Just now I decided I would look through the cobwebby dregs of my harddrive, trying to find any short stories that I started and never finished that might actually be worth the time and effort to make whole.
I was astounded by how bad they all were.
More astounding yet, they closely resembled the format of stories that I’ve been rejecting all this time. As I skimmed through the opened files, my slushpile jaded eyes screamed "reject! reject!"
Here’s an example. From the address I had on the standard manuscript format header, I would have to conclude that I last worked on this in 1999. The file information says that it was last modified in 1980 (when I was six) so I have to assume that’s some sort of Y2K artifact (I’ve been waiting for that to destroy my life! Finally!) The file name still adhered to the 8-character DOS convention, and was saved in WordPerfect (but not WordStar, thank god!).
Oh, and I signed it "Ingvar." That’s just how long ago this was.
Here you go, the opening page and a half of "The Greatest Highway in the World":
| Quote: |
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He swirled his pinot noir, watching the ruby glint of the prairie fire through the wine. For the first time in weeks, Gary felt safe and relaxed.
“Is it just me, or does red wine go well with wildfire?” Mindy, his wife, laughed over the rim of her glass. “Gary, you think everything goes best with red wine. He’s served fish with marinara sauce. Just so he could crack open a merlot.” “But the red flames, the red liquid. Both fires and reds are served warm.” “I’m thinking you should go for more contrast,” volunteered Ethan. He had finished most of his third glass, so his opposition appeared academic. “Take a reisling for instance. Serve it cold. That juxtaposes with the heat of the flames. Or a bubbly. Fires seem celebratory to me. A flute of champaign wouldn’t be out of order just now.” “How many flutes would be in order do you think?” Mindy winked at him, flirtatious in a way that a married woman can only be with a gay man. “Why stop?” The fire had crawled halfway up the slope. The wind barely stirred, nudging the flames lazily as they ate the golden grass. Grasshoppers buzzed all around the house, nonchalantly ignoring the approaching blaze. It was a lazy Summer day, and nature couldn’t be bothered to take notice of its own forces of destruction. “Neither of you get the point. Pretty soon we’ll be in the thick of the smoke. A pinot noir can absorb a lot of soot and just taste better and better. You’ll be glad you’re not drinking some sissy white wine when the shit blows over us.” |
Okay, I won’t make you read any more.
Here’s some of the ways this selection is sucky:
1.) The story opens with about a page of dialogue. Any action stays way off screen. Scene setting is minimal. Any idea where they actually are? I’m not sure, and I wrote the damn thing.
2.) The subject of the dialogue is something that I don’t find interesting and I know nothing about it. Why the hell would I make people talk about wine? That’s the dullest subject in the world.
3.) Mentioning a gay man as if that established character. Now that I’m older and more experienced, I know that gay men come in a variety of flavors. So to speak.
4.) Using a phrase as hackneyed as "forces of destruction." Um, it’s not just that it’s a redundant term, it sounds like the title of a fourteen year old’s first attempt to write a heavy metal anthem.
5.) Attempting humor in a way that isn’t funny. Marinara on fish? How is that funny?
So in conclusion: Yep. I suck.