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Thursday, November 13, 2003
Fairly Crass is participating in NaNoWriMo. He's written a few thousand words. That's cool. I've thought about doing it, but, there's no way I could sling together 50,000 words. Well, I could just sit there and write poop pee piss repeatedly, but, I'd want to have a cohesive plotline, developed characters, or even something someone would want to read. Also -- if I wrote a novel, I fear that it would feature such characters as "Brant Gennett", "Teve Torbes" and "Lamar Alexander #2".

I've only written a work of fiction without writing myself into a corner once. Well, twice, if you count "Renegade Shriner". I was a different cat when I wrote "Shriner", but I'm still proud of it. 'Twas a tale of angst, rage, injustice, vengeance and martyrdom. It was a tale about a young man who had wanted nothing more than to drive the TriCar in the parade, like his father and grandfather before him. When he was passed over, he became furious and lost his mind.

"I'll give them a parade," he said. "A parade... of DEATH!"

And, he did. Wearing a skull mask and his Shriner fez, he beat a crippled little girl to death with her own walker when she asked him where his TriCar was. When he realized what he had become, he threw himself off of a bridge. At the same time, the curtain in the Shriner Temple was ripped in twain. Mmmm.... Sacrilicous. (In the original script, Shriner was to yell from the bridge, "Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?" This was cut due to soundtrack reasons. And technical reasons. Not for comedy reasons. See, he was insane. Oh, and I was like 17 when I wrote it.)

The other bit of fiction that worked was a one-act play that I entered into the American College Theatre Festival's one-act competition. I made some ill-advised changes, based on some ill advice from the director of the department. She thought she knew PoMo. Turns out that she didn't know shit.

The play, which I called, for lack of a better term, "Pop Culture Potpourri", started out with dialoge flat-out stolen from Pulp Fiction, then switched to a monologue delivered by the "author" of the play, which then became self-referential in record time when the muse of the "author" showed up in the inner monologue and started flipping him shit. Then, it turns out that she's really there in the room, so they decide to go get coffee. Then, there's a video sequence, and then, while getting coffee, they're stuck in the diner from Pulp Fiction. And then, because the play lives on another computer, I don't remember how it ended.

It didn't win. Rightfully so. It was the best play in my class, hands down. But, it really wasn't that great. If it were, it would have been selected for performance at the ACTF.

So it goes.

Currently, it feels like there's... something... in my head. An idea of some sort. Or, perhaps clogged sinuses. Perhaps a tumor. I'm hoping for an idea. I haven't had one o' them in awhile. Perhaps a Number One Summer Jam. Perhaps a screenplay. (Note to self -- get back to adapting "Dune", since clearly I'm the only person capable of doing so.) Unfortunately, there's some sort of roadblock in my head that is preventing this mucus ball or cancer or idea from exiting my head Athena-style. Unless it's the mucus ball. That should either exit from my nose, or down the back of my throat, where it can collect in my stomach -- with all the other phlegm that's been going there due to my sinus problems -- and continue to make me puke. If it's a tumor, a Dark Half-style resolution would be acceptible. (Speaking of Stephen King, the new Dark Tower book is out. Unfortunately, I can't read it until March. That's when MY edition comes out. The Plume tradepaperback. Lousy self-imposed rules preventing me from reading something that is going to kick ass.)






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