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Chap 1.4 - Page 1frangles: Skip book 1: Writer's Bricks

    " 'It was just minutes before the climax of the first of seven acts of the little known story of the writer of the greatest story ever told.  It was a little like Shakespeare In Love, an exceptionally average film about an exceptionally magnificent play writer.  Unlike a story about Shakespeare, the story of Skip's day had the benefit of being fresh and unpredictable.  However, the ridiculous gunshot premise promising nothing less than a story about the writing of the greatest tale in the known *universe* pretty much shot itself in the foot along with any other realistic and reasonable benefits the story might otherwise have had a shot at achieving.
    [Its apocalyptically tedious run-on sentences poorly disguised as brilliantly complex, crafted, structured, and delightful-to-parse prose in a manner so intrinsically innate that they could almost serve--if not serve sans a shadow of literary doubt--as entire self-sustenant and radical works of art in and of themselves akin to the poetic line-to-line structure of Edgar Allan Poe, Eminem, and Shakespeare, also contributed to its failure as a respectable and historic work of art, and quite possibly to its chances of even being published in any capacity, including but not limited to free online reading material, children's crayon drawings, bathroom stall scribbles, doctorate dissertations, and napkin-scribbled frwoa-poems.]
    " 'Fortunately for Skip, literature, and recovering run-on sentence junkies, Skip had the peculiar advantage this morning of having forgotten everything that ever happened to him, along with any manuscripts of any story he might have been working on, on the morning of the day it was to be published.  Or at least submitted as a rough draft.  Or at least outlined a tad.  Or maybe just brainstormed over a cup of nonexistent coffee... Skip really hadn't the faintest !@#$ing clue any more.  Worse, he had little idea whether this confusion--and his problems in general--were the result of him being a total idiot previous to now, or were the incompetences of everyone else around him, or, just the infinite idiocy of chance itself.  *Un*fortunately for Skip, literature, and recovering run-on sentence junkies, Skip's memories were starting to come back to him.'
    " 'To Skip, it almost felt as if his *own* life was a story, and his own writer had brainstormed him on the back of a beer bottle with a black sharpie when drunk and stoned at a frat party for dropout English majors.  The idea for a story of the writing of the greatest story ever was in and of itself a clever idea.  The fault lay in the execution.  Or at least, the execution of the person convicted of post-party beer-sharpie talented-writer impersonation, for to date, his writer had violated almost every established professional manner of literary conduct imaginable.  They had thrust their readers into three chapters of non-sequitur, unexplained literary rubbish, and only a drop of hope told Skip that they would develop any significant amount of writing skill any time soon, never mind in time to save the known universe from the greatest failure of the greatest frwoa that would ever fail to be fritten.  He might as well have spent his entire life as a fictional character in a junkyard of little used half-highlighted handbooks and manuscripts deferred.  For all he knew, he had.'
    " 'All this Skip knew and felt from intuition; from a vague, lingering sense of what had been happening to him for the last 21 Flutonian minutes, which he now noted seemed quite a bit longer than a standard Earth minute.  Of course, mathematically, *any* set of 21 units is likely to seem longer than just one unit of a comparable kind, but in addition, the *average* unit of the 21 also seemed longer than your *average* Earth minute.  Not that there's just *one* average unit in a group of 21, or a full set of them (as more are likely to be average than be above average or below average), or that your average Earth or Flutonian minute is any more respectively shorter or longer than any other setting's units are shorter or longer relative to each other (or some place else), or that there's any point to averaging 21 units of the exact same length when you could have just taken *one* of them to begin with, but you get the point.'
    " ' "Tangents," Skip said non sequiturly, "are as unbecoming in sophisticated literature as awkward narrative grammar and adverbingly altered words.  Except, perhaps, in the writing *of* tangents themselves, since how else would one comment on the nature of tangential rants than to break from the literature in question and torture the reader with a run-on nausea?"  Not that the nausea *itself* would be run-on (he continued thinking to himself)--if 'run-on' can even be used as an adjective--unless it was described as such, but rather "run-on nausea" in the sense of one being nauseous as a *result* of tangential rants.  A nausea that would be at the least doubled if some writer augmented the idea of integrating real-life tangents into their commentary about tangents by awkwardly inserting their entire rant on the matter in some significantly greater work of art in which the commentary upsets the entire flow of its story line just to drive home the point that tangents are *especially* naughty when taken to this extent, especially if they're fused with run-on sentences and a full set of 21 average units skipping the point of the entire flwoa-frwoa!'
    " 'Skip then wondered who on Earth would run on a nausea-paved sidewalk, or would run on nausea fuel, or who would run around on nausea-crack, or who would run their programs on a nausea O/S, and many other puns on "run-on" that would be too tedious to list if it were even possible, or at least--if it were--would require a non-lazy and extremely run-on friter to frite Skip's further thoughts on the matter.  It was only after his run-on train of thought on run-ons running on the ADHD of a distracted writer with amnesia (himself) did Skip realize that the entire ordeal had a very keystone purpose: it was the very first significant creative writing technique he'd ever even thought up; to the best of his memory anyway, which wasn't much better than the rest of it.  Whether a good one or a bad one, Skip was well on his way to becoming the greatest flwoa writer in the history of Okuaka.' "
     (A task he was already beginning to loathe.)
    "What now? 'Skip said,' and was slammed with the overwhelming instinct that a few headers in the fabric of reality needed to be initialized.  So he took a brief moment, and habitually thought up the universe, the known universe, a name for the known universe, the first *Age* of the known universe, and the beginning of the first story of the most important friter in the first age of the known universe now known now as Okuaka.  He also thought up a few characters: Toad, Frank, Darlene, Dr. Vifps, Mwchap, Todd, Ed, Eagle, and a shady person in the back of Frank's bar he'd never noticed, even after disrupting it three times (in order of appearance, sans and save the latter).
    " 'The ideas came fluently to him--almost *fluttery* even, not to mention *fluppupally*, another term that would have needed defining if it wasn't intuitively obvious from the fact that it's spelled "fluppupally".  It was a morning task he was quite used to by now.  Or if not an every *day* task, perhaps the fourth of the day at a new job he was overly qualified for, for which he just needed a few refreshers to get the brain ball rolling again.  *Or,* if not his fourth hour, then at the *LEAST*, his fourth set of seven minutes since he punched in at 1:11 o'clock.  (A period of time he decided to call a "sour", at the risk of establishing a precedent that a whooole lot of other things would soon definitions too, such as "dot tot flwoa-frwoa fritten-frused bricked and blocked thrice-augmented definitive run-on tangent-technique", fractal rocks, mot, dot, tot, frwoa, flwoa, freer, frite, fruse, bricks, blocks, and vifa.'
    " 'Having succeeding in his experimental proof that a lengthy term would fail miserably as a joke when inserted at the beginning of a list rather than the end of it, Skip had now expanded his tangent/run-on techniques to include medium-surpassing fourth-wall-disrupted prose for the purpose of the likewise medium-surpassing fourth-wall-disrupted technique at just the end of this very sentence *alone*!  Not to mention utilizing the former techniques as well, fusing *every* writing technique he'd *ever* come up with just now--or at least over the last *sour*, or *hour*, or *day*, or *LIFETIME* up until the point where he couldn't remember a damn thing be*fore* it, including but not limited to absolutely *everything* after it--into an *ineffable, intrinsic, initially introductory and ominously foreshadowing TITANIUM-enforced, UNoriginal, RE-repetitive repetition of EVERYTHING to date in the ENTIRE REST of the WHOLE story of his mortal life as an obscure frwoa writer somewhere between BLAH blah BLAH blah BLAH, and BLAH*--whole.' "  (Which, incidentally, wasn't even a grammatically correct sentence.)
    (Unless it was.)
    "That's quite enough of *that!*"
    For the entire rest of the sour, Skip resolved to eschew obfuscatory writing techniques, and work on some better ones.  Not just narrative ones, but creative ones.  The type of writing that makes people think.  That influences society.  That sparks the ideas of those who influence the very fabric of reality.  It was time to frite the Great Flutonian Frwoa that would one day be known as Frangles, currently entitled "Skip Square One".

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