Pancakes II: The Fiction and Poetry Thread

[Brisco Bold]

It's funny, a friend of mine was telling me not to let my head get so big when an agent recently asked for the whole manuscript. I wanted to take a screenshot of my mail folder called "NO" and send that to her.

I only have one in my "NO" folder. Soon I will have two.

[Drewbacca]

Calliander: Are you published?

Also for the writers here - on the subject of openings. Why is it so hard to open a story? I have everything I want in the arch of my story but the opening never seems to click in my brain. Any tips other than taking a more interesting bit from the middle and shoveling it in to the start... because if I do that I feel like I'm copping out to a potentially truly great opening. Feels dirty, you know?

[Calliander]

Very close, I hope. The ms is with two agents right now. The "NO" folder is almost 100 emails strong, though. LOL.

As far as the opening goes I have two suggestions. Well, one is really a checklist of things to avoid: Excessive description, flashbacks, point of view that is not one of the main characters, dialogue beyond regular human interaction. There are others but those come to mind readily.

The other suggestion is to just write from "the beginning" and get a good deal done. Then have people read it and tell you where it starts getting good. Then start it there.

[Calliander]

Who's got an agent? This guy.

On Thursday, I go down to my lawyer's office and sign my contract. I had to sacrifice some advance money to gain media transference rights, but it'll be worth it if I somehow become popular.

Boom.

[Brisco Bold]

Who's got an agent? This guy.

On Thursday, I go down to my lawyer's office and sign my contract. I had to sacrifice some advance money to gain media transference rights, but it'll be worth it if I somehow become popular.

Boom.

YES! Congrats man! So happy for you.

[Doc Holliday]

Is this that sci-fi book you've been working on? Is it done? Also Mark Twain moved to Connecticut where he wrote some of his best stuff. Kudos.

[Doc Holliday]

OK, I see it's done. How many times have you re-wrote it?

[Calliander]

Got to the lawyer's office today and he pointed out like fifteen things wrong with the contract - like reading fees (a huge no-no), a sale term, outlandish IP rights stuff, etc.

Sad panda. Oh well. Back to the drawing board.

OK, I see it's done. How many times have you re-wrote it?

I've got two books done. The third is being worked on sporadically, along with an auxiliary story.

[A Robot Bit Me]

My friend wants to put together sort of a graphic novel (hence the short paragraphs) compilation of hyper-stylized, Sin City-like recollections of unremarkable but embarrassing autobiographical stories. Here is mine. I hope you like it!

Everything Fell Out of Me

That night, the night who still lives in me and in that car, would be the last time I would ever pray. That night, I was sure God would listen. Tonight, I’m sure he doesn’t exist.

“I’m serious,” I said with dire sobriety. "I am going to shit my pants.” Someone overhearing us from the distance words die running, survived by pitch and tone, would think I was dictating a will.

“Come on. You’re not going to shit your pants.” I couldn’t sell him. He wasn’t unlocking that door. The shop closed hours ago. Getting caught skulking around it at this hour would get him fired or worse. These were hard times. I had to borrow money for the Hooters chicken wings that got me here. I had to borrow a favor to ask for one.

Goddamn Hooters. Goddamn Hooters and that goddamn waitress: that syphilis-addled carcass-monger trading plate after plate of steaming flesh for my piles of picked-dry bones, smiling the whole time. I’ll never forget that smile. That toothpaste commercial smile – that porcelain-and-bleach, knowing rictus of a pervert, luring kids into his van with candy promises.

"Take these.” He handed me a knot of napkins. He might as well have dropped me off in Huế with a bike helmet and a wiffleball bat. "That’s… that’s the best I can do. You're not going to shit your pants, anyway."

You’re not going to shit your pants, anyway.

You’re not going to shit your pa-

God, Jesus, let it be. Let it hold. Let it hold, and let my quivering anus hold its boiling cargo long enough for me to get home, to get to a gas station, to get the fuck out of this parking garage.

I believed it, too. That he was out there. That he was out there and he heard me. Somewhere in me, a valve turned, the motor-oil-through-a-drinking-straw pressure let up, and I knew he heard me.

Grrrrrb.

A dull crack of wet thunder.

GrrrrrrRRRRR...mmm…Bb-bh

I shut my eyes tight and felt the streak of brown lava paving its torrid road down my inner thigh.

You're not going to sh-.

God, please. Please, that’s it. God, please, I'll be better. Just pleaselet it be...itpleaseGOD, G-

It’s “Shit in one hand, pray with the other,” right? “Shit in one hand, pray with the other, and see which one fills up first.” I'll bet that was coined on a drive home from Hooters. And unless the guy who coined it was praying for a handful of shit, I'll bet that was the last time he prayed, too.

GRRRRRRMMMBBb

Another shot, then a goddamn blitzkrieg.

My car was hot with the steam of feces, but I was shivering when everything fell out of me.

[Josh]

I dig everything but the last line.