|Chap 2.7 - Brick 5||frangles 13/: Writer's Bricks |
'There is never a way to fully immerse a reader in a story via
prose. While words universally accepted by a large group of
intelligent people to generally mean a certain thing can indeed convey
complex feelings, scenarios, and emotions, this relay is limited to a
finite permutation of common vocabulary. Since there are only so
many words a book of a given length is able to use, no book can ever
come close to aside relaying an infinitely complex feeling an
experience, with the obvious exception of the author of the permutation
of a limited integer of vocabulary words snatching your book to smack
you upside the head with it in a way someone once did to them. Of
course, since there only so many ways to smack someone upside the head
with your novel, this technique, too, falls short of its ability to
relay any other plethora experiences than that required to master
septuple black belt defenses against exactly such attacks.
" 'Similarly, Skip Friter could think of no other way to immerse any
readers reading a story about him in the depths of his incompetency,
than to shove aside an unfinished manuscript draft due disgustingly
soon in favor of gawking at a few hot chicks on the first floor of
Starbooks below. This close to the climax of the writing of his
infinitely important manuscript, surely all his writer's fans would be
biting their nails for the killer page-turning ending. So what
better time could there ever be to relay the rich human experience of
being denied that very satisfaction due to the criminal incompetency of
the writer involved in the matter?
" 'It was a perfect idea, though Skip hadn't come up with the idea on
his own. The bookstore around him had become so real and fleshed
out (after having been just a vague idea for a bookstore a significant
time ago) that Skip had already sampled a good deal of humorous novels
for inspiration. (What else would he read, since his life of late
seemed to be one big horrible joke?) He'd found one that he most
closely associated with, but it had ended rather abruptly. He
could tell this even from not reading the whole thing (though it
wouldn't have been that difficult seeing how there really should have
been a whole lot more of it). He found a story on the matter of
the writing of the book, and discovered the author had impressively
missed so many deadlines that the publisher involved finally sent
someone over to grab whatever the hell he had at the time to bring back
to be published unfinished. Skip vehemently sympathized with the
situation, and admired the man's ability to relay the story of a
writer's incompetence through prose.
" 'Like the author -- whose name Skip refused to even think to himself
given he'd skimmed a book on copyright infringement lawsuits (of a
title Skip also refused to bring to mind for the same reason) -- Skip
decided he was smart enough to pull off the same. For as long as
Skip could remember he had been told how important his eventual
finished manuscript would be to the entire vast universe of existences
of Beings of blah blah blah blah blah. Perhaps giving all
existence a finger would teach everyone a thing or two about pressuring
writers in general to meet deadlines, for obviously the universe hadn't
learned the full lesson from Douglas--' "
"Skip! Wake up!"
"Oh, I wasn't resting, Mr. Flick, I was just ignoring you in favor of
staring longingly at the girl in the pink tank. Don't worry,
though, I've been vaguely pondering a detailed monologue in the back of
my head since I saw you get off the escalator looking for me."
" 'Tots Flick the insulted publishing agent glanced in the general
direction of where Skip seemed to be looking through deceptively drowsy
eyes. Indeed, over by the Information Desk in the center of
Starbooks was a pretty girl in pink asking the secretary Darlene a
"I'm having quite a nice fantasy, too, and you can see I'm working
quite hard here -- I'm even concentrating on my narration skills if you
were too dense to notice -- so please bugger off."
"You don't have time for this, Skip. I need a rough draft by
closing or the entirety of Flutonia could perish by-- by-- well,
really, really soon, anyway. I assume you're not half done --
assuming I'm not overestimating your competence -- so at least write a
middle page or two explaining why whatever you've written so far makes
complete and total sense as a full, self-sustenant story. You may
be a slack-off idiot, but even you can see the dire need to hyperfocus
on a last-minute scheme that could very well hold off Publish, Ink
until they figure it out, which will buy us precious time.
"Already got it covered, Flick."
"Then yank up whatever you claim you have to the front burner, punch
out whatever you're lying about that's incomplete if not everything,
and knock out gawking at girls half your age off the oven completely!"
"Oh, no! That's not it at all. I didn't mean I was fantasizing about
her. I meant I was fantasizing about writing her into an
engrossing dynamic character arc. I've been people-watching for
inspiration. She's my current muse. And I have to say
you've put a good dent in my concentration pummeling me with a stove
fire of Fight Club metaphors, so once again, bugger off before you
knock me out cold burner."
"Look, if you truly 'have this covered' then it can't possibly hurt to
keep going at it! We have mere mots before this damn thing is
due, how could girl-gawking possibly be more important than what you
need to do?"
"No, it's a biggie. She's a noteworthy muse. Might end up
the protagonist in my super- exactly- wonderful book of mine that I
might just have time to whip out, then I could scrap the whole bullshit
excuse epilogue and cash in the guilt-free catharsis for a new
"Sounds like a lame cover up to me."
"Beg to differ. I think my lack of ever having written
a good dynamic character arc in combination with my diagnosable
dopamine deficiencies grant me an ineffable credibility for objectively
analyzing my motives for girl-gawking in this case. To boot, I'm
already working on a great back up plan if it turns out I'm wasting my
time: my tragically completely unfinished manuscript will have been a
medium-surpassing 4th- wall- breaking documentary about the
consequences of unmedicated A.D.D..."
"Firstly, you're not A.D.D., you're just plain fucking lazy. And
that's coming from someone who knows enough A.D.D. writers to know that
just about everyone called "just plain fucking lazy" has A.D.D.
Secondly, hell will freeze thrice over before I question your
objectivity in self-analysis. It's the immorality of lying about
it that pisses me off."
"...Then throw in that I'm working on the most self-important story in
the universe at a bookstore where mundane muses are readily available
to offset its importance, and I could pass a lie detector test
interrogating my honesty regarding who I'm gawking at or not with
flying colors. Colors like hot neon pink, or angelic sky blue."
"Why the second?"
"That's what her best friend is wearing.
" 'Mr. Flick looked back at the desk. Now a young girl about the
first one's age in a light blue shirt that looked like it had been
dried and shrunk in a dryer the size of a merry go round running on
nuclear power had joined in the conversation.' "
"How do you know they're best friends? Is this part of the
fictional story? Perhaps her friend dies tragically in a car
accident and leaves her friend to grow up fighting the ensuing loss of
"No, I know it's her best friend because neither was as flirty with
their three classmates sitting the 4th table over and 2 down from the
back corner of the cafe.
" 'Mr. Flick looked toward the cafe. From where they were, he
could only barely see the table Skip had described. It was
visible enough to confirm Skip's description was correct. But
that Skip hadn't even looked away from the other two to relay the
information told wonders about how long he had been committed to his
literary muse.' "
"Me thinks your claim of objectivity and dispassionateness for your
current 5-protagonist soft porn vid is halving with every half-dressed
high school girl you bring into it."
"Touche, but I've also been examining many fat, ugly, elderly men to keep them in check.
" 'Mr. Flick thoroughly took in everything clearly visible. He couldn't locate any obese, ugly, or
elderly men anywhere in sight. (Although he did make a mental
note that Skip would probably remind all three were relative and
subject to point of view and metaphorical interpretation.)' "
"The paradox of using honesty itself to deny your accused lack of it
intrinsically convicts you without need of a trial. If you were
telling me the truth, you wouldn't have to resort to loopy logical
fallacies in the hopes I'll get dizzy and pass out parsing the damn
"Sorry, the day's fried a few of my logic circuits. I'm not
saying what I mean. I worded that all wrong. What I meant
"Ha! Worded it wrong, and illogically to boot! That's about
the most unlikely thing imaginable for an oppressive nitpick-warlord
like yourself. You could tear apart any sentence man is capable
of uttering in a dead coma, and you know it. A 2nd redundant
conviction to be sure!"
"A 'dead coma' would imply wakefulness, even we forgive your gross
personification of a physical state, which we'd need to do to justify
your description of it being not
alive. Second, you mean 'redundant conviction', not '2nd
redundant'. A 2nd redundant conviction would necessitate a 1st
redundant conviction, for which there would necessarily have to be one
preceding that one to be redundant to. If you'd said--"
" 'Finally taking note of Mr. Flick's stare of vindication, Skip halted
his correction like a serial killer passionately revealing the detailed
fetishes involved in his grisly murders before suddenly remembering he
was in court for a plethora of first degree murder charges. Mr.
Flick took a bit of well-spent time to nod rhetorically as at the
criminal who had now three times -- arguable 4 or 5 -- convicted
himself beyond doubt without need of even a single trial. Mr.
Flick felt so vindicated
that for one moment in time, he actually entered the ballpark of Skip's
literary narration skill and shut him down by diligently narrating his
failure with the utmost irony and sentiment possible.'
"Get going, Skip. Why don't you focus your real life deception
into fictional imagination and get the hell back to work. You can
lie about using character development to excuse jail-bait gawking--"
"Ten bucks they're over 18."
"--once you've finished at least one, single, solid, sole and solitary smidgen of work that will justify all the--"
"Completely unnecessary and non sequitur burst of alliteration."
"--eons you've wasted away since your very first memory, and perhaps
even the years of delinquency prior to your amnesia. An amnesia
I've been doubting more and more of late has not been complete fraud
from the start. At the least, even if your entire amnesia
ordeal is entirely true, you probably smacked yourself in the head
yourself to induce the condition. So it's at least fraud if not
purgery. This isn't a joke, Skip, get to work, now. We need that closing page -- no, Flutonia
needs that page by closing and you damn well know what will happen if
you don't get it done. If half the universe expires, there won't
be any stinking girls to gawk at around here as they won't very well
exist now, will they? There's your motivation! Now get the
hell back to work!"
"Hushhssh! I think they're about to kiss."
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