “The Queen is pregnant! Who did it?”
There ya go.
-The only three themes that ever matter in great American literature: Sex, Death, and Nature. What else is there?
-And who could forget, a gimmicky ending. Here are some examples:
“And then he woke up.”
“And then the time machine started to rattle, and she hopped inside as the horde of barbarians closed in around her, and a dragon breathed fire on the metal contraption just as it disappeared in a puff of smoke and she woke up in her own bed.”
“He would have died if it were not for a hole that opened up on the sidewalk beneath him, and he fell through and escaped the massive explosion and he fell right on top of a moving subway car, but luckily he was covered in honey from when the honey factory exploded, and the viscous substance welded itself to the top of the speeding train thanks to the great heat provided by the underground magma flowing beside the tracks, and when he opened his eyes he was in his own bed.”
And last, but not least, the MOST GIMMICKY way to end a story:
“He realized that all his life had been a sham, a lie, and that included the 84,238 words and 327 pages you have just read. He turned back towards Amber, her heaving bosom rising and falling with every breath she took through her exquisite, rose-petal lips, which were located a few centimeters below her finely-proportioned nose on her porcelain face, where she also had a pair of night-sky-blue almond shaped eyes and eyelashes that dusted the top of her browbone, where her perfectly formed eyebrows rested like tiny, comely caterpillars, except without the legs and feelers and everything that makes caterpillars gross. She was gorgeous, he realized, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and he felt a tingle of longing in his groin area between his toned, muscled thighs that were clad in a pair of Dockers Stain-Defenders trousers, which was fortunate because he could feel a stain forming in his boxers anyway. He ran his hand through her mane of tousled auburn locks, which fell around the nape of her neck that was shaped kind of like a swan’s, except she didn’t have feathers and swans don’t have napes. He wanted her, desired her, needed her, and he had to tell her so, even if he had to cram it in the remaining one and a half pages of this sleazy novel.
“Amber…” he gasped, and she grabbed his tie with her manicured hands like a kitten kneading its mother’s soft underbelly for milk, and she pulled him towards her and kissed him passionately on the mouth, her tongue flopping around in his mouth like an eel stuck underneath a rock. When they pulled apart, he fell back gasping, and she appraised him with a look of sheer delight.
“Harold,” she began, in a voice so husky it could pull a dogsled. “Take me, right here.”
“But, we can’t…” He began to make excuses, despite his desires, because he was really a pussy and would probably find out in the sequel that he had erectile dysfunction.
“I don’t care if I’m married to your brother, who is in the Mafia and could kill both of us with an Uzi at any time. I need you, Harold, I need the way you make me feel, despite your unsexy name and your erectile dysfunction. Listen, if we don’t do this, the sad schmucks sitting at home in their mom’s basement reading this kitschy novel and trying to jerk off won’t have anything to live for anymore.”
“You’re right.” He said, and they fell back on the satin sheets, and he decided it was all worth the money laundering from his corporation, because hey, it’s a novel, and all the main characters will survive without too much harm, although most of the extras are expendable and have already died in horrific explosions. And then he woke up, and he was in his own bed. With satin sheets and his brother’s wife sleeping beside him.”
See? It’s really not that hard to write a sleazy paperback novel. I bet I could go on for PAGES like that. I think my next project will be to write a ridiculous book along those lines…and hey, maybe I’ll even get published.
So the major piece for creative writing is due on Tuesday, and I am DONE. Yes. I have officially written a beginning, middle, and most impressively, END of a story, and I have rewritten, polished, and pretty much slaved away over this piece of shit - I mean, art - until it has all of the necessary elements for a REAL STORY:
-Character that vaguely resembles someone very familiar (ahem, MYSELF. Except she's stupider. And prettier. I couldn't have the poor fictional character be TOTALLY unfortunate.)
-Non-cliche details
-Conflict (And loads of it...They say you're supposed to write about what you know, but to be perfectly truthful, I was pulling most of this conflict out of my ass. The most conflict I've ever had in my trite and meaningless life is "Should I watch CSI, or go in the hot tub? Ehhhhh...")
-Themes (The main theme here is lies. Like I know much about those. Riiiiight. Except for the whole, "Oh, Patsy, I REALLY have to go to the bathroom...but don't worry if I'm gone for 40 min of your class, or see me making out with some guy outside your classroom. I really have to go to the bathroom. Really.")
-Ending (I don't know WHY I've never been very good at ending stories. I think it's the whole commitment issue all over again. I can never finish a story, because I don't stick with it long enough to finish it, because I realize I have no talent and I just stop. It prolly helps that this was for a grade...And had a deadline. Maybe I just work better under pressure...)
So those are the elements of MY story. Unfortunately, it will never be published. Here's what you need in a story if you want to make millions of dollars, and become well-known as a sleazy soft-back writer:
-Characters that are EXACTLY THE SAME as all the other ones in your previous books. I love Carl Hiasson, but give me a break buddy; STOP WRITING ABOUT THE FOOTBALL PLAYER TURNED GOVERNOR OF FLORIDA TURNED ROAD-KILL EATING HOBO, and his buddy, the black patrol trooper, Jim Tile. Seriously, these characters are in every one of his books. They're pretty recognizable, Carl, I think your adoring public might catch on. Dick Francis does this same thing, except his reoccuring characters aren't so entertaining. In fact they kind of suck.
-Cliches. C'mon, what's a best-seller without enough cliches to shake a stick at? You must be as dumb as a doorknob not to know that. It’s as easy as pie to write stories without clichés in them. You just can’t teach a dog new tricks.
-Over the top conflict, i.e. sex, religion, royalty, and mystery. All at the same time. I bet I can write a story with all those conflicts right here.
“Oh my god!” he shouted, “The Queen is pregnant! Who did it?”
There ya go.
-The only three themes that ever matter in great American literature: Sex, Death, and Nature. What else is there?
-And who could forget, a gimmicky ending. Here are some examples:
“And then he woke up.”
“And then the time machine started to rattle, and she hopped inside as the horde of barbarians closed in around her, and a dragon breathed fire on the metal contraption just as it disappeared in a puff of smoke and she woke up in her own bed.”
“He would have died if it were not for a hole that opened up on the sidewalk beneath him, and he fell through and escaped the massive explosion and he fell right on top of a moving subway car, but luckily he was covered in honey from when the honey factory exploded, and the viscous substance welded itself to the top of the speeding train thanks to the great heat provided by the underground magma flowing beside the tracks, and when he opened his eyes he was in his own bed.”
And last, but not least, the MOST GIMMICKY way to end a story:
“He realized that all his life had been a sham, a lie, and that included the 84,238 words and 327 pages you have just read. He turned back towards Amber, her heaving bosom rising and falling with every breath she took through her exquisite, rose-petal lips, which were located a few centimeters below her finely-proportioned nose on her porcelain face, where she also had a pair of night-sky-blue almond shaped eyes and eyelashes that dusted the top of her browbone, where her perfectly formed eyebrows rested like tiny, comely caterpillars, except without the legs and feelers and everything that makes caterpillars gross. She was gorgeous, he realized, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and he felt a tingle of longing in his groin area between his toned, muscled thighs that were clad in a pair of Dockers Stain-Defenders trousers, which was fortunate because he could feel a stain forming in his boxers anyway. He ran his hand through her mane of tousled auburn locks, which fell around the nape of her neck that was shaped kind of like a swan’s, except she didn’t have feathers and swans don’t have napes. He wanted her, desired her, needed her, and he had to tell her so, even if he had to cram it in the remaining one and a half pages of this sleazy novel.
“Amber…” he gasped, and she grabbed his tie with her manicured hands like a kitten kneading its mother’s soft underbelly for milk, and she pulled him towards her and kissed him passionately on the mouth, her tongue flopping around in his mouth like an eel stuck underneath a rock. When they pulled apart, he fell back gasping, and she appraised him with a look of sheer delight.
“Harold,” she began, in a voice so husky it could pull a dogsled. “Take me, right here.”
“But, we can’t…” He began to make excuses, despite his desires, because he was really a pussy and would probably find out in the sequel that he had erectile dysfunction.
“I don’t care if I’m married to your brother, who is in the Mafia and could kill both of us with an Uzi at any time. I need you, Harold, I need the way you make me feel, despite your unsexy name and your erectile dysfunction. Listen, if we don’t do this, the sad schmucks sitting at home in their mom’s basement reading this kitschy novel and trying to jerk off won’t have anything to live for anymore.”
“You’re right.” He said, and they fell back on the satin sheets, and he decided it was all worth the money laundering from his corporation, because hey, it’s a novel, and all the main characters will survive without too much harm, although most of the extras are expendable and have already died in horrific explosions. And then he woke up, and he was in his own bed. With satin sheets and his brother’s wife sleeping beside him.”
See? It’s really not that hard to write a sleazy paperback novel. I bet I could go on for PAGES like that. I think my next project will be to write a ridiculous book along those lines…and hey, maybe I’ll even get published.