August 29, 2011

From “The Editor’s Lament” by Carson O. Dolarmuth

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It had been a good idea.

The city had produced more than its fair share of writers, thanks to the local college’s endowment from an old benefactor, and many of them were still alive, still active. Asking each for an original essay or story about their hometown seemed like a stroke of genius, to say nothing of a ticket to easy street for the savvy editor.

That was before Peter had seen the submissions.

Of the eight authors that had agreed to participate, three had submitted nothing despite repeated promises to the contrary. One had turned in a typewritten manuscript in a manilla envelope, one so jumbled and muddled with pen and liquid paper corrections as to be nigh unreadable. Another had annotated a grocery list with a list of organs that the various items reminded them of.

And then there was Auguste Jones, who had apparently dropped his given name “Kevin” to appear more literary. His submission had been an index card with a citation for a 1948 edition of Goethe’s Faust, a cassette tape with the repeated phrase “chickpeas are angry” in a female voice interspersed with heavy breathing, and an embalmed hummingbird wrapped in plastic with the letter “Y” painted on its back with red nail polish.

 

May 17, 2011

From “Belles Letteres” by Augusta Rosalina Clark

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“We see this sort of thing all the time,” Mostow said. “Every time a new technology’s invented, it causes a boom of self-published pamphlets and newsletters. See these lines here, and the way they cut off some of the cells? This was made pre-Microsoft Office, probably using Lotus 1-2-3. Whoever made this designed the individual pieces on a computer, then cut and taped them to sheets for double-sided photocopying.”

Sandy nodded. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. But it’s a complete run–see the little blurb in the first issue and the last issue?–and I bet there aren’t a lot around.”

“Just because something is rare doesn’t mean it’s valuable,” Mostow replied. “Ephemera like this…we collect it sometimes, and would certainly accept it as a donation, but in order for me to write a check, you’d have to find evidence that these poets are, well, noteworthy.”

“How the hell am I supposed to do that?” Sandy growled, glaring at the stack of faded and forlorn poetry newsletters .

“There’s a list of subscribers in the back, and the publisher–well, xeroxer–has his address on the front cover. Picayune stuff that no real publisher would do. But if one of those anonymous poets was noteworthy…I think we could make a deal on behalf of the archive.”

 

May 11, 2011

From “The Death of Literature” by Duncan Steinmetz

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And then you have the one-hit wonders, people that produce a single magnificent piece of literature and then nothing again. Harper Lee came out of nowhere with To Kill a Mockingbird and to nowhere she returned save for a cameo in In Cold Blood. J. D. Salinger did the same with Catcher in the Rye, with it and a few short stories representing his entire oeuvre. We can even add Joseph Heller to that pile, since so much of his limited later work is a pale reflection of Catch-22.

People often wonder why this happens, but it seems perfectly clear: the novels are autobiographical to the extent that the author’s voice and the main character’s voice merge and are one and the same. Harper Lee was Scout Finch. Holden Caulfield represented the deepest opinions that Salinger held, ones he was afraid to declare openly. Heller was a smartass and a war veteran. The authors told only one story because they had only lived one story.

 

May 6, 2011

From “Verisimilitude” by Altos Wexan

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“Betty,” Harry said. “Betty!” She didn’t respond, lost once more in her own world.

He took a deep breath. “Mr. Williams apologized for what he had written,” Harry said. “He had been searching for something that may not exist, and it had blinded him.”

“Betty looked up, listening.”

Harry continued. “Mr. Williams had looked at Betty’s work anew, and found in it much to appreciate. It had taken him to a place he never dreamed.” He held out his hand. “Mr. Williams reached out, asked Betty to take his hand, to leave the place she had created for herself. In return, he promised to work with her, to help her understand her gift, and maybe understand a little more of himself. He said that she might be the very thing he had been searching for, a writer able to make her words real like no others could.”

Nothing happened for a moment, and then Betty broke the stare that had kept her riveted on her notepad, and looked up at Harry. Something stirred deep within her eyes, and Betty reached up and grasped Harry’s outstretched hand. He pulled her up and out of the crater, which faded and closed as she left it.

“You…you found me,” she said. “Thanks.”

 

May 3, 2011

From “Writer’s Razor” by Anonymous

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Imagine a circus procession winding its way through town, set to jolly calliope music.

Hold on a second. What is a calliope? It’s always mentioned in connection with circuses (circusi?), but what exactly is it? It’s named after the muse of epic poetry in Greek mythology, but I can’t see a line of clowns belting out stanzas about Odysseus this and Achilles that, can you? All right, scratch the calliope.

Imagine a circus procession winding its way through town, set to jolly music.

Come to think of it, when’s the last time there was a circus procession in my town, or indeed in any town? Do they even proceed (process?) any more, or do they just drive the trucks to the fairgrounds and set up? I can remember a circus once, a long time ago, but since then, nothing. I think they might be a dying art form—how will people twenty years from now relate to this nonsense about the big top? All right, scratch the circus.

Imagine a procession winding its way through town, set to jolly music.

Now, “procession” to me means either a funeral or a wedding. In neither case is jolly music particularly appropriate, unless you’re in New Orleans (which we’re not). They call for a dirge or a march as appropriate. But since we’re unclear as to which it is, best to leave off the jollyness (jolility?). In fact, best to just get rid of the music entirely. The nature of the procession will determine it anyway. All right, scratch the jolly music.

Imagine a procession winding its way through town.

Do processions really wind in any of the towns I’m familiar with? No, the streets tend to be rather broad and straight. The whole “winding streets” thing is a European import anyway. And the word “way” is too esoteric anyhow. How does one find, or lose, a way in any real sense of the word? It’s too romantic a notion for today’s edgy youth audience. All right, scratch the way and the winding thereof.

Imagine a procession moving through town.

Back to that procession again. Would a funeral or wedding really go through town in this day and age? Unless it was a particularly small town (which this isn’t), they’d only move through a part of town, not the whole thing. And, really, the town is far more important than the procession of its various motions. The town sells itself, or should at any rate. All right, scratch the procession and the moving.

Imagine a town.

That’s cut down to the bone, right there. It’s all about the town, the locality. Though come to think of it, what exactly is a town in a cohesive sense? It’s just a collection of people, buildings, public utilities, and the like. It doesn’t really say anything other than, maybe, “Hey! I’m a collection of people, buildings, public utilities, and the like!” Nothing unique in that message, or anything interesting for that matter. All right, scratch the town.

Imagine.

Perfect!

 

April 2, 2011

From “Idiols of Ail” by Johanssen Koenig

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“The Ail thought the art of writing was divine, so they made styli idols unique in Bronze Age Mesopotamia.”

“Divine writing? I know some authors who think they’re divine, but damn.”

“It’s not that much of a stretch when you consider the first scribes were usually members of the priesthood anyway. I’m frankly surprised more societies didn’t follow the Ail in worshiping writing itself rather than its base content.”

“Whatever happened to the Ail?”

“Most of the artifacts we have are from sites that were sacked and burned. From that, people gather that they were wiped out by the Akkadians.”

“So much for the pen being mightier than the sword…!”

 

March 6, 2011

From “Vee Ess vs. Andrea Bergstrom & Associates” by Maye Catulla

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But Andrea Bergstrom & Associates didn’t pay Cynthia to do that. No, her job was going through the slush pile.

Every day, hundreds of letters from would-be authors arrived at AB&A, looking for one of the agents to represent what the writers were no doubt convinced would be The Next Great American Novel. Junior assistant editors got to wade through the muck, looking over query after query and routing the ones that seemed decent upstairs for a second look.

“What would you do,” Cynthia read, “if you learned you were a vampire princess…” She stopped there and chucked the letter into a wastebasket she’d set up, one labeled ‘Vampire Shit.’ Oh, it’s true they were hot now, but with the press time and the concurrent glut on the market–plus the fact that most were unspeakably dire–Ms. Bergstrom had decreed from on high that they were no longer to be considered.

Cynthia opened a fresh one. “Izzy Connington had everything in life: a hot boyfriend, a fast car, and the prom queen’s tiara. But that’s before she became a vampire…”

Paper was roughly balled and flung into the VS basket.

“Kyra Heartache and Nostra Rameses. Friends and lovers torn apart by the ancient feud between vampyr and mummies.”

VS. VS, VS, VS.

 

March 1, 2011

From “The Last Email” by Eric Cummings Jr.

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Her note continued:

“I never believed your routine about being a cynic. You believe in things. Not good things or worthy things, but things nonetheless. From my point of view, every position I’ve teased out of you is utterly repugnant, but in taking them you’ve set yourself apart from the others.

Don’t pretend to be something you’re not. It’s a cruel world we live in when somebody has to hide their idealism behind a cynic’s mask, to feign apathy about something they care deeply about rather than confronting it head on. I’ve worn that mask many times in my life, and only recently have I had the courage to remove it for good. I think, in time, you will too.

This isn’t like the end of the book you told me you wanted to write–the one where everyone manages to live happily if not ever after without reeking of sickly-sweet sentiment. I don’t know if even such a qualified happiness can exist in this world of ours without a platform of lies to stand upon, much as we all desperately need to believe it can and does. But it is an ending.

I’ll go my own way–don’t worry. But whatever happens, I want you to be strengthened by it. Go out there and believe repulsive things, but believe them sincerely, just as I sincerely believe that you’ll get your happy ending–whether in real life or in a world of your own making on a manuscript page.”

 

January 12, 2011

From “A Nobel in Every Pocket and Six Figures on Every Pay Stub” by Kim Sharpe

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Volved Sagenned was the writer in residence, and considered quite a coup at the time he’d been retained. A Nobel prize winner, his books had sold millions of copies in translation and he was considered to be at the forefront of the “new wave” of former Warsaw Pact writers reflecting on the losing side of the Cold War.

He was also an irritable, self-absorbed old man with an impenetrably thick accent and absolutely no idea how to teach a class.

“He isn’t even required to teach, you know,” Kelly hissed. “He just does it for the stipend. His contract gives him six figures for three credit hours.”

“But he’s already making seven figures just by lending us his name,” whispered Harry. “Can’t he accept a little less in return for not making our lives hell!”

“Enough!” Sagenned roared. “The talkings ends now. Yes, ziz van iz not zo deaf ahz to naht heer shew hizzing like nezt of serpent!”

The students quickly fell into line even if they didn’t quite understand what he was saying.

“Paparz on desk, at vunze!” the author barked. “Tventy pagaz on ze meaning ov Krishnakov’s charakter! Let uz be determine who haz properly grazped!”

 

November 9, 2010

From “The InBoAuEv” by Tina Grissom

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Bleary, Jenny raised her head from the nest of wrappers, cans, and napkins on her desk. The clock said she’d been out for nearly two hours, and the open wordfile on her laptop still blared its humiliating message:

Page 19/19. 5862/5867 words.

“Holy hell,” she breathed. “I’m doomed.”

It had seemed like such a lark earlier. Jenny had heard of the International Book Authoring Event (InBoAuEv or “In-bow-ev” to those in the know) years ago, and it had always seemed like just the thing to soothe her restless writer’s soul, to put an end to all the starting and never finishing she seemed to do. The event’s challenge–write 200 pages or 80,000 words of a book, whichever came first, in the space of March–seemed eminently doable when broken down to six pages a day. And, indeed, Jenny had blazed through twelve pages in that first day.

But then the horror started. Characters lost their motivation and refused to behave, wandering aimlessly in Jenny’s mind’s eye. Her outline broke down in key places. Vacuuming the apartment or surfing internet cartoons gobbled up the time carefully allotted for writing. And now, five days in, she felt like a drowning sailor after a shipwreck–ironic, given that her tale was a modern-day pirate story.

“What’s it going to take to get this thing back on track?” she cried to no one in particular.

She was about to find out.

 

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