Well. It's been three weeks, and here we are. I've held a lot of jobs in these past three weeks, and made several attempts at what those of the writing persuasion call "the Life." I tried writing for a nature magazine, but my article, "Marmots: the Silent Strangler of Small Children" received so much negative feedback that they had to let me go. So too was met my canceled-far-too-soon column in Highlights Magazine, "the Anarchist's Cookbook for Tots." Perhaps a more moderate success was my attempt at an advice column, entitled "Eli Says Shut the Fuck Up." Because of the profanity in the title and spaced every four words throughout the text, it was only picked up by the Seattle Sanguinerican; and though it received positive feedback from all four of the publication's subscribers, I unfortunately can't pay my bills with the rendered payment of "all our hopes and best wishes, man." And of course, the less said about my travelogue of the Mediterranean that landed me in front of the United Nations War Crimes Tribunal, the better.
I guess what I'm trying to say, internets, is that while I was dejectedly bouncing from failure to failure, occasionally popping into dark alleys to avoid Interpol agents before changing my face and name, all I could think about is the good times we had. Back before all this heartbreak and deadly games of cat and mouse, writing was fun. I used to love sharing my thoughts and opinions here, and I never once had to kill a stranger in cold blood to procure a counterfeit passport. So, in the interest of my emotional stability and personal safety, I'm returning to what I know.
The world of professional writing is an enticing and alluring one, but it is one best left to the professionals. But, I know there are people out there, people who are born to be professional writers, people for whom failure is an aphrodisiac, who thrive on self-destruction, and aren't afraid of having their fingers broken by men in suits in a sunless room deep in a small fortress that appears on no map, somewhere off the coast of Ibiza; and perhaps, perhaps there are some of those people reading this blog right now who have the requisite nerves of steel, or perhaps valuable state secrets with which to bargain, but have no idea what to write about. Well, fear not, potential example, for I, in my infinite compassion, have decided help you out.
What follows is a list of story fragments I have written, and each one is virtually guaranteed to inspire the next New York Times Bestseller. All you have to do is take the fragment, the "heart" of the story, if you will, and surround it on each side with a hundred pages or so of exposition and resolution. Simple, right? And because I'm such a generous guy, I will provide these royalty free. All I ask in return is that the dedication page of your book read, "To Eli Derbestershire, without whom none of this would be possible, and I would be a complete failure in every sense of the word." Again, a mere pittance, in exchange for what I'm providing you.
And now, the stories:
“I’m going to kill you!” the man shouted, pointing his finger at me. “I’m going to kill you until you are dead.” Then he walked away and I never saw him again.
--
Everyone knows that Jumbilaxes hunt in groups of three. That’s why I always carry a spare Junmbilax with me wherever I go. It worked perfectly until the day we stumbled upon two sleeping Jumbilaxes…
--
“Back in World War II, we used to use them as candleholders,” the old man explained. “Sometimes just for a bit of Sunday tea.” I had no idea what he was talking about.
--
It was Jackie’s 17th birthday. There it was in front of her, the only thing she had ever wanted. The complete destruction of the universe.
--
The smell drifted down through the darkness, between the dripping pipes down to the three frightened figures huddled on the floor. It forced itself into their nostrils, clawing its way through the walls of the nasal cavity, all the way to the olfactory center of the brain. “Bacon!” shouted the Professor, “Of course, it all makes sense now!”
--
My father used to tell me, a man only needs two things to be happy: the love of a good person, and a rockin’ personal theme song written by the Pretenders just for him. Now if only I could find someone to love me…
--
Lieutenant Belfast could not believe his eyes. The Captain, murdered, and right in front of him no less. Sitting back in his armchair and taking a sip of his Blue Hawaiian, he knew it was going to be one of those days.
--
74,000 people used to live in this town. Then they moved to that town over there.
--
“Wherefore!” shouted the man in the silly raincoat. He did not know wherefore.
--
Only a vampire could know how to use the Doomsday Machine, or so said the common wisdom. Wexley knew better, for in his experience most vampires were fucking retarded.
--
The guns finally fell silent. The soldiers, not knowing what to do, simply looked at each other. Was it a trap, a clever ruse to get them to peak out, maybe venture out in the open before beginning the barrage again? Or had the impossible happened? Had they finally achieved peace? Maybe the war was over. Maybe they could finally go home, and see their families for the first time in several very long months. The captain tentatively pulled himself over the edge of the bunker. It was unbelievable! The enemy was retreating! The men whooped and hollered, caps were thrown into the air, when suddenly, like a gunshot, from within their own ranks someone let out a tremendous fart. The captain looked up just in time to see the enemy artillery spinning back around to face them...
--
"Oh my god, is that a bear?!" the worried patron shouted. "No," I replied, "that is not a bear."
Shakily translated from a foreign language version:
"Oh my god, is that bear?"
"No," said man, "is not bear."
--
"How often does it do that?" asked the bank manager. "Constantly," replied Jenna. "It is always doing that?"
--
"Maria, it's over between us. I could never love you now. I'm going to go sleep in the Corridor of Eternal Flame."
--
The promotion offered one full grown African rhino in exchange for 14 bottlecaps. One one level, Douglas knew what he was getting, but on another, more practical level, he was kind of a dumbass.
--
The TV came on by itself; its light played across the faces in the dark room. "Who wants to kill themselves?" it cheerfully inquired. The youths conferred amongst themselves, finally announcing that none of them did. The TV apologized for its intrusion, and turned itself back off.
--
Miley Cyrus stared deeply into her burrito, focusing all of her sad thoughts into it. She devoured it, confident that soon she would poop all her sorrows away.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Friday, January 9, 2009
A Writer's Journey: Part 2
Okay, so my plan did not go so well. Even though I sent my manuscript out to every publisher and built up a good buzz here on my blog, nearly 48 hours have gone by without anyone offering me a contract. But that’s when I realized: not everyone makes it that way. The number of unknown authors who get novels published on their first try is actually quite small (who knew?). So instead of starting at the top, I guess I’ve got to find a somewhat thankless writing job and work my way up from there. Fortunately, I have already acquired that job, writing jokes for the Good Humour Popsicle Corporation. And I’m so excited, I can’t just sit around furtively watching small children slowly eat popsicles just so I can get some feedback on my work, so I’ve decided to share my first batch here. Please let me know what you think.
Q: Why did the dentist bring a file to work?
A: He was feeling a little long in the tooth.
Q: Why did the elephant buy a PDA?
A: It needed help managing its tusks.
Q: What did Delaware?
A: That sentence contains no verb, and therefore is grammatically meaningless.
Q: Why did the alligator cross the road?
A: It was anti-semetic and there were some Jewish people next to it.
Q: How much did the chicken’s abortion cost?
A: A poultry sum.
Q: Why did the rubber fly off the dick?
A: It was pissed off.
(credit to your friend, the fool for this one)
Q: Why did the rabbit shoot itself in the head?
A: It was having a hare-ible day.
Q: In which country can a horse be king?
A: France.
Q: Why did the boy throw his clock out the window?
A: Because he is a naughty child, and he will rot in the pit of Perdition for all eternity for his crime, where ravenous birds will peck apart his flesh for all eternity, and every night his flesh will be restored so that the monstrous process can begin anew.
Q: What did Hitler say to his chamber pot?
A: I don’t know, I don’t speak German.
Q: What did the snow say to the mountain?
A: “I’m better than you in every way. Including sexual performance.”
Q: What was the name of Shakespeare’s dog?
A: Fuckface.
Q: What is the worst crime?
A: Raping and murdering one’s own entire extended family, then blowing up a very important bridge.
UPDATE: I’ve been fired!
Q: Why did the dentist bring a file to work?
A: He was feeling a little long in the tooth.
Q: Why did the elephant buy a PDA?
A: It needed help managing its tusks.
Q: What did Delaware?
A: That sentence contains no verb, and therefore is grammatically meaningless.
Q: Why did the alligator cross the road?
A: It was anti-semetic and there were some Jewish people next to it.
Q: How much did the chicken’s abortion cost?
A: A poultry sum.
Q: Why did the rubber fly off the dick?
A: It was pissed off.
(credit to your friend, the fool for this one)
Q: Why did the rabbit shoot itself in the head?
A: It was having a hare-ible day.
Q: In which country can a horse be king?
A: France.
Q: Why did the boy throw his clock out the window?
A: Because he is a naughty child, and he will rot in the pit of Perdition for all eternity for his crime, where ravenous birds will peck apart his flesh for all eternity, and every night his flesh will be restored so that the monstrous process can begin anew.
Q: What did Hitler say to his chamber pot?
A: I don’t know, I don’t speak German.
Q: What did the snow say to the mountain?
A: “I’m better than you in every way. Including sexual performance.”
Q: What was the name of Shakespeare’s dog?
A: Fuckface.
Q: What is the worst crime?
A: Raping and murdering one’s own entire extended family, then blowing up a very important bridge.
UPDATE: I’ve been fired!
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
A Writer's Journey: Part 1
There comes a time in a person’s life when he has to let go of the comfortable, peaceful life, and accomplish something truly great. I feel this time has come for me, to become what I’ve always suspected I’d become someday, a professional writer.
There are only two things required to become a professional writer: A kickass blog (check) and a pair of eyeglasses (check and check). As you can see, I possess both of these things, and am therefore, a professional writer waiting to happen. Well, then I shall not struggle against inevitability for much longer, and give in to my true destiny.
Like most people with spectacles and a blog, I have of course written a novel. This is no big secret, for if you have been around writers for long, you will find that those who have not been published yet have written exactly one novel. Perhaps you will be discussing a type of fine quiche, and they will mention that the specific quiche you mentioned just happens to be the quiche of choice of the main character of their novel. Or maybe you will be talking about Johnny Carson, and your writer friend may say, “Johnny Carson, say, he has hands, doesn’t he? You know who else has hands? The characters in my novel.”
But, dear reader, I am not here to bore you with the details and structure of hands, for I am sure there are less mundane, and less retarded aspects of my book that you would like to hear about. My novel is entitled, “Jake Headstrong, Freelance Pugilist, in the Case of the Estonian Phosphorite Conflict.” Hopefully you can glean much of the story’s plot from the title, namely that the main theme of the story is the international intrigue and espionage over Estonia’s coveted phosphorite minerals. In this setting, Jake Headstrong, a bespectacled professional writer and soldier of fortune with nerves of steel, biceps of rough, tanned leather, and a kickass blog, is called in by the United States government to solve a crisis brewing in Eastern Europe. The reader is then invited to thrill in the escapades of Jake Headstrong’s straightforward, take no prisoners approach to the keeping of peace and the kicking of asses.
It would, of course, be quite impossible to publish all 619 chapters, 4,890 pages worth of action, adventure, and romance to this blog, not to mention that someone could easily steal my work and pass it off as their own. But then, it would be equally cruel to deprive you of it entirely, so in the spirit of compromise I have agreed to post a sample chapter for your enjoyment. Be aware, however, that this is one of the slower chapters, giving Jake a chance to catch his breath after a huge action scene. It is presented here merely to whet your appetite, and prepare you for the excitement ahead should you choose to buy a copy of my book (forthcoming).
In the meantime, set back, and enjoy this sample from:
Jake Headstrong, Freelance Pugilist
in
the Case of the Estonian Phosphorite Conflict
Chapter 62 - National Security
“You’re safe for now, Mr. President,” Jake Headstrong said to the president. “Those ninjas won’t bother you now.” The President awoke to find himself laying on the sofa in the Oval Office. Jake Headstrong turned away from the President and quietly kissed his two fists, Rapscallion and Haymaker. Before turning back to the President, Rapscallion grabbed a huge cigar from his pocket, and Haymaker obliged him with a light.
“Thank you so much, Mr. Headstrong,” the President blubbered. “I don’t know what I would have done without you. I’m so sorry, I’m just not strong enough to run this country!”
Before he could comprehend what was happening, Haymaker was slamming into the President’s chin, lifting him off the ground. As the President landed, he heard Jake Headstrong’s gruff voice shouting at him, “Snap out of it Mr. President! Fine, if you won’t run this country, then I will.”
Without warning, Jake picked up the red phone on the desk, and shouted into it, “now hear this! This is Jake Headstrong, and I’ll be in charge of things from now on.” He slammed the phone down without noticing the confused voice of the Russian diplomat on the other end. From there he marched directly into the War Room.
The men inside the War Room did not know who this man was, but they stood at attention as soon as he entered. Jake Headstrong took one look the screen, and said, “this situation in Iran is getting ridiculous. Let’s just bomb them.”
The Secretary of Defense sheepishly raised his hand. “Um, sir,” he said, “you want to bomb the whole country of Iran?”
“That’s what I said,” Jake Headstrong bellowed back at him, “and when I say I want something done, that means I want it done now.”
“But sir, the sheer amount of explosives, not to mention the diplomatic recours--" The Secretary’s protest was interrupted by Rapscallion entering his skull through his right temple, and exiting through the back of his skull. “I am now also the Secretary of Defense, as well as the President,” Jake declared. The rest of the cabinet silently nodded in agreement.
Jake Headstrong’s next order of business was to address the United Nations. “I want Marine One in the air right now,” he shouted at someone whose name he didn’t know. “Sir,” the frightened voice came back, “Marine One is fueled and ready to go. It can take off as soon as you arrive.”
“God damn it man, there’s no time! Get that bird in the air now!” As the aide, or whatever he was, stuttered into the radio for the helicopter to take off. Jake Headstrong, meanwhile, was already climbing the stairs to the White House roof, taking them six at a time. Bursting his way onto the roof, he sprinted toward the rising helicopter. With a majestic leap, Haymaker and Rapscallion soon found themselves wrapped around the landing gear of Marine One. Jake Headstrong pulled himself up into the helicopter. “Pilot,” he said, “I need to get to UN Headquarters, and make the post be haste.” The pilot slowly turned around, revealing himself to be AN 800 POUND GRIZZLY BEAR!
Using its ability to run at a top speed of 40 kilometers per hour, the bear rushed at Jake Headstrong at a rate of 38 kilometers per hour. It swiped a mighty paw at Jake, tearing his shirt off and leaving a gigantic oozing red claw mark across his chest. Jake, for his part, did not seem to notice this. Instead he wound up his arm, and planted a firm Rapscallion right in the hairy beast’s mouth, knocking all of its teeth out. The bear fell to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably. “Don’t worry, noble creature,” Jake said soothingly, “I’ll make it quick.” He quickly straddled the great beast, and wrapped his arms around its head, solemnly snapping its neck.
It was then that Jake Headstrong noticed the chopper was losing altitude...
There are only two things required to become a professional writer: A kickass blog (check) and a pair of eyeglasses (check and check). As you can see, I possess both of these things, and am therefore, a professional writer waiting to happen. Well, then I shall not struggle against inevitability for much longer, and give in to my true destiny.
Like most people with spectacles and a blog, I have of course written a novel. This is no big secret, for if you have been around writers for long, you will find that those who have not been published yet have written exactly one novel. Perhaps you will be discussing a type of fine quiche, and they will mention that the specific quiche you mentioned just happens to be the quiche of choice of the main character of their novel. Or maybe you will be talking about Johnny Carson, and your writer friend may say, “Johnny Carson, say, he has hands, doesn’t he? You know who else has hands? The characters in my novel.”
But, dear reader, I am not here to bore you with the details and structure of hands, for I am sure there are less mundane, and less retarded aspects of my book that you would like to hear about. My novel is entitled, “Jake Headstrong, Freelance Pugilist, in the Case of the Estonian Phosphorite Conflict.” Hopefully you can glean much of the story’s plot from the title, namely that the main theme of the story is the international intrigue and espionage over Estonia’s coveted phosphorite minerals. In this setting, Jake Headstrong, a bespectacled professional writer and soldier of fortune with nerves of steel, biceps of rough, tanned leather, and a kickass blog, is called in by the United States government to solve a crisis brewing in Eastern Europe. The reader is then invited to thrill in the escapades of Jake Headstrong’s straightforward, take no prisoners approach to the keeping of peace and the kicking of asses.
It would, of course, be quite impossible to publish all 619 chapters, 4,890 pages worth of action, adventure, and romance to this blog, not to mention that someone could easily steal my work and pass it off as their own. But then, it would be equally cruel to deprive you of it entirely, so in the spirit of compromise I have agreed to post a sample chapter for your enjoyment. Be aware, however, that this is one of the slower chapters, giving Jake a chance to catch his breath after a huge action scene. It is presented here merely to whet your appetite, and prepare you for the excitement ahead should you choose to buy a copy of my book (forthcoming).
In the meantime, set back, and enjoy this sample from:
Jake Headstrong, Freelance Pugilist
in
the Case of the Estonian Phosphorite Conflict
Chapter 62 - National Security
“You’re safe for now, Mr. President,” Jake Headstrong said to the president. “Those ninjas won’t bother you now.” The President awoke to find himself laying on the sofa in the Oval Office. Jake Headstrong turned away from the President and quietly kissed his two fists, Rapscallion and Haymaker. Before turning back to the President, Rapscallion grabbed a huge cigar from his pocket, and Haymaker obliged him with a light.
“Thank you so much, Mr. Headstrong,” the President blubbered. “I don’t know what I would have done without you. I’m so sorry, I’m just not strong enough to run this country!”
Before he could comprehend what was happening, Haymaker was slamming into the President’s chin, lifting him off the ground. As the President landed, he heard Jake Headstrong’s gruff voice shouting at him, “Snap out of it Mr. President! Fine, if you won’t run this country, then I will.”
Without warning, Jake picked up the red phone on the desk, and shouted into it, “now hear this! This is Jake Headstrong, and I’ll be in charge of things from now on.” He slammed the phone down without noticing the confused voice of the Russian diplomat on the other end. From there he marched directly into the War Room.
The men inside the War Room did not know who this man was, but they stood at attention as soon as he entered. Jake Headstrong took one look the screen, and said, “this situation in Iran is getting ridiculous. Let’s just bomb them.”
The Secretary of Defense sheepishly raised his hand. “Um, sir,” he said, “you want to bomb the whole country of Iran?”
“That’s what I said,” Jake Headstrong bellowed back at him, “and when I say I want something done, that means I want it done now.”
“But sir, the sheer amount of explosives, not to mention the diplomatic recours--" The Secretary’s protest was interrupted by Rapscallion entering his skull through his right temple, and exiting through the back of his skull. “I am now also the Secretary of Defense, as well as the President,” Jake declared. The rest of the cabinet silently nodded in agreement.
Jake Headstrong’s next order of business was to address the United Nations. “I want Marine One in the air right now,” he shouted at someone whose name he didn’t know. “Sir,” the frightened voice came back, “Marine One is fueled and ready to go. It can take off as soon as you arrive.”
“God damn it man, there’s no time! Get that bird in the air now!” As the aide, or whatever he was, stuttered into the radio for the helicopter to take off. Jake Headstrong, meanwhile, was already climbing the stairs to the White House roof, taking them six at a time. Bursting his way onto the roof, he sprinted toward the rising helicopter. With a majestic leap, Haymaker and Rapscallion soon found themselves wrapped around the landing gear of Marine One. Jake Headstrong pulled himself up into the helicopter. “Pilot,” he said, “I need to get to UN Headquarters, and make the post be haste.” The pilot slowly turned around, revealing himself to be AN 800 POUND GRIZZLY BEAR!
Using its ability to run at a top speed of 40 kilometers per hour, the bear rushed at Jake Headstrong at a rate of 38 kilometers per hour. It swiped a mighty paw at Jake, tearing his shirt off and leaving a gigantic oozing red claw mark across his chest. Jake, for his part, did not seem to notice this. Instead he wound up his arm, and planted a firm Rapscallion right in the hairy beast’s mouth, knocking all of its teeth out. The bear fell to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably. “Don’t worry, noble creature,” Jake said soothingly, “I’ll make it quick.” He quickly straddled the great beast, and wrapped his arms around its head, solemnly snapping its neck.
It was then that Jake Headstrong noticed the chopper was losing altitude...
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