From: “John Lamont” (jolamont@lamindustries.com)
To: All
RE: Year-end wrap-up
12-15-02
Hello, all, I’m writing to congratulate you on another banner year at Lamont Industries. Although our earnings have been steadily declining for the past three quarters (as well you know, I’m sure,) this is in no way an indication of a continuing trend. In fact, I’m quite confident that this- dear employees- is, to put it philosophically, the first quarter of the rest of our business careers. Pending current federal investigation.
I realize that morale has declined this year, and as your leader, I accept some responsibility for this. In large part, though, I blame the morale consultation firm I hired, whose ideas ultimately backfired. To be sure, you had good intent, but your themed-office events, such as Take-Your-Estranged-Spouse-To-Work Day, proved to be counterproductive. I can appreciate the great effort you put into our annual Company Picnic, and applaud the decision to make it a “field-trip” styled event. However, your choice of location—downtown Trenton, New Jersey—shows, to put it mildly, a lack of foresight. We are still missing half of our marketing department. To the Blanford Consultation firm: we’re glad to have done business with you, and perhaps we’ll be in touch. But, for the moment, please have your offices cleaned out by 5 PM. And, just a quick reminder, the furniture is company property. Thanks.
To the rest of our staff: I look forward to a stellar business quarter, and have complete confidence in you. If we are to succeed, we can’t get hung up on our substandard performance these past few years. As George Santayana once said: “Those who cannot learn from history are doomed to repeat it.” Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t hire him as our next motivational speaker! Ha ha! Seriously, though, I’ve hired Tony Robbins to come speak at our year-end banquet, which, due to budget constraints, will be held in potluck format.. Hope you all can make it!
Sincerely,
John Lamont, CEO
From: “John Lamont” (jolamont@lamindustries.com)
To: All
RE: Whoops!
04-12-03
I would like to begin by apologizing, quickly, for the events that took place this past month. Sadly, as you know, our annual company activities fair, which should have been a wonderful outing, was the site of tragedy. As your CEO, I want you to know that I share very deeply in your grief. I don’t know who brought the Lawn Darts, nor who started the competition, but I can assure you that I am looking into the matter. In the meantime, funeral services will be held next Thursday, the 20th, at the Sacred Heart parish. I hope you can all come and pay your respects to-- what was it, Susanne? Was that her, the secretary who got a lawn dart lodged in her neck? Temp workers! You can never remember their names, am I right?
Next, we have a very important issue to address; no doubt you have all read the cover article of this month’s Newsweek, which listed our company’s product as one of the top ten carcinogens in today’s marketplace. I had no idea! To assure you that I’ve been proactive, I have hired an independent firm to assess our product’s risks—in the meantime, we will continue with production as scheduled. There is an old saying about not throwing out the baby with the bath water when all your eggs are in one basket. Well, we certainly don’t want to do that!
In a completely unrelated note, our entire PR department has resigned due to “issues of conscience.” I wish them well in all their future endeavors. This is a great chance for all you up-and-coming employees to move a few rungs up the corporate ladder. Anyone interested, please come to our orientation seminar, next Monday at noon, before our 3 o’clock CNN press conference. Free coffee and doughnuts!
Finally, vicious rumors have been circulating with regard to my mismanagement of company funds. Specifically, as you may know, I have been accused of raiding Lamont Industries’ 401k fund to purchase and develop a ranch-style home in northeast New Mexico. I’d like to assure you that these charges are completely erroneous. I’d also like to assure you that it’s pure happenstance I chose to name my new home “401k Ranch.” I hope that we can put this debacle behind us, and focus on our promising future. Also, incidentally, we have decided to discharge our cleaning staff, in favor of a new form of office maintenance. I’ve initiated the “Take Pride in your Workplace” program, under which we are now responsible for cleaning our offices. I hear it’s all the rage in Japan. That concludes this newsletter; if you have any questions, feel free to contact me. Please note, however, that I may be temporarily out of the country for awhile, on business research. Cheers,
John Lamont, CEO
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Formal Resignation
My fellow students,
It’s a pleasure to see you all again so soon. I wish it were under better circumstances. I have been asked to stand before you today and deliver a concession speech. Apparently my speech yesterday caused quite a stir. I received several angry lectures and phone calls. Apparently, in 2007, some people still don’t want to hear the truth.
Most of these phone calls came from Mrs. Curran. She took great umbrage at my speech, which she has called “offensive”. Perhaps I’m in the wrong line of work. Where I come from, we call a spade a spade, and if something’s wrong, then we do something about it. If a boy has eaten nothing but Elmer’s paste, construction paper, and Lunchables for the past 4 years, he's not “gifted” or “unique”, he's not right. I’m ashamed to say how many of you took offense at my attempt to help a fellow student. But, I suppose I may as well drop it. Mrs. Curran has told me that I’m “meddling”, and that I’ve “got no business telling her how to raise her son”. She’s right. What kind of authority figure am I, compared to a bitter, 38 year old alcoholic who still works at Applebees?
I’m reminded of the old fable, The Emperor’s New Clothes. Everyone sees what’s wrong, but no one wants to say anything. It’s up to a lone voice of innocence and reason. Nick Curran is like that Emperor. Except he doesn’t have new clothes. Perhaps a more aptly titled story might be: The Emperor’s 1988 Thundercats T-Shirt He Found in a Salvation Army Dumpster.
Do you think I like being the sole voice of reason? That it brings me any sort of joy to call it like I see it? I want nothing more than to speak the sweet, happy lies Timmy Steckler calls “facts”. But like a prophet, I must speak the truth, and the truth is rarely pretty. This morning, I opened my Bible at random for some inspiration. I need it these days. I found myself in the book of one of the most famed prophets. And I quote: “And Isaiah said ‘Take a lump of figs, and place it upon the boil’. And they did so, and it healed.” So, that means something. I haven’t figured out what, but it does not sound good.
There’s a lot I want to talk to you about. I want to talk about allegations that I tried to break into Timmy Steckler’s locker and steal his campaign strategy. Or about this new “You can’t be in the same room as Suzy because her mom called the school board” rule. But I see I’m getting the “wrap it up” signal from Ms. Yee. My fellow students, you have two choices today. You can stay in your lullaby of complacency here, from which you won’t wake until you’re 42, and an accountant in Connecticut, a big car in the driveway and an ache in your soul. Or you can rise up from the shackles of oppression, leave the conformity of Warren G Harding Elementary School, and see the world for what it is. This is the one I’m picking, because Principal Torres has informed me that I’m no longer welcome here. Good night and God Bless.
It’s a pleasure to see you all again so soon. I wish it were under better circumstances. I have been asked to stand before you today and deliver a concession speech. Apparently my speech yesterday caused quite a stir. I received several angry lectures and phone calls. Apparently, in 2007, some people still don’t want to hear the truth.
Most of these phone calls came from Mrs. Curran. She took great umbrage at my speech, which she has called “offensive”. Perhaps I’m in the wrong line of work. Where I come from, we call a spade a spade, and if something’s wrong, then we do something about it. If a boy has eaten nothing but Elmer’s paste, construction paper, and Lunchables for the past 4 years, he's not “gifted” or “unique”, he's not right. I’m ashamed to say how many of you took offense at my attempt to help a fellow student. But, I suppose I may as well drop it. Mrs. Curran has told me that I’m “meddling”, and that I’ve “got no business telling her how to raise her son”. She’s right. What kind of authority figure am I, compared to a bitter, 38 year old alcoholic who still works at Applebees?
I’m reminded of the old fable, The Emperor’s New Clothes. Everyone sees what’s wrong, but no one wants to say anything. It’s up to a lone voice of innocence and reason. Nick Curran is like that Emperor. Except he doesn’t have new clothes. Perhaps a more aptly titled story might be: The Emperor’s 1988 Thundercats T-Shirt He Found in a Salvation Army Dumpster.
Do you think I like being the sole voice of reason? That it brings me any sort of joy to call it like I see it? I want nothing more than to speak the sweet, happy lies Timmy Steckler calls “facts”. But like a prophet, I must speak the truth, and the truth is rarely pretty. This morning, I opened my Bible at random for some inspiration. I need it these days. I found myself in the book of one of the most famed prophets. And I quote: “And Isaiah said ‘Take a lump of figs, and place it upon the boil’. And they did so, and it healed.” So, that means something. I haven’t figured out what, but it does not sound good.
There’s a lot I want to talk to you about. I want to talk about allegations that I tried to break into Timmy Steckler’s locker and steal his campaign strategy. Or about this new “You can’t be in the same room as Suzy because her mom called the school board” rule. But I see I’m getting the “wrap it up” signal from Ms. Yee. My fellow students, you have two choices today. You can stay in your lullaby of complacency here, from which you won’t wake until you’re 42, and an accountant in Connecticut, a big car in the driveway and an ache in your soul. Or you can rise up from the shackles of oppression, leave the conformity of Warren G Harding Elementary School, and see the world for what it is. This is the one I’m picking, because Principal Torres has informed me that I’m no longer welcome here. Good night and God Bless.
You Should Vote For Me
My fellow students, our teachers, lunch mothers, Suzy: welcome.
I am not here today to make idle promises. To feed into the corporate machine we've made of Warren G. Harding's student council elections, nor to appease our parents, and their mountainous expectations, under which we will crumble before the ripe age of ten. Least of all, I do not want to appease you-- to promise you superficial gains that, in the end, will further bend your will, cloud your minds, until you forget the dire circumstances under which you each arrive, and replace them with extra-long snack time, or perhaps a school fair. If Warren G. Harding elementary school is our Brave New World, and you are my Savages, I will not be your soma. But if you'd rather these simple ego-graftifications, you might as well cast your vote for Timmy Steckler now.
I see I've piqued your arousal, mentioning the competition by name, and circumventing the unwritten rules of our 4th grade elections. Perhaps you don't believe me. Perhaps you say to yourselves, "Hank's a concerned boy, but isn't he just making a bigger deal out of things than need be?" And I've heard all the criticism I can stomach, the constant allegations I mismanaged my campaign funds, stealing Nick Curran's lunch money to defray the Kinko's costs for election posters. Even if I had-- ask yourselves, truly ask-- does Nick deserve that money? He's just going to spend it on Lunchables pizzas after school anyway, and stand as he always does, leaning against the door-frame of the 7-11, drinking the tomato sauce out of the plastic packets, as he has done every day for four years now. It's not even funny, it's gotten weird. It was pretty much weird the second week in a row he started doing it. What was that, like kindergarten? He never touches the pepperoni, or the cheese, but sucks the paste through a plastic nozzle, until half of it's in his stomach, and the other half's all over his face. The hobos don't even ask him for money, they keep their distance. But they always ask my Dad for money, and Dad looks them square in the eyes and says: "Why don't you get a job?" Then he buys malt liquor and drinks to The Price is Right.
My friends, how often have you felt like that dessicated sauce pouch? Drained, body and mind, til you have nothing left to give our system, as the teachers roll you up and squeeze from the sides, eager to get the last of you. I tell you today, you are not alone. And today, we're drained. When we can't go on anymore, is it we who have failed the system, or has the system failed us? How much do you want? How much are you prepared to demand? What if I told you that you could have your cake and eat it too? On Cake Day, the weekly holiday I will demand we celebrate every Thursday. Or perhaps you're a bit more of a free spirit? Why not cut out physical education for the children who'd rather not participate? Not me, personally, but the pasty-looking ones. Jamie, you come to mind-- you can fingerpaint, or watch Ingmar Bergman movies, or whatever it is you do.
We are, in a way, a class of Suzies: intelligent, kind of pretty, and horribly burdened, paired up with dead-weight that will never let us succeed. Whatever it is that ties us down, be it a corrupt political model, or having Nick Curran as a boyfriend for some weird reason, even as you stare at us every day coming back from the snack bar with the same carton of chocolate milk and this look in your brown eyes that says "Save me from myself", we can overcome it.
Seriously, you know he eats paste, right? Straight out of the jar, Ms. Yee saw him last year. How could you date that? Or, be a subject to- a subj-- a part of a system like that. It's like, we're all eating paste, and we can't stop ourselves. And sitting in the sandbox at 4 PM, alone, singing Ciara songs to ourselves, which I swear he does. The system. The system does.
Stalin once said, "If the opposition disarms, well and good. If it refuses, we will disarm it ourselves." We find ourselves in a similar situation, where the opposition from bored teachers and overbearing mothers overwhelms us. They have arms. We should have arms. Ideally, we would get their arms, and then they don't have any arms, and we have all of them. My Grandpa, a really historical person, told me that, and he had a lot of arms, in this box under his bed, until Mom told the police and now he has to wear this ankle thing so he can't leave the house.
I've already shared some of my plans, now I'd like to discuss my opponent's. Timmy Steckler, as I've mentioned, wants to organize a school wide fair. This sounds wonderful, but completely impractical; do you really want to spend all year looking forward to one day, six hours, of pony rides? And, who do you suppose will pay for these pony rides? Will Timmy Steckler appropriate school funds? Or will he steal the money from your lockers while you're in art period, like he probably does, and shoulder you with the budget? When you're sitting at Mr. Docker's studio tables, drawing hand turkeys, will you need to worry about whether or not your locker is open, sullied by Timmy's (probably unwashed) hands?
When I hear you gossiping in the lunch room, I hear the same thing time and time again: I don't want to give up my good little 4th grade life. I wish I could share your stubborn optimism, but I've been burdened with terrible knowledge. There will be other grades. There are more numbers than four. There's at least up to eleven, which is probably twice as much as four. And I know you've all heard the rumors of life beyond Warren G. Harding elementary school; some of you may even know those who have passed on before us. I tell you, what you have heard is true, my Dad confirmed it all, up until tenth grade when he quit school to work at Sizzler. After next year, there will be no more recess. There will be a shop class where you have to make spice racks every day while a man with no forehead yells at you. Do you really want to lose recess, or do you want to fight for your freedom? Vote for me, and I will write a law that says recess is a subject, and we get graded on it from now on, so Nick will look really stupid because he can't play kickball. I will sign it in crayon, and put it on a wall.
This will be the first of many laws; I have a whole book in the works. Several other ideas involve: model rockets, watching Star Wars in class, and setting things on fire if we don't like them. Also, my Grandpa can come in and talk to you all about this time he went to Asia, he said he was in Vietnam, and that the youth should know the real story about it before the Democrats start putting drugs in our water. His stories are really interesting, except that he usually falls asleep halfway through and starts screaming, because he's a narco...narcokleptomaniac, I think he calls it. It's on this piece of paper the parole board gave him, you should see it, I couldn't even spell it.
So, remember, a vote for me is a vote for freedom. More importantly, it's not a vote for Timmy Steckler. If you want, I can fill out the ballots for you, Dad said I should stuff the ballot-box. So today, you can remain in Timmy Steckler's slavery, or you can shed the yoke of oppression, and dump your stupid boyfriend-system that eats paste and watches Sliders episodes frame-by-frame. Ladies, gentlemen, Suzy: do the right thing.
I am not here today to make idle promises. To feed into the corporate machine we've made of Warren G. Harding's student council elections, nor to appease our parents, and their mountainous expectations, under which we will crumble before the ripe age of ten. Least of all, I do not want to appease you-- to promise you superficial gains that, in the end, will further bend your will, cloud your minds, until you forget the dire circumstances under which you each arrive, and replace them with extra-long snack time, or perhaps a school fair. If Warren G. Harding elementary school is our Brave New World, and you are my Savages, I will not be your soma. But if you'd rather these simple ego-graftifications, you might as well cast your vote for Timmy Steckler now.
I see I've piqued your arousal, mentioning the competition by name, and circumventing the unwritten rules of our 4th grade elections. Perhaps you don't believe me. Perhaps you say to yourselves, "Hank's a concerned boy, but isn't he just making a bigger deal out of things than need be?" And I've heard all the criticism I can stomach, the constant allegations I mismanaged my campaign funds, stealing Nick Curran's lunch money to defray the Kinko's costs for election posters. Even if I had-- ask yourselves, truly ask-- does Nick deserve that money? He's just going to spend it on Lunchables pizzas after school anyway, and stand as he always does, leaning against the door-frame of the 7-11, drinking the tomato sauce out of the plastic packets, as he has done every day for four years now. It's not even funny, it's gotten weird. It was pretty much weird the second week in a row he started doing it. What was that, like kindergarten? He never touches the pepperoni, or the cheese, but sucks the paste through a plastic nozzle, until half of it's in his stomach, and the other half's all over his face. The hobos don't even ask him for money, they keep their distance. But they always ask my Dad for money, and Dad looks them square in the eyes and says: "Why don't you get a job?" Then he buys malt liquor and drinks to The Price is Right.
My friends, how often have you felt like that dessicated sauce pouch? Drained, body and mind, til you have nothing left to give our system, as the teachers roll you up and squeeze from the sides, eager to get the last of you. I tell you today, you are not alone. And today, we're drained. When we can't go on anymore, is it we who have failed the system, or has the system failed us? How much do you want? How much are you prepared to demand? What if I told you that you could have your cake and eat it too? On Cake Day, the weekly holiday I will demand we celebrate every Thursday. Or perhaps you're a bit more of a free spirit? Why not cut out physical education for the children who'd rather not participate? Not me, personally, but the pasty-looking ones. Jamie, you come to mind-- you can fingerpaint, or watch Ingmar Bergman movies, or whatever it is you do.
We are, in a way, a class of Suzies: intelligent, kind of pretty, and horribly burdened, paired up with dead-weight that will never let us succeed. Whatever it is that ties us down, be it a corrupt political model, or having Nick Curran as a boyfriend for some weird reason, even as you stare at us every day coming back from the snack bar with the same carton of chocolate milk and this look in your brown eyes that says "Save me from myself", we can overcome it.
Seriously, you know he eats paste, right? Straight out of the jar, Ms. Yee saw him last year. How could you date that? Or, be a subject to- a subj-- a part of a system like that. It's like, we're all eating paste, and we can't stop ourselves. And sitting in the sandbox at 4 PM, alone, singing Ciara songs to ourselves, which I swear he does. The system. The system does.
Stalin once said, "If the opposition disarms, well and good. If it refuses, we will disarm it ourselves." We find ourselves in a similar situation, where the opposition from bored teachers and overbearing mothers overwhelms us. They have arms. We should have arms. Ideally, we would get their arms, and then they don't have any arms, and we have all of them. My Grandpa, a really historical person, told me that, and he had a lot of arms, in this box under his bed, until Mom told the police and now he has to wear this ankle thing so he can't leave the house.
I've already shared some of my plans, now I'd like to discuss my opponent's. Timmy Steckler, as I've mentioned, wants to organize a school wide fair. This sounds wonderful, but completely impractical; do you really want to spend all year looking forward to one day, six hours, of pony rides? And, who do you suppose will pay for these pony rides? Will Timmy Steckler appropriate school funds? Or will he steal the money from your lockers while you're in art period, like he probably does, and shoulder you with the budget? When you're sitting at Mr. Docker's studio tables, drawing hand turkeys, will you need to worry about whether or not your locker is open, sullied by Timmy's (probably unwashed) hands?
When I hear you gossiping in the lunch room, I hear the same thing time and time again: I don't want to give up my good little 4th grade life. I wish I could share your stubborn optimism, but I've been burdened with terrible knowledge. There will be other grades. There are more numbers than four. There's at least up to eleven, which is probably twice as much as four. And I know you've all heard the rumors of life beyond Warren G. Harding elementary school; some of you may even know those who have passed on before us. I tell you, what you have heard is true, my Dad confirmed it all, up until tenth grade when he quit school to work at Sizzler. After next year, there will be no more recess. There will be a shop class where you have to make spice racks every day while a man with no forehead yells at you. Do you really want to lose recess, or do you want to fight for your freedom? Vote for me, and I will write a law that says recess is a subject, and we get graded on it from now on, so Nick will look really stupid because he can't play kickball. I will sign it in crayon, and put it on a wall.
This will be the first of many laws; I have a whole book in the works. Several other ideas involve: model rockets, watching Star Wars in class, and setting things on fire if we don't like them. Also, my Grandpa can come in and talk to you all about this time he went to Asia, he said he was in Vietnam, and that the youth should know the real story about it before the Democrats start putting drugs in our water. His stories are really interesting, except that he usually falls asleep halfway through and starts screaming, because he's a narco...narcokleptomaniac, I think he calls it. It's on this piece of paper the parole board gave him, you should see it, I couldn't even spell it.
So, remember, a vote for me is a vote for freedom. More importantly, it's not a vote for Timmy Steckler. If you want, I can fill out the ballots for you, Dad said I should stuff the ballot-box. So today, you can remain in Timmy Steckler's slavery, or you can shed the yoke of oppression, and dump your stupid boyfriend-system that eats paste and watches Sliders episodes frame-by-frame. Ladies, gentlemen, Suzy: do the right thing.
How To Write
Writing is one of humanity’s most revered pastimes. Practically every human civilization has had a written culture, even the stupid ones that lived in caves, and hit themselves with rocks all day. And there has never been a better time to get into the field, considering the availability of paper today. However, one doesn’t become a great writer overnight. It can take many years of practice to refine the art; over the course of my study, I have found several rules of thumb, which I will now refine, so as to bring writing into a wider circle of use. If these tips don’t make your writing interesting, then you ought to try harder. Either that, or become a banker like your mother said you should have done all along.
1.Use metaphors often. A metaphor is the best thing to add to any lackluster piece; you can take any dry, declarative sentence, and make it shine using a metaphor. Consider the phrase:
“Our marriage has fallen apart.”
This sentence gets the point across, but it’s depressing. There’s a lack of excitement and depth to it. Now, try adding a metaphor:
“Our marriage has fallen apart, like a poorly built bicycle that your inept, drunkard father made you for your tenth birthday.”
2.Remove all ineffectual, filler words. There are plenty of words in the English language—at least a hundred or so. Not all of them are going to excite your reader. Unfortunately, they can still come up in our prose, and weaken its critical impact. Keep a sharp lookout for these words, and delete them whenever you can. For example:
“The car veered off the road, and caught on the guardrail, catapulting his wife into the Connecticut woods. The authorities later found her, face-up, beneath a cedar. She was kind of dead.”
This passage starts to pick up steam, only to lose it all in the final sentence. But, through strategic replacement, we can exchange passive adjectives for dynamic, action words. Try this on for size:
“The car veered off the road, and caught on the guardrail, catapulting his wife into the Connecticut woods. The authorities later found her, face-up, beneath a cedar. She was very dead.”
Wow! You can almost feel how dead she is! That’s the hallmark of great writing.
But before you can come up with sentence structure, you have to have a subject. This is one of the cardinal rules of literature, along with “Publish your book in English.” Many famous authors, when asked how to write, will respond “Write what you know.” They are lying. They want your work to fail, so they’ll stay famous, and keep all of their money. Writers are naturally greedy people. Think about what you know: you had grape nuts for breakfast, then cut off someone on the way to work. No one wants to read about this. Ordinary life is boring, which is why people read: to escape that boredom. Many will cite Ernest Hemingway as a counterexample to this. However, what these critics don’t consider is that he is dead. A better writer would still be alive, eating grape nuts, and passing cars in the break-down lane. So, if you’d like to keep your work interesting, go with what you don’t know. When in doubt, always keep your writing full of action. Consider this scene:
“I was walking to class today, when I found a quarter on the sidewalk.”
This is a start, but it doesn’t actually go anywhere. Add some dynamic language:
“I was walking to class today, when the volcano erupted and I had to save the orphanage.”
Pow! Bam! This is what your writing is saying, in not so many words. Also, the orphanage adds a personal, emotive element to the story. Emotions influence people, thus making them like your story more. Many feel that a lack of emotion was what kept such historical books as Moby Dick from reaching a wider audience. From the very opening, it’s cold and impersonal. Melville begins:
“Call me Ishmael.”
Well, that’s a fine way of making the reader interested, ordering him around like that. Also, it confuses the audience, because as we know, his name was Herman Melville. This detracts from his credibility, which is very important to an author. But, with even a simple change in punctuation, we can add emotion to this lifeless sentence:
“Call me, Ishmael.”
Suddenly, the phrase is interesting. We want to know who Ishmael is, and why he’s been giving Melville the cold shoulder. From there, all Melville had to do was mention a whale, and his book would have been a best seller. Still, it’s good that authors like him have made their own mistakes, so that we can look back on their work, and know what not to write.
I’ve already cautioned you against writing realism. Simply put, realistic writing doesn’t appeal to today’s markets. However, if you’re absolutely bent on describing the world as you see it, there are a few rules to keep in mind.
1.Swear as often as possible. Every realistic novel has to have a gritty, foul-mouthed tone, that convinces the reader of its reliability. If you’re against having particular characters curse, write a character into every scene that will do the swearing for them. Think Al Pacino in Raging Bull. Shakespeare, though widely read in his time, is considered boring by today’s standards. Over the course of his dozen and more plays, he swears less than half the equivalent of five minutes in any Quentin Tarantino movie. One of Shakespeare’s most quoted lines is Hamlet’s “To be, or not to be.” This underscores the dichotomy of the prince’s world: he’s caught between opposing wills to live, and to perish. Shakespeare’s writing doesn’t convey any of that sense of struggle. Coming from the pen of a better writer:
“To be, or not to be. Fuck that.”
That’s expressive. To be fair, Shakespeare didn’t have a wide range of curses back in sixteenth century England. The worst swears were like “prithee,” or something. So, we can’t blame him too much. Still, it’s impossible to overestimate the importance a few, well-placed f-bombs would have had in the Bard’s writing.
2.Pick very depressing topics. When we say writing is “realistic,” we don’t actually mean that it conveys life as it is. We mean it’s sad. A work like Tolstoy’s War and Peace is realistic, because it concerns war, and main characters being killed. In order to make your works more realistic, terrible things should happen to the protagonist, ideally in the first few sentences. Say you’re writing a novel about a girl who dreams of being a figure skater. You have a premise, but you’re stymied in terms of plot: what is she going to do, besides skate, and occasionally dream? Add some realistic touches to deepen the novel: she dreams of being a figure skater, but then gets cholera. This is both realistic and emotional. Already, I want to know: what’s going to happen to her? Will she live long enough to make her Olympic dreams come true? But that’s your story, not mine.
Writers will always tell you to pick your own unique stories, and add personal touches to the writing. Again, writers are heartless, lying bastards. If you really want to succeed, there’s no better way than emulating everyone else. Say you’re writing this figure skating novel in the summer of 2003—no one is going to want to read about that. They’ll be too busy talking about The Da Vinci Code, which has just captured the nation’s imagination. If you can work its themes into your own text, you’ll sell books. And changing the plot details is the easiest thing in the world: she could be on her way to the ice rink, when all of a sudden, she finds a dead body next to a copy of the Mona Lisa. And then you have a best-seller.
When writing your book, you’ll probably face the biggest problem for all professional authors: how to end. The one pitfall to avoid is ending your book too early— often, writers can run out of ideas quickly, and end their work on short notice. This can only hamper the book’s potential. Charles Dickens often ran into writer’s block—imagine if he had brought his classic Tale of Two Cities to a hasty conclusion:
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. THE END.”
There’s no way, short of monstrous font size, that Dickens could have filled a book with that. However, he went on to write thousands more words before the novel’s close—more words, in fact, than might have been necessary. He used a very simple strategy, which I will pass along to you: when in doubt, look at your title. Dickens, unable to write further, turned back the page of his manuscript to reveal the title. “Ah!” he might have said, slapping his face, “A Tale of Two Cities! I’ll write about cities.” And so he did.
Another way to add text to your novel, while feeding your potential family, is to loan your text out to advertisers. Some critics would call this tactic “selling out”. These people are probably Communists, and, at the very least, drive Volkswagens. Thus, their opinions don’t matter. Still, there are rules to be followed when advertising in novels, and one can risk coming across as too commercial. Consider this example of an advertising faux pas, written into
1.Use metaphors often. A metaphor is the best thing to add to any lackluster piece; you can take any dry, declarative sentence, and make it shine using a metaphor. Consider the phrase:
“Our marriage has fallen apart.”
This sentence gets the point across, but it’s depressing. There’s a lack of excitement and depth to it. Now, try adding a metaphor:
“Our marriage has fallen apart, like a poorly built bicycle that your inept, drunkard father made you for your tenth birthday.”
2.Remove all ineffectual, filler words. There are plenty of words in the English language—at least a hundred or so. Not all of them are going to excite your reader. Unfortunately, they can still come up in our prose, and weaken its critical impact. Keep a sharp lookout for these words, and delete them whenever you can. For example:
“The car veered off the road, and caught on the guardrail, catapulting his wife into the Connecticut woods. The authorities later found her, face-up, beneath a cedar. She was kind of dead.”
This passage starts to pick up steam, only to lose it all in the final sentence. But, through strategic replacement, we can exchange passive adjectives for dynamic, action words. Try this on for size:
“The car veered off the road, and caught on the guardrail, catapulting his wife into the Connecticut woods. The authorities later found her, face-up, beneath a cedar. She was very dead.”
Wow! You can almost feel how dead she is! That’s the hallmark of great writing.
But before you can come up with sentence structure, you have to have a subject. This is one of the cardinal rules of literature, along with “Publish your book in English.” Many famous authors, when asked how to write, will respond “Write what you know.” They are lying. They want your work to fail, so they’ll stay famous, and keep all of their money. Writers are naturally greedy people. Think about what you know: you had grape nuts for breakfast, then cut off someone on the way to work. No one wants to read about this. Ordinary life is boring, which is why people read: to escape that boredom. Many will cite Ernest Hemingway as a counterexample to this. However, what these critics don’t consider is that he is dead. A better writer would still be alive, eating grape nuts, and passing cars in the break-down lane. So, if you’d like to keep your work interesting, go with what you don’t know. When in doubt, always keep your writing full of action. Consider this scene:
“I was walking to class today, when I found a quarter on the sidewalk.”
This is a start, but it doesn’t actually go anywhere. Add some dynamic language:
“I was walking to class today, when the volcano erupted and I had to save the orphanage.”
Pow! Bam! This is what your writing is saying, in not so many words. Also, the orphanage adds a personal, emotive element to the story. Emotions influence people, thus making them like your story more. Many feel that a lack of emotion was what kept such historical books as Moby Dick from reaching a wider audience. From the very opening, it’s cold and impersonal. Melville begins:
“Call me Ishmael.”
Well, that’s a fine way of making the reader interested, ordering him around like that. Also, it confuses the audience, because as we know, his name was Herman Melville. This detracts from his credibility, which is very important to an author. But, with even a simple change in punctuation, we can add emotion to this lifeless sentence:
“Call me, Ishmael.”
Suddenly, the phrase is interesting. We want to know who Ishmael is, and why he’s been giving Melville the cold shoulder. From there, all Melville had to do was mention a whale, and his book would have been a best seller. Still, it’s good that authors like him have made their own mistakes, so that we can look back on their work, and know what not to write.
I’ve already cautioned you against writing realism. Simply put, realistic writing doesn’t appeal to today’s markets. However, if you’re absolutely bent on describing the world as you see it, there are a few rules to keep in mind.
1.Swear as often as possible. Every realistic novel has to have a gritty, foul-mouthed tone, that convinces the reader of its reliability. If you’re against having particular characters curse, write a character into every scene that will do the swearing for them. Think Al Pacino in Raging Bull. Shakespeare, though widely read in his time, is considered boring by today’s standards. Over the course of his dozen and more plays, he swears less than half the equivalent of five minutes in any Quentin Tarantino movie. One of Shakespeare’s most quoted lines is Hamlet’s “To be, or not to be.” This underscores the dichotomy of the prince’s world: he’s caught between opposing wills to live, and to perish. Shakespeare’s writing doesn’t convey any of that sense of struggle. Coming from the pen of a better writer:
“To be, or not to be. Fuck that.”
That’s expressive. To be fair, Shakespeare didn’t have a wide range of curses back in sixteenth century England. The worst swears were like “prithee,” or something. So, we can’t blame him too much. Still, it’s impossible to overestimate the importance a few, well-placed f-bombs would have had in the Bard’s writing.
2.Pick very depressing topics. When we say writing is “realistic,” we don’t actually mean that it conveys life as it is. We mean it’s sad. A work like Tolstoy’s War and Peace is realistic, because it concerns war, and main characters being killed. In order to make your works more realistic, terrible things should happen to the protagonist, ideally in the first few sentences. Say you’re writing a novel about a girl who dreams of being a figure skater. You have a premise, but you’re stymied in terms of plot: what is she going to do, besides skate, and occasionally dream? Add some realistic touches to deepen the novel: she dreams of being a figure skater, but then gets cholera. This is both realistic and emotional. Already, I want to know: what’s going to happen to her? Will she live long enough to make her Olympic dreams come true? But that’s your story, not mine.
Writers will always tell you to pick your own unique stories, and add personal touches to the writing. Again, writers are heartless, lying bastards. If you really want to succeed, there’s no better way than emulating everyone else. Say you’re writing this figure skating novel in the summer of 2003—no one is going to want to read about that. They’ll be too busy talking about The Da Vinci Code, which has just captured the nation’s imagination. If you can work its themes into your own text, you’ll sell books. And changing the plot details is the easiest thing in the world: she could be on her way to the ice rink, when all of a sudden, she finds a dead body next to a copy of the Mona Lisa. And then you have a best-seller.
When writing your book, you’ll probably face the biggest problem for all professional authors: how to end. The one pitfall to avoid is ending your book too early— often, writers can run out of ideas quickly, and end their work on short notice. This can only hamper the book’s potential. Charles Dickens often ran into writer’s block—imagine if he had brought his classic Tale of Two Cities to a hasty conclusion:
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. THE END.”
There’s no way, short of monstrous font size, that Dickens could have filled a book with that. However, he went on to write thousands more words before the novel’s close—more words, in fact, than might have been necessary. He used a very simple strategy, which I will pass along to you: when in doubt, look at your title. Dickens, unable to write further, turned back the page of his manuscript to reveal the title. “Ah!” he might have said, slapping his face, “A Tale of Two Cities! I’ll write about cities.” And so he did.
Another way to add text to your novel, while feeding your potential family, is to loan your text out to advertisers. Some critics would call this tactic “selling out”. These people are probably Communists, and, at the very least, drive Volkswagens. Thus, their opinions don’t matter. Still, there are rules to be followed when advertising in novels, and one can risk coming across as too commercial. Consider this example of an advertising faux pas, written into
An Open Letter to the Greater Missoula Public Library
Dear Sir,
After much hassle, I negotiated your public library, and rented what I believed to be an enjoyable family film. Imagine my shock upon learning that it is not Black Knight, starring Martin Lawrence. In fact, it is not a movie at all, but the book Paradise Lost, by 17th century British author John Milton. I was devastated, not to mention baffled as to how this could have ended up on the rolling cart near your VHS section.
Crestfallen is the first word that comes to mind. The second and third were, respectively, "No!" and "This is terrible!". Rest assured that I am qualified to distinguish between the two works, as I have previously seen Black Knight . I have basic cable. It is a delightful romp through Medieval Britain, with our hero, Martin Lawrence, finding himself sent back in time. You can imagine the hilarity that ensues. As the tag line assures, "He's about to get medieval on you!"
But, as I have said before, this is not that movie. Not even close. Instead, it's four hundred pages of dense verse. It's heavy too. I read it once before, or skimmed it, or saw it in a magazine, so I felt no compunction to repeat history. I see no point in indulging you, or John Milton-- I don't know him, and after reading the first page, I don't think I want to. At first I thought you might have gotten the two confused, and misplaced this as you felt them to be similar in scope. I can assure you, their similarities are limited. If you did a close reading, you might find Paradise Lost to contain a castle, or a pony, or something old and British like that. However, the comparison ends there. Most notably, up-and-coming comic Martin Lawrence plays no role whatsoever in Paradise Lost. He has no cameos, nor voice-overs, nor is he even featured in the credits, of which there are none. I made a point of reading the title page: where Martin Lawrence's name would have been, there is simply "Paradise Lost, by John Milton". Tell me something I don't know.
Then I thought perhaps you'd misfiled the book thinking, in error, that it was the novelization that launched the movie. So, to give you the benefit of the doubt, I went out and rented the movie at Blockbuster. (You will find the attached receipt-- I hold you responsible for the $10.00 rental fee. Also, I bought popcorn. This is negotiable.) I watched the movie in its entirety, and I even paused the credits, advancing them frame-by-frame. Guess what? Your beloved John Milton is nowhere to be found! He isn't even an extra in the film, which boasts many crowd scenes-- for instance, the banquet scene, wherein Martin teaches the court band to play Sly and the Family Stone's "Dance to the music". This scene works because of the juxtaposition of modern pop music with the stiff formality of Medieval court ceremony. Also, Martin has some totally sweet dance moves. He's truly a man of many talents!
But before I get carried away with the sublimity of the scene, I must return to the matter at hand. I have little use for your lengthy retelling of the Genesis story, and have tried unsuccessfully to make it useful. It's an awful paper weight, being larger than most papers I'd need it to hold-- it covers half of The Enquirer, so I can't read my stories. Also, being in hardcover, it is a completely unacceptable throw toy for dogs. Thurston hasn't moved since yesterday morning, and our unfortunate game of fetch. And I don't think I need to tell you how badly it worked as actual reading material. I am accustomed to TV Guide. "First Moloch, horrid king, besmeared with blood / Of human sacrifice, and parents' tears" ? This tells me nothing about McDreamy!
This is not the first complaint I have lodged against your library, as you will note. Your fiction section is woefully outdated: I am lucky to find one Nora Roberts book among its shelves, let alone Nora Roberts writing as J.D. Robb. However, I noted you have at least three Herman Melville books. I wasn't even aware he'd continued writing after Uncle Tom's Cabin. This is not to mention the numerous grievances I've filed at City Hall with your security guard, and his "unwritten law" policies. If it's illegal to use my George Foreman Grill in a public library, it ought to be written on a plaque. I'm sure I'm not the first person to complain of this. I know that my tax dollars shouldn't be paying for a public library where I can't even wash my hair in the men's room sink. Land of the free? I doubt it.
This clerical error your library has committed does not just affect me-- I invited several of my friends over to watch the movie with me (Douglas, Houser and Turtle, you may remember ejecting them from your library following the horse-shoes incident). Imagine their reaction as I told them we would not be watching Black Knight that evening. It was like telling a poor third-world boy he can't have Christmas that year. We even tried to have a go of it anyway, putting the book on my TV commode and watching it intently. To no one's surprise, that plan failed. Perhaps you don't realize the extent to which your actions hurt others. Today, I tell you, they hurt a lot. I am writing this letter to call to your attention the obvious flaws in your library's filing system, and to seek reparations for the setbacks I was forced to endure. I want to visit the Greater Missoula Public Library once more, and to give you the benefit of the doubt, but with each trip I find my confidence dwindling. I am asking you to set things right-- to overhaul your filing system, and make sure this sort of travesty never happens again. Also, I'm going to need you to spot me that $10.
Your patron,
Charles Macklin
After much hassle, I negotiated your public library, and rented what I believed to be an enjoyable family film. Imagine my shock upon learning that it is not Black Knight, starring Martin Lawrence. In fact, it is not a movie at all, but the book Paradise Lost, by 17th century British author John Milton. I was devastated, not to mention baffled as to how this could have ended up on the rolling cart near your VHS section.
Crestfallen is the first word that comes to mind. The second and third were, respectively, "No!" and "This is terrible!". Rest assured that I am qualified to distinguish between the two works, as I have previously seen Black Knight . I have basic cable. It is a delightful romp through Medieval Britain, with our hero, Martin Lawrence, finding himself sent back in time. You can imagine the hilarity that ensues. As the tag line assures, "He's about to get medieval on you!"
But, as I have said before, this is not that movie. Not even close. Instead, it's four hundred pages of dense verse. It's heavy too. I read it once before, or skimmed it, or saw it in a magazine, so I felt no compunction to repeat history. I see no point in indulging you, or John Milton-- I don't know him, and after reading the first page, I don't think I want to. At first I thought you might have gotten the two confused, and misplaced this as you felt them to be similar in scope. I can assure you, their similarities are limited. If you did a close reading, you might find Paradise Lost to contain a castle, or a pony, or something old and British like that. However, the comparison ends there. Most notably, up-and-coming comic Martin Lawrence plays no role whatsoever in Paradise Lost. He has no cameos, nor voice-overs, nor is he even featured in the credits, of which there are none. I made a point of reading the title page: where Martin Lawrence's name would have been, there is simply "Paradise Lost, by John Milton". Tell me something I don't know.
Then I thought perhaps you'd misfiled the book thinking, in error, that it was the novelization that launched the movie. So, to give you the benefit of the doubt, I went out and rented the movie at Blockbuster. (You will find the attached receipt-- I hold you responsible for the $10.00 rental fee. Also, I bought popcorn. This is negotiable.) I watched the movie in its entirety, and I even paused the credits, advancing them frame-by-frame. Guess what? Your beloved John Milton is nowhere to be found! He isn't even an extra in the film, which boasts many crowd scenes-- for instance, the banquet scene, wherein Martin teaches the court band to play Sly and the Family Stone's "Dance to the music". This scene works because of the juxtaposition of modern pop music with the stiff formality of Medieval court ceremony. Also, Martin has some totally sweet dance moves. He's truly a man of many talents!
But before I get carried away with the sublimity of the scene, I must return to the matter at hand. I have little use for your lengthy retelling of the Genesis story, and have tried unsuccessfully to make it useful. It's an awful paper weight, being larger than most papers I'd need it to hold-- it covers half of The Enquirer, so I can't read my stories. Also, being in hardcover, it is a completely unacceptable throw toy for dogs. Thurston hasn't moved since yesterday morning, and our unfortunate game of fetch. And I don't think I need to tell you how badly it worked as actual reading material. I am accustomed to TV Guide. "First Moloch, horrid king, besmeared with blood / Of human sacrifice, and parents' tears" ? This tells me nothing about McDreamy!
This is not the first complaint I have lodged against your library, as you will note. Your fiction section is woefully outdated: I am lucky to find one Nora Roberts book among its shelves, let alone Nora Roberts writing as J.D. Robb. However, I noted you have at least three Herman Melville books. I wasn't even aware he'd continued writing after Uncle Tom's Cabin. This is not to mention the numerous grievances I've filed at City Hall with your security guard, and his "unwritten law" policies. If it's illegal to use my George Foreman Grill in a public library, it ought to be written on a plaque. I'm sure I'm not the first person to complain of this. I know that my tax dollars shouldn't be paying for a public library where I can't even wash my hair in the men's room sink. Land of the free? I doubt it.
This clerical error your library has committed does not just affect me-- I invited several of my friends over to watch the movie with me (Douglas, Houser and Turtle, you may remember ejecting them from your library following the horse-shoes incident). Imagine their reaction as I told them we would not be watching Black Knight that evening. It was like telling a poor third-world boy he can't have Christmas that year. We even tried to have a go of it anyway, putting the book on my TV commode and watching it intently. To no one's surprise, that plan failed. Perhaps you don't realize the extent to which your actions hurt others. Today, I tell you, they hurt a lot. I am writing this letter to call to your attention the obvious flaws in your library's filing system, and to seek reparations for the setbacks I was forced to endure. I want to visit the Greater Missoula Public Library once more, and to give you the benefit of the doubt, but with each trip I find my confidence dwindling. I am asking you to set things right-- to overhaul your filing system, and make sure this sort of travesty never happens again. Also, I'm going to need you to spot me that $10.
Your patron,
Charles Macklin
The Legend of Me
They say you can still hear me, on a dark, moonless night around these deserted Mattapan streets. The thump of bass through a wall, an empty can of Pringles lying in a hallway, or the relatively indistinct shuffle of feet coming out of the bathroom. All these could indicate my presence. Or that of pretty much anyone else. Hence, I am very hard to track down.
I was raised by wolves, of course. Raised by wolves in a plush two-story apartment building downtown. Heaven knows how they got such a nice place, but I do know that it was rent-controlled, and we paid at most half what our neighbors did. My parents kept to themselves mostly, owing to the fact that they were wolves. The neighbors tried to make small-talk at first, but soon realized they would get nothing more than the usual growls and stares. I, too, could get nothing out of them, save the nightly meal at 6:00, over which my father would invariably paw at the newspaper for a few minutes, give up, and tear it to shreds. Needless, to say, parent-teacher conferences were a breeze.
It makes for the perfect excuse, being raised by wolves. “I’m sorry I was late for work, my sense of time is based on the position of the sun in the sky because I was raised by wolves.” Or, “Was that your purse that I was chewing on? I’m sorry, I was raised by wolves, and old habits die hard.” You can hear any such rationalizations on a night in town, coming from some unlit street corner, where I may be haunting. I only come out at night, to wander the streets under cover of darkness. Except for when I come out during the day, which is pretty often too. You might see me in mid-afternoon, crouched next to a newspaper box, waiting to attack. But not from around 2 to 5 PM, as I usually spend this time napping.
Just what am I trying to find? All the townsfolk have their different theories. Some say I prowl for food, having been raised by wolves, and thus inclined toward scavenging my meals from leftovers. This is a fallacy I’ve been waiting to address for some time. When I lived with my parents, I was used to punctual, well-cooked meals, just like any of you at home might eat. I am sick of hearing these urban legends about how unclean I am, or that I eat out of dumpsters. That’s just not me, and I’d like that to be the last time I have to speak of it. But, to return, others say I am forever on the trail of a love I once lost, who disappeared into these same dingy alleyways, one brooding summer night, ages ago. I have a pretty bad memory when it comes to that sort of stuff, but I don’t remember that ever happening. I won’t go ahead and rule it out just yet; if you think you and I once shared a special bond, and are free of any active sores or lesions, feel free to get in touch with me. I’ve attached my contact information. But be careful about what time you call—if it’s towards the first of the month, I might not have gotten my phone bill in on time, so they sometimes shut off my service for a week. Just keep trying, you’ll get me eventually.
There are those who call me a modern day Odysseus, made to wander the Earth forever, in search of the unattainable. I would very much like to agree with them, in that I embody so many attributes of the handsome, noble hero. Except that I have a house. Which I’m fairly certain Odysseus didn’t, because otherwise, why would he be wandering all the time? In my natural habitat, I have cable, and a decent collection of snack foods. I am usually here, except when I’m working. Some say I hold down a steady weekday job as a greeter for the Wal-mart, on the outskirts of town, at the Shop-n-Save plaza. I may sometimes be spotted outside the store front, in my characteristic blue and white markings, on weekday mornings. That is, when Larry, that bastard in the main office, doesn’t have me working nights. Honestly, right when I started I told him I need 8 PM and on free, or else I’ll miss Night Court. In my environment, Larry is my only natural enemy; he attacks often, pointing out my lateness for work, saying things like “You’re forty years-old, and you still work at Wal-Mart. When are you going to grow up?” These are vicious attacks, but it is said that I take my revenge subtly. Legend has it that I keyed his car two summers ago, and blamed it on the new teenage intern. In that respect, I might be responsible for her firing. But it’s not like she brought much to the table anyway.
These are all only myth and folklore, assembled by the common chatter among the townsfolk. The truth is that I am an elusive being, and almost invisible in my environment. Natural selection has given me an uncanny knack for camouflage, and I am all but impossible to spot amongst my habitat of dirty-brown armchairs and Pabst blue-ribbon cans. If you are one of the lucky few who can spot me, though, congratulations—you are in rare company. In these situations, it is custom to approach me reverently, and offer whatever cash you can spare. Because I need beer money.
Setup.ini
This is a blog. And I am famous.
This is because of my work with words. (Or as we Men of Letters know them, "think-drawings"). It's not just because I might happen to know a lot of them. (Hint: Yes).
It's the way I arrange them. (Tip for beginners: Left to Right seems to work best).
When certain words come into contact with each other, their molecules become excited, and their very physical properties change. Scholars think this is how humor happens.
I am why humor happens.
(Also, occasional I-93 pileups,
according to a jury of my "peers").
It is not a science. Text-positioning is an Art.
That's not to say science doesn't come into play: as a Renaissance Man, I fuse the two.
[Early Renaissance. When Alchemy was still cool].
Because I am famous, I naturally have the need to help my fellow (but lesser) man.
This is an archive of humorous writing. I wrote these pieces. There will be more. Again, me.
I have enabled commenting for these pieces. Why? Writing is a two-way street.
We writers cover miles day-in, day-out. At night, we park on the curb and sleep in our cars.
But we couldn't do it without you, the common man. You're our muse. Our audience. Critic. Grocery Clerk.
So I couldn't do this it it weren't for you. That's why I've waived the right to approve comments. Critique, as Hegel said, is all kinds of shit. Why am I a good writer?
Because I value what you have to say. What I am saying, is I respect you.
So without any further pomp, I humbly give you my wit.
That was actually the first installment. Scroll back up. Oh, and thank you for reading.
I respect you,
-Andy
This is because of my work with words. (Or as we Men of Letters know them, "think-drawings"). It's not just because I might happen to know a lot of them. (Hint: Yes).
It's the way I arrange them. (Tip for beginners: Left to Right seems to work best).
When certain words come into contact with each other, their molecules become excited, and their very physical properties change. Scholars think this is how humor happens.
I am why humor happens.
(Also, occasional I-93 pileups,
according to a jury of my "peers").
It is not a science. Text-positioning is an Art.
That's not to say science doesn't come into play: as a Renaissance Man, I fuse the two.
[Early Renaissance. When Alchemy was still cool].
Because I am famous, I naturally have the need to help my fellow (but lesser) man.
This is an archive of humorous writing. I wrote these pieces. There will be more. Again, me.
I have enabled commenting for these pieces. Why? Writing is a two-way street.
We writers cover miles day-in, day-out. At night, we park on the curb and sleep in our cars.
But we couldn't do it without you, the common man. You're our muse. Our audience. Critic. Grocery Clerk.
So I couldn't do this it it weren't for you. That's why I've waived the right to approve comments. Critique, as Hegel said, is all kinds of shit. Why am I a good writer?
Because I value what you have to say. What I am saying, is I respect you.
So without any further pomp, I humbly give you my wit.
That was actually the first installment. Scroll back up. Oh, and thank you for reading.
I respect you,
-Andy
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