Sunday, August 23, 2015
Friday, August 14, 2015
A Universally Agreed Upon Writing Tip
The moon shone through the trees, striking Tom in the face, jolting him
from his slumber. He had been dreaming. Stretching his pale arms he
yawned, stretched, scratched, blinked, shifted his covers, blinked
again, yawned, and with a flash of light piercing his eyelids, realized
it was all a dream. He fell out of bed, and woke up, again, realizing it
was a dream, a mystery he could not escape. The moon shone bright. A
splash of cold water shook him from his slumber, "God, another dream,"
he said, yawning. He looked down, and saw that he stood on a cliff,
another dream. "Oh, shit," he said, just in time for his alarm to at
last awake him from his deep deep slumber. He yawned, and said, "Waking
up sure is a boring way to start the story!"
(9/23/15 Edit: Unless you're a good writer: http://nelsonagency.com/2015/06/perils-of-waking-character-openings-take-2/)
So, uh, just make sure you're a good writer.
(9/23/15 Edit: Unless you're a good writer: http://nelsonagency.com/2015/06/perils-of-waking-character-openings-take-2/)
So, uh, just make sure you're a good writer.
Thursday, July 30, 2015
Do Netflix
The jingle of her cell phone is like shattering glass.
Her head mashed into her pillow, partly soaked in sweat, her thoughts swimming in the sweltering heat of her bedroom, she grabs for the phone from her bedside table, and checks to see who it is. It's the man she had been seeing for two weeks now – or maybe three, she can't recall – but it's going OK, so she's more or less happy to hear from him, because really, what else does she have to do? Her friends are all busy at the coast -- without her -- because she had to work. To kill time she had been reading, and reading is okay, but the book she picked up from the library last week has kind of hit a slow point, where nothing happens, and the main character is droning on and on about shit she already knows – relationships or something like that – so at this point she figures her best option is to try to see where this so-so relationship might be headed. Perhaps to nudge it along with a conversation of value.
She has had her doubts about him on more than a few occasions, especially in the way he seems so eager to talk about himself and what he has since accomplished since moving to Portland. Still, arrogance – confidence – can have it's own charms, and she hopes they can work past this, and reach some equilibrium where he learns that she, too, has things going on in her life she would like to talk about, even if they're not quite on the same level as him, which involves running his own start up, which is cool and all, but – ugh – give it a rest already, buddy, you're not exactly Mark Zuckerberg.
Taking a deep breath, she answers, and for reasons unknown, finds herself greeting him in a far too girly sing-song voice when she says, “Hi, Derrick! How are you?”
“I am doing well, thank you,” he answers with an odd gravitas to his voice, considering the circumstances.
"Glad to hear it," she answers, ditching the overly cheerful tone.
After a pause, he says, “Hey, I was wondering if you wanted to hang out?”
“Sure!” she says, sounding a bit too excited for her liking, and certainly not out of desire – no – but boredom, but perhaps.. Okay, a little desire. She is just kind of horny, but not a lot, not desperate horny. No, certainly not.
“Oh, nice, nice,” he says, trying his best to sound calm. Smooth. Whatever it is. “Well, I was thinking, since it's hot as balls, we should...”
“Did you just say it's 'hot as balls'?”
“No, I mean, yes. Sorry. Are you offended?”
“No, it's just sounds stupid. Like you're 13 or something. I don't get offended by that stuff, I told you that, but it just sounds stupid. You can say it if you want to, I guess. I don't exactly see how balls can be hot. Sweaty and gross, sure, but not really what I would immediately think of when I try to describe this heat. When did 'hot as hell' become not enough? Or even just say, 'It's really hot.' Or why even say it at all? We know it's hot. I mean, I'm sweating through the pillow over here.”
“Well, yeah, so okay, you're right, but still, it's hot as balls, and that's just me. I want to say that. My balls are hot. That's why I said that.”
“Okay. Interesting bit of information. Thank you for sharing.”
“Anyway, since I have air conditioning...”
“As you've told me many times before.”
“Yes, right, and since your apartment doesn't have AC, and I'm guessing it's really hot over there since you've soaked your pillow with sweat, well, I was thinking – do you want to come over and Do Netflix?”
She pauses, takes a deep breath and thinks a moment. Hard.
She's heard this line before. Many times. Too many. About twenty times or more. She bites her lip and tries to decide if she really really wants to Do Netflix. He is kind of cute, after all, broad shoulders, nice hair, delicious, soft lips, she had enjoyed kissing just a few nights ago, during that romantic moment near the waterfront, but it is hot, as he said – balls hot! – so she'd rather not face the heat, and she is still unsure how serious she is about spending a day with him, watching – Doing – Netflix, and, of course, not so desperate. At all.
And not stupid.
So, sighing, both from the heat and the exasperation that he think this shit might actually work, she says, “Well... I was planning on – um – going shopping. My fridge is empty. I am actually starving. Like, to death.”
Her fridge is actually empty, and she is actually hungry. She's not lying about this, but it's hot, and food shopping is a tiresome chore she would like to avoid, even on the nicest of days.
“Well, I can drive you there, then afterward, we can Do Netflix.”
“That's okay, you don't have to. It's not far from my house. Only takes 20 minutes or so, walking, and I like the exercise, even if it is 98 degrees out there.”
He pauses. A long time.
She stares out her bedroom window. A man wearing a trench coat trundles by with a shopping cart. He's screaming at someone.
Finally the man on the other end says, “So how about afterward, you want to Do Netflix then? There's a few new movies up – a new Keanu Reeves movie. You like him, right?”
“I do.”
“And Ryan Gosling?”
“Eh, not so much.”
“Well, that's okay. So, I mean, Keanu – shooting a lot of bad guys – it could be fun.”
“You mean John Wick?”
“Yeah, I think that's it. I'd have to check.”
“No, that IS it. That is what it is called.”
"It could be the Matrix."
"That came out decades ago. It's definitely John Wick."
“Oh, that's cool, if you say so, I mean, I'll probably have to check to be sure, but....”
“Sorry, but I'm actually a 100% right on this. I am looking at it right now on my laptop, I just Googled it just right now, while you were talking and here it says the latest Keanu film on Netflix is John Wick.”
“Oh, well, that's cool. If you say so. I might be wrong after all...
She sighs. "You are definitely wrong."
He laughs, but not without some effort. "Okay then. So you should come over and watch John Wick with me. I have a bottle of wine, too. Chilled.”
“I don't drink," she says, rolling her eyes. He's being so obvious now that she's wondering if he won't send a dick pick in the next five minutes.
“Oh, right. I forgot. It's pretty low alcohol volume, so maybe just a little if you want. I mean, a little bit of alcohol won't kill you. I'm not trying to get you drunk – maybe a little buzzed, okay – but not drunk. I'd never do something like that. I think people are a little to cautious about drinking, you're not going to become an alcoholic from one sip.”
“No. No alcohol. Like I told you, I have a serious allergy to it.”
“Oh, I didn't know that.”
“I thought I told you that. I think I told you on our first date, and the second one, and that one time we walked on the waterfront and you had a flask you wanted to share, during all of those times I made it pretty clear.”
“Oh, I sometimes forget these things. There's a lot on my mind, with the start-up and expanding our business... I have so many employees to manage and worry about that I tend to drift when people start to say things to me. I am working on it though. I hope you understand.”
“Right well, that's fine, but also, I am busy, as I said. I have to go food shopping, because I'm starving to death, as I also said. Maybe later on, we could just go to the movies. There's a new one with Melissa McCarthy I want to see. The theater is just as good anyway, it's air conditioned, and maybe afterward we can go get food. I think that sounds a lot more fun than sitting inside watching Netflix all day.”
“Oh, well, but it's so hot out! I'm not really a big Melissa McCarthy fan, either. She's so fat."
"What?!"
"Sorry, I didn't mean that."
"I hope not."
"But I haven't Done Netflix in months! I really really want to Do Netflix.”
It sounds like he has started to cry. The heat probably. Or male hormone imbalance. Severe thirst. Tight jeans cutting off the circulation to his brain causing severe distress and irrational reaction to minor stresses.
“I don't want to DO NETFLIX! I said that. Are you even listening? It's hot, and I am tired of you saying that. Come to think of it, I think I'll just order a large pizza, gorge myself on it, and take another nap, then maybe later, I will call my friends to see if they've returned from the coast and see if they want to do something that has nothing to do with Netflix.”
“Wha? Aw, noooo! Please, please? I want to Do Netflix! Waaaah! Ablooo-hooo-hooo.”
“How old are you? Jesus. Please. Stop. You're embarrassing yourself.”
“I'm sorry. Sorry, it's just hot like I said, and you said, and okay, forget tonight, maybe next Friday? The heat will have ended then. Then we can Do Netflix? Please? Can we? Can we Do Netflix? Are we still cool? I'm sorry I got a bit worked up. These new jeans are really tight. And my start up. Don't forget that. I'm so important these days. It's just that... your hair, you're just so, so pretty. God, I just want to...”
Before hanging up on him mid-whine, she screams, “I know I'm pretty! I'm god damn gorgeous!”
Her head mashed into her pillow, partly soaked in sweat, her thoughts swimming in the sweltering heat of her bedroom, she grabs for the phone from her bedside table, and checks to see who it is. It's the man she had been seeing for two weeks now – or maybe three, she can't recall – but it's going OK, so she's more or less happy to hear from him, because really, what else does she have to do? Her friends are all busy at the coast -- without her -- because she had to work. To kill time she had been reading, and reading is okay, but the book she picked up from the library last week has kind of hit a slow point, where nothing happens, and the main character is droning on and on about shit she already knows – relationships or something like that – so at this point she figures her best option is to try to see where this so-so relationship might be headed. Perhaps to nudge it along with a conversation of value.
She has had her doubts about him on more than a few occasions, especially in the way he seems so eager to talk about himself and what he has since accomplished since moving to Portland. Still, arrogance – confidence – can have it's own charms, and she hopes they can work past this, and reach some equilibrium where he learns that she, too, has things going on in her life she would like to talk about, even if they're not quite on the same level as him, which involves running his own start up, which is cool and all, but – ugh – give it a rest already, buddy, you're not exactly Mark Zuckerberg.
Taking a deep breath, she answers, and for reasons unknown, finds herself greeting him in a far too girly sing-song voice when she says, “Hi, Derrick! How are you?”
“I am doing well, thank you,” he answers with an odd gravitas to his voice, considering the circumstances.
"Glad to hear it," she answers, ditching the overly cheerful tone.
After a pause, he says, “Hey, I was wondering if you wanted to hang out?”
“Sure!” she says, sounding a bit too excited for her liking, and certainly not out of desire – no – but boredom, but perhaps.. Okay, a little desire. She is just kind of horny, but not a lot, not desperate horny. No, certainly not.
“Oh, nice, nice,” he says, trying his best to sound calm. Smooth. Whatever it is. “Well, I was thinking, since it's hot as balls, we should...”
“Did you just say it's 'hot as balls'?”
“No, I mean, yes. Sorry. Are you offended?”
“No, it's just sounds stupid. Like you're 13 or something. I don't get offended by that stuff, I told you that, but it just sounds stupid. You can say it if you want to, I guess. I don't exactly see how balls can be hot. Sweaty and gross, sure, but not really what I would immediately think of when I try to describe this heat. When did 'hot as hell' become not enough? Or even just say, 'It's really hot.' Or why even say it at all? We know it's hot. I mean, I'm sweating through the pillow over here.”
“Well, yeah, so okay, you're right, but still, it's hot as balls, and that's just me. I want to say that. My balls are hot. That's why I said that.”
“Okay. Interesting bit of information. Thank you for sharing.”
“Anyway, since I have air conditioning...”
“As you've told me many times before.”
“Yes, right, and since your apartment doesn't have AC, and I'm guessing it's really hot over there since you've soaked your pillow with sweat, well, I was thinking – do you want to come over and Do Netflix?”
She pauses, takes a deep breath and thinks a moment. Hard.
She's heard this line before. Many times. Too many. About twenty times or more. She bites her lip and tries to decide if she really really wants to Do Netflix. He is kind of cute, after all, broad shoulders, nice hair, delicious, soft lips, she had enjoyed kissing just a few nights ago, during that romantic moment near the waterfront, but it is hot, as he said – balls hot! – so she'd rather not face the heat, and she is still unsure how serious she is about spending a day with him, watching – Doing – Netflix, and, of course, not so desperate. At all.
And not stupid.
So, sighing, both from the heat and the exasperation that he think this shit might actually work, she says, “Well... I was planning on – um – going shopping. My fridge is empty. I am actually starving. Like, to death.”
Her fridge is actually empty, and she is actually hungry. She's not lying about this, but it's hot, and food shopping is a tiresome chore she would like to avoid, even on the nicest of days.
“Well, I can drive you there, then afterward, we can Do Netflix.”
“That's okay, you don't have to. It's not far from my house. Only takes 20 minutes or so, walking, and I like the exercise, even if it is 98 degrees out there.”
He pauses. A long time.
She stares out her bedroom window. A man wearing a trench coat trundles by with a shopping cart. He's screaming at someone.
Finally the man on the other end says, “So how about afterward, you want to Do Netflix then? There's a few new movies up – a new Keanu Reeves movie. You like him, right?”
“I do.”
“And Ryan Gosling?”
“Eh, not so much.”
“Well, that's okay. So, I mean, Keanu – shooting a lot of bad guys – it could be fun.”
“You mean John Wick?”
“Yeah, I think that's it. I'd have to check.”
“No, that IS it. That is what it is called.”
"It could be the Matrix."
"That came out decades ago. It's definitely John Wick."
“Oh, that's cool, if you say so, I mean, I'll probably have to check to be sure, but....”
“Sorry, but I'm actually a 100% right on this. I am looking at it right now on my laptop, I just Googled it just right now, while you were talking and here it says the latest Keanu film on Netflix is John Wick.”
“Oh, well, that's cool. If you say so. I might be wrong after all...
She sighs. "You are definitely wrong."
He laughs, but not without some effort. "Okay then. So you should come over and watch John Wick with me. I have a bottle of wine, too. Chilled.”
“I don't drink," she says, rolling her eyes. He's being so obvious now that she's wondering if he won't send a dick pick in the next five minutes.
“Oh, right. I forgot. It's pretty low alcohol volume, so maybe just a little if you want. I mean, a little bit of alcohol won't kill you. I'm not trying to get you drunk – maybe a little buzzed, okay – but not drunk. I'd never do something like that. I think people are a little to cautious about drinking, you're not going to become an alcoholic from one sip.”
“No. No alcohol. Like I told you, I have a serious allergy to it.”
“Oh, I didn't know that.”
“I thought I told you that. I think I told you on our first date, and the second one, and that one time we walked on the waterfront and you had a flask you wanted to share, during all of those times I made it pretty clear.”
“Oh, I sometimes forget these things. There's a lot on my mind, with the start-up and expanding our business... I have so many employees to manage and worry about that I tend to drift when people start to say things to me. I am working on it though. I hope you understand.”
“Right well, that's fine, but also, I am busy, as I said. I have to go food shopping, because I'm starving to death, as I also said. Maybe later on, we could just go to the movies. There's a new one with Melissa McCarthy I want to see. The theater is just as good anyway, it's air conditioned, and maybe afterward we can go get food. I think that sounds a lot more fun than sitting inside watching Netflix all day.”
“Oh, well, but it's so hot out! I'm not really a big Melissa McCarthy fan, either. She's so fat."
"What?!"
"Sorry, I didn't mean that."
"I hope not."
"But I haven't Done Netflix in months! I really really want to Do Netflix.”
It sounds like he has started to cry. The heat probably. Or male hormone imbalance. Severe thirst. Tight jeans cutting off the circulation to his brain causing severe distress and irrational reaction to minor stresses.
“I don't want to DO NETFLIX! I said that. Are you even listening? It's hot, and I am tired of you saying that. Come to think of it, I think I'll just order a large pizza, gorge myself on it, and take another nap, then maybe later, I will call my friends to see if they've returned from the coast and see if they want to do something that has nothing to do with Netflix.”
“Wha? Aw, noooo! Please, please? I want to Do Netflix! Waaaah! Ablooo-hooo-hooo.”
“How old are you? Jesus. Please. Stop. You're embarrassing yourself.”
“I'm sorry. Sorry, it's just hot like I said, and you said, and okay, forget tonight, maybe next Friday? The heat will have ended then. Then we can Do Netflix? Please? Can we? Can we Do Netflix? Are we still cool? I'm sorry I got a bit worked up. These new jeans are really tight. And my start up. Don't forget that. I'm so important these days. It's just that... your hair, you're just so, so pretty. God, I just want to...”
Before hanging up on him mid-whine, she screams, “I know I'm pretty! I'm god damn gorgeous!”
Thursday, April 16, 2015
Complete Shit
Coffee
When George arrives at the office, he immediately goes to Ellen's desk and compliments her coat.
"Nice red coat!" he says, smiling.
Ellen looks at him cockeyed, shakes her head, and says, "I always wear this red coat, keep your pants on."
His lower lip trembling, he stutters, and drools, and says, "I am sorry, I had never seen you wear it before, and got excited. I had read in a book that you should compliment women."
At that moment, interrupting the strange discourse, the Program Director, a seven foot 400 pound man with a neck the size of a tree stump, enters the room and says, "Get back to work, you dumb mother fuckers!"
Ellen, smiling brightly as always, says, "I was working, but this guy won't ever leave me alone. I say, there's being sociable and then there's going too far. At one time we were good friends, but he has taken that for granted and now makes me uncomfortable! I request you move him to the other side of the office so that I may continue my work in peace and without being involved in conversations every five minutes, of which I want no part of."
The Program Director, a rare gleam in his black eyes, strokes his beard, and says, "I have a better idea, Ellen. George, you're fired." Then, turning to face the rest of his employees, he holds up his enormous arms and says "In fact, everyone is fired! Congratulations! We are replacing you with robots. Good bye!"
Ellen, sighing, and starting to pack up her shit, says, "God, finally. Now I can go home and die in peace."
Wednesday, March 18, 2015
Tuesday, March 17, 2015
Unreasonable Expectations
Catharsis
Dear Tyrone,
Or should I say, amazing email writer. I have just finished reading your most recent email, and I have to say, I am floored. This is an email for the record books. We will be holding a ceremy in honor of this email complete with several types of cake, a large arrangement of over 1000 exotic flowers, and, of course, last, but not least, an incredible three hour long fireworks ceremony honoring your electronic communication.
Not only that, but this email shall also be printed out and plastered all over the largest building in the city for all to read at all times of day. People shall never forget the day you sent this email. The president has deemed this a national holiday in honor of this fine correspondence. You will receive all of the medals and all of the Pulitzers.
Never has anyone been more validated than you shall be.
Never has anyone been more validated than you shall be.
Sincerely,
EveryoneP.S. Now please stop sending emails!
Monday, March 16, 2015
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