| QUOTE (Aaediwen @ 16-Jul-2005, 08:13 PM) | You?ve been given a one-year deadline and a $1 million signing bonus to write a 300-page novel. It?s the day before the deadline and you?ve written one page. What are you going to tell your editor? Write an elaborate excuse that?s so clever and believable that it becomes the plot of your novel.
|
Progress on the new novel
Perry, I know you're not going to be too happy with me about this but I've run up against a wall when it comes to finishing the 300-page novel I've been so graciously paid to write. I remember about a year ago when you came out to the house, check in hand, big smile on your face. That was the day that the wife and I were out on the stoop grilling some hamburgers and hot dogs. I offered you one but you declined, and that was okay, man. Really.
The reason that I've hit a big, unruly brick wall is that lately, a lot has been going on that has kept me from writing consistently. I know you probably hear this sort of thing all of the time, but let me tell you, this one takes the cake.
Do you remember how after you left that evening, Sarah and I were standing in the driveway waving, fit to be tied? I hope you do. I know that you eventually caved and drank a couple of bottles of pale ale (after some convincing arm-twisting courtesy of yours truly) and might have been a little loopy when you left. For that, I'm sorry; you did seem to be having a good time and I know we all were when you made the announcement about the one-million dollars that were flying into my bank account courtesy of Wright's Publishing group, New York, NY.
I have to say, Sarah and I paid off all our bills, bought a brand new car, and saved back the rest for a rainy day. Which I guess that would be now. But let me fill you in on something.
Six or seven hours after you drove off down our driveway, Sarah and I went to bed. Around about 2AM, I was startled from my sleep by a loud crash outside our apartment door. Sarah rolled over in her sleep, not startled whatsoever. I, on the other hand, jumped to attention, grabbed the only weapon I could find in the house (a kitana sword), and ran to the front door. To my surprise, there was nothing there. So I, being the dummy I am in such situation, flung open the door and went outside in my boxers and bareback looking for whomever or whatever went "BOOM!". Huddled near the garbage cans, I saw a short little man in a trench coat. I kid you not, in a trench coat. He started to speak to me, at first really soft, and then boisterously.
"Watch out! They're comin' for you, Joshua! They're comin' for you!" It was so damn loud, the neighbors were out on their porches with shotguns. As quickly as he'd appeared, the old gray-haired man ran off, leaving me to deal with the oh-so pleasant neighbors and their firearms.
The next day, as quick as I could blink from deep sleep, I was faced by a trio of black-clad intruders. They said they wanted to speak to me and when I raised my voice, they stepped back all eery and stuff and called someone on a cell phone. Their voices were quiet, which nearly made me wet myself in fear. The first cat's name was Gregory or something. I didn't catch the other two's names, but they pulled me out into their little black Buick for a chat.
The Buick smelled new, just rolled off the lot, it had to have. Gregory took off his sunglasses, turned around in the driver's seat, and gave me the what's-what about serving one's country and blah blah blah. It was kind of cool to hear him talk; he wasn't just good at his job, he was damn good. He had this Gustapo feel to him, as if he'd sat in dark, musty rooms interrogating terrorists or something.
Surprisingly, they wanted me to work for them. So I did. Whoever they were. I really can't disclose too much, but they liked my work. Figured I would be doing my country a good service by writing up these little memos with headings like "Code144435" or "Dump Station 449", stuff like that. I didn't know what they meant, still don't; and I didn't dare ask.
Three weeks after I'd typed up some stuff for them, they asked me to fly to the Netherlands, PanAm out of Newark, NJ. They paid my cab fare, hotel, and everything. Quite nice, actually. Well, I flew over to the Netherlands, landed, and was greeted by the same old chap I'd met outside my doorstep not a month before. He went by Grissom, said he was German, and get this...he carried a loaded gun. Asked me to carry one too. I took some left-over advance money (unbeknownst to the three 'bosses'), bought a nice gun, .45 it was, and followed Grissom around Europe. He had a nice little European car. Felt like a damn toy, that car.
Grissom loved to smoke Marlboros, though they weren't cheap wherever we went. He said he had a wife and six kids back in Bavaria; all of them grown up and worried about him. I told him they'd be okay, as long as they trusted him. He said he'd write his missus every weekend and sure enough, he did.
Can't really disclosed what become of old man Grissom, though I can't really call him up nowadays. Poor fellow. I think he shaved once the entire year we were traipsing around Europe playing do-gooders. You know, I kind of miss those days...not knowing what assignment you'd be on next...sleeping in a Parisian hotel, facing the river...walking the streets of Rome at 3AM.
If you'd like to know the truth Perry, I've actually only written one solitary page of that novel. This letter.
You know, as I sit here writing this to you, my computer screen giving me a tan, I realize what this new novel will be about. I'll have it worked out and sent to you for review/edit by Christmas.
Cross my heart...hope to die....stick a needle in my eye. |
Good luck with your works!!! 