Map | SkipFron mobile | Frangles mobile | HTML validator | Admin | Style 0 Style 1 Style 2 | Size: 1 2 3 4 5
" 'There is never a way to fully immerse a reader in a story via prose. While words universally accepted by a large group of intelligent people to generally mean a certain thing can indeed convey complex feelings, scenarios, and emotions, this relaying is limited to a finite permutation of common vocabulary. Since there are only so many words a book of a given length is able to use, no book can ever come close to aside relaying an infinitely complex feeling an experience, with the obvious exception of the author of the permutation of a limited integer of vocabulary words snatching your book to smack you upside the head with it in a way someone once did to them. Of course, since there only so many ways to smack someone upside the head with your novel, this technique, too, falls short of its ability to relay any other plethora experiences than that required to master septuple black belt defenses against exactly such attacks.
" 'Similarly, Skip Friter could think of no other way to immerse any readers reading a story about him in the depths of his incompetency, than to shove aside an unfinished manuscript draft due disgustingly soon in favor of gawking at a few hot chicks on the first floor of Starbooks below. This close to the climax of the writing of his infinitely important manuscript, surely all his writer's fans would be biting their nails for the killer page-turning ending. What better time could there ever be to relay the rich human experience of being denied that very satisfaction due to the criminal incompetency of the writer involved in the matter?
" 'It was a perfect idea, though Skip hadn't come up with the idea on his own. The bookstore around him had become so real and fleshed out (after having been just a vague idea for a bookstore a significant time ago) that Skip had already sampled a good deal of humorous novels for inspiration. (What else would he read, since his life of late seemed to be one big horrible joke?) He'd found one that he most closely associated with, but it had ended rather abruptly. He could tell this even from not reading the whole thing (though it wouldn't have been that difficult seeing how there really should have been a whole lot more of it). He found a story on the matter of the writing of the book, and discovered the author had impressively missed so many deadlines that the publisher involved finally sent someone over to grab whatever the hell he had at the time to bring back to be published unfinished. Skip vehemently sympathized with the situation, and admired the man's ability to relay the story of a writer's incompetence through prose.
" 'Like the author -- whose name Skip refused to even think to himself given he'd skimmed a book on copyright infringement lawsuits (of a title Skip also refused to bring to mind for the same reason) -- Skip decided he was smart enough to pull off the same. For as long as Skip could remember he had been told how important his eventual finished manuscript would be to the entire vast universe of existences of Beings of blah blah blah blah blah. Perhaps giving all existence a finger would teach everyone a thing or two about pressuring writers in general to meet deadlines, for obviously the universe hadn't learned the full lesson from Douglas--' "
"Skip! Wake up!"
"Oh, I wasn't resting, Mr. Flick, I was just ignoring you in favor of staring longingly at the girl in the pink tank. Don't worry, though, I've been vaguely pondering a detailed monologue in the back of my head since I saw you get off the escalator looking for me."
" 'Tots Flick the insulted publishing agent glanced in the general direction of where Skip seemed to be looking through deceptively drowsy eyes. Indeed, over by the Information Desk in the center of Starbooks was a pretty young girl in pink asking the secretary Darlene a question.'
"I'm having quite a nice fantasy, too, and you can see I'm working quite hard here -- I'm even concentrating on my narration skills if you were too dense to notice -- so please bugger off."
"You don't have time for this, Skip. I need a rough draft by closing or the entirety of Flutonia could perish by-- by-- well, really, really soon, anyway. I assume you're not half done -- assuming I'm not overestimating your competence -- so at least write a middle page or two explaining why whatever you've written so far makes complete and total sense as a full, self-sustenant story. You may be a slack-off idiot, but even you can see the dire need to hyperfocus on a last-minute scheme that could very well hold off Publish, Ink until they figure it out, which will buy us precious time.
"Already got it covered, Flick."
"Then yank up whatever you claim you have to the front burner, punch out whatever you're lying about that's incomplete if not everything, and knock out gawking at girls half your age off the oven completely!"
"Oh, no! That's not it at all. I didn't mean I was fantasizing about her. I meant I was fantasizing about writing her into an engrossing dynamic character arc. I've been people watching for inspiration. She's my current muse. And I have to say you've put a good dent in my concentration pummeling me with a stove fire of Fight Club metaphors, so once again, bugger off before you knock me out cold burner."
"Look, if you truly 'have this covered' then it can't possibly hurt to keep going at it! We have mere mots before this damn thing is due, how could girl-gawking possibly be more important than what you need to do?"
"No, it's a biggie. She's a noteworthy muse. Might end up the protagonist in my super- exactly- wonderful book of mine that I might just have time to whip out, then I could scrap the whole bullshit excuse epilogue and cash in the guilt-free catharsis for a new motorcycle."
"Sounds like a lame cover up to me."
"Beg to differ. I think my lack of ever having written a good dynamic character arc in combination with my diagnosable dopamine deficiencies grant me ineffable credibility for objectively analyzing my motives for girl-gawking. To boot, I'm already working on a great back up plan if it turns out I'm wasting my time: my tragically completely unfinished manuscript will have been a medium-surpassing 4th- wall- breaking documentary about the consequences of unmedicated Attention Deficit Disorder--"
"Firstly, you're not A.D.D., you're just plain fucking lazy. And that's coming from someone who knows enough A.D.D. writers to know that just about everyone called 'just plain fucking lazy' actually has A.D.D. Secondly, hell will freeze thrice over before I question your objectivity in self-analysis. It's the immorality of lying about it that pisses me off. And don't try to blame it on being a compulsive liar, because I know enough to know you're not one of those either."
"...Then, throw in that I'm working on the most self-important story in the universe at a bookstore where mundane muses are readily available to offset its importance, and I could pass a lie detector test interrogating my honesty regarding who I'm not gawking at with flying colors. Colors like hot neon pink, or angelic sky blue."
"Why the second?"
"That's what her best friend is wearing.
" 'Mr. Flick looked back at the desk. Now a young girl about the first one's age in a tight light blue shirt that looked like it had been dried and shrunk in a dryer the size of a merry go round running on nuclear power had joined in the conversation.' "
"How do you know they're best friends? Is this part of the story? Perhaps her friend dies tragically in a car accident and leaves her friend to grow up fighting the ensuing loss of innocence?"
"No, I know it's her best friend because neither was as flirty with their three classmates sitting the 4th table over and 2 down from the back corner of the cafe.
" 'Mr. Flick looked toward the cafe. From where he and Skip were, he could only barely see the table Skip had described. It was visible enough to confirm Skip's description was correct. But that Skip hadn't even looked away from the other two to relay the information told wonders about how long he had been committed to his literary muse.' "
"Me thinks your claim of objectivity and dispassionateness for your current quintuple protagonist soft porn vid is halving with every half-dressed high school girl you bring into it."
"Touche, but I've also been examining many fat, ugly, elderly men to keep it in check."
" 'Mr. Flick thoroughly took in everything clearly visible. He couldn't locate any obese, ugly, or elderly men anywhere in sight. (Although he did make a mental note that Skip would probably remind all three were relative and subject to point of view and metaphorical interpretation.)' "
"The paradox of using honesty itself to deny your accused lack of it intrinsically convicts you without need of a trial. If you were telling me the truth, you wouldn't have to resort to loopy logical fallacies in hopes I'll get dizzy and pass out parsing the damn things."
"Sorry, the day's fried a few of my logic circuits. I'm not saying what I mean. I worded that all wrong. What I meant was--"
"Ha! Worded it wrong, and illogically to boot! That's about the most unlikely slip imaginable for an oppressive nitpick warlord like yourself. You could tear apart any sentence man is capable of uttering in a dead coma, and you know it. A 2nd redundant conviction to be sure!"
"A 'dead coma' would imply wakefulness, even we forgive your gross personification of a physical state, which we'd need to do to justify your description of it being not alive. Second, you mean 'redundant conviction', not '2nd redundant'. A 2nd redundant conviction would necessitate a 1st redundant conviction, for which there would necessarily have to be one preceding that. If you'd said--"
" 'Finally taking note of Mr. Flick's stare of vindication, Skip halted his correction like a serial killer passionately revealing the detailed fetishes involved in his grisly murders before suddenly remembering he was in court for a plethora of first degree murder charges. Mr. Flick took a bit of well-spent time to nod rhetorically as at the criminal who had now 3 times -- arguable 4 or 5 -- convicted himself beyond any doubt. Mr. Flick felt so vindicated that for one moment in time, he actually entered the ballpark of Skip's literary narration skill, and shut him down by diligently narrating his failure with the utmost irony and sentiment imaginable.'
"Get going, Skip. Why don't you focus your real life deception into fictional imagination and get the hell back to work. You can lie about using character development to excuse jail bait gawking--"
"Ten bucks they're over 18."
"--once you've finished at least one, single, solid, sole and solitary smidgen of work that will justify the--"
"Completely unnecessary and non sequitur burst of alliteration."
"--eons you've wasted away since your very first memory, and perhaps even the years of delinquency prior to your amnesia. An amnesia I've been doubting more and more of late has not been complete fraud from the start. At the least, even if you're entire amnesia ordeal is entirely true, you probably smacked yourself in the head yourself to induce the condition. So it's at least fraud, if not purgery. This isn't a joke, Skip, get to work, now. We need that closing page -- no, Flutonia needs that closing page by closing and you damn well know what will happen if you don't get it done. If half the universe expires, there won't be any stinking girls to gawk at around here as they won't very well exist now, will they? There's your motivation! Now get the hell back to work!"
"Hushhssh! I think they're about to kiss."
Map | SkipFron mobile | Frangles mobile | HTML validator | Admin | Style 0 Style 1 Style 2 | Size: 1 2 3 4 5