My Mount Rushmore: "Writing Lessons"
Oct. 13th, 2018 04:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rayaso2018 Mini-Season, Week 2
Topic: My Mount Rushmore
“Once upon a time, in a land far, far away . . . .”
“Dear god,” thought Craig Moore, “has it really come to this?” Slamming his laptop screen down, he ordered another drink and turned his attention to the bar’s TV, where the seventh race at Aqueduct was about to start. “Where did all the words go?”
Moore had published seven novels, but now, if his name was mentioned at all, it was usually preceded by “whatever happened to.” His publisher was slow returning his calls and he was thinking of teaching creative writing at the community college, an end his ex-mother-in-law had predicted for him long ago. “A writer’s got to eat,” he sighed, ordering another scotch. “There’s also the bar tab and Carl.”
Carl was his bookie and the most pressing problem. Carl had already sent his goon around twice. “Third time’s bone-breaking,” the goon had said. “I usually start with the fingers, but seeing how you’re a writer and all, I’ll start with your legs.”
“It might as well be the fingers for all the good they’re doing,” thought Craig. The twelfth race was coming up later and he’d bet on Rushmore, the longest of shots. It wasn’t much, not enough to get right with Carl, but if he won it would go a long way toward keeping him out of the hospital.
Moore had abandoned his usual system and had placed this bet purely on sentiment. A college girlfriend had nicknamed him Rush after their first night together and it had stuck, even though he’d hated it. Rushmore had seemed like the best horse to waste money on.
The bar door opened, and Moore’s attention was diverted, along with every other man’s in the place. She had long blond hair, curves that didn’t stop, and legs that went aalll the way up. “That’s a stupid expression,” he thought, “legs always go all the way up.” Her red dress put an end to further coherent thought as she walked his way and sat down beside him.
“Buy a girl a drink?” she purred. “Weren’t you that writer?”
“A fan. Just what I need,” thought Moore, gesturing to the bartender.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Crystal,” she replied, “if it matters.”
It didn’t, but Moore was still too much of a gentleman to say so.
His attention entirely on his new companion, Moore didn’t notice as Rushmore’s jockey rode his mount to victory, postponing his date with the emergency room.
Moore also got lucky with Crystal.
When Moore woke up the next morning, all he found in his bed was a note: “I had a wonderful time. Name a character after me.”
Moore went to his bathroom and started to take a long, hot shower. In the middle of it, he had an idea for a book. He’d had ideas in the shower before, of course. Lots of them. But they never made it past his morning shave. This one was different. He became so engrossed in it that he couldn’t remember if he’d washed his hair. He didn’t notice the shampoo on his head when he toweled himself off and he wouldn’t have cared anyway. Moore needed to get to his computer now. There was no shave this morning and wouldn’t be for several days.
His idea was for a cop thriller about a serial killer who patterned his murders after famous literary slayings, starting with “The Pit and the Pendulum.”
“This is beyond gold,” he thought, “this is a franchise!”
Moore turned on his computer and looked at the cursor in anticipation rather than frustration.
“Hello, cursor,” he said to the screen.
“Hello,” said the computer. “I’ve been expecting you. Let’s get to work.”
Moore was too excited and absorbed in his writing to notice that his computer had just talked to him.
He started typing rough notes. “The main character will be Detective Steve Larson, a renegade. I’ll give him a sexy sidekick named Officer Crystal Jones, and I’ll call the villain the Copycat Killer.” He paused for a minute to let thoughts of movie rights and sequels float through his head. “Maybe I can throw in some evil nuns and call it “Sisters from Hell.” He settled on “Working Title” for now, then stopped for a break.
“Get back to work,” said the computer.
Moore had heard his computer talk before, but it had always been some weird Windows feature. This was different -- it had never sounded gruff.
“It’s been five years since you’ve written anything,” said the computer. “Get to work or start sawing wood.”
“What do you mean, ‘sawing wood’?” asked Moore.
“Write without pay until somebody offers pay. If nobody offers within three years, the candidate may look upon this circumstance with the most implicit confidence as the sign that sawing wood is what he was intended for.”
“That’s Mark Twain.”
“At your service,” said the computer. “You have a cigar in your desk drawer. It’s cheap, but I want you to smoke it for me. I haven’t had a good smoke in almost 120 years.”
Moore decided to play along. The computer sounded an awful lot like Hal Holbrook doing his famous imitation of Mark Twain. Someone was pranking him – probably his publisher.
“I’m writing a thriller,” said Moore. “You wrote ‘Tom Sawyer.’ What do you know about mysteries?”
“Elmore Leonard’s busy and George Orwell doesn’t like your politics, so you’re stuck with me,” said Twain. “Besides, I wrote ‘Tom Sawyer, Detective’.”
“Not one of your better works. But why are you in my computer?”
“Death is overrated and it’s boring,” replied Twain. “As to your computer, how should I know? I was born in 1835 and wrote with a fountain pen. Enough dawdling. Get the cigar and get to work. And bring a whiskey while you’re at it. ‘I haven't a particle of confidence in a man who has no redeeming petty vices.’”
“Are you going to keep quoting yourself?” asked Moore.
“As much as possible,” said Twain. “I was famous for my wit.”
Moore couldn’t escape Twain. Whenever he wrote anything, Twain would comment.
“The difference between the almost right word and the right word is the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning. You’re writing lightning bugs. Your readers want the lightning! And buy some better cigars.”
“This is ridiculous,” said Moore. “I’m a very successful writer and I know how to write.”
“You’ve been successful,” corrected Twain, “and I wrote books that people love more than a hundred years later. People forget about yours after a day. Also, get some more whiskey.”
“I know, I know,” said Moore, “’too much of anything is bad, but too much of good whiskey is barely enough.’”
Moore worked hard on his book, harder than he’d ever worked before. Twain wasn’t with him the whole time, but the cigar smoke and empty whiskey bottles were. At the end of six months, he had a serviceable first draft of “The Adventure of the Copycat Killer.”
“My time with you is up,” said Twain one morning.
“What do you mean? I’m not done,” replied Moore.
“Do you think you’re the only writer who needs help?” responded Twain. “James Patterson’s stuck again and there’s always Stephen King. Write another draft, take out the parts readers tend to skip, and if it sounds like writing, rewrite it.”
“That’s Elmore Leonard,” said Moore.
“I know, but he’s a friend,” said Twain. And with that, the computer went blank.
After several more rewrites, Moore was ready to send the manuscript to his publisher. He waited anxiously for a response. And waited. And waited some more.
At last it came.
“Dear Craig,
I’m glad to see you’re writing again. You have a good idea, but it reads like something from the 19th century. Have you been following someone’s “rules of writing”? Loosen it up, bring it up to date, and send me another draft.
Very truly yours,
Albert MacIntyre”
After he threw out all his Mark Twain books, the cigars, and the whiskey, Moore knew what he had to do. He turned on his computer, opened “Copycat Killer,” and deleted it. Then he started a new draft: “Sisters from Hell.”
“Evil nuns will sell,” Moore thought. “It almost writes itself – without Mark Twain!”
When his publisher eventually got the manuscript, he recommended that Moore teach creative writing at the community college.
Since it was either teaching or sawing wood, Moore reluctantly accepted a position, which delighted his ex-mother-in-law. She would be less thrilled with his success. Three of his students would win Pulitzer Prizes for Fiction, all of whom would credit one common factor in their successes: they ignored Moore’s class on Ten Rules for Successful Writing.
Topic: My Mount Rushmore
WRITING LESSONS
“Once upon a time, in a land far, far away . . . .”
“Dear god,” thought Craig Moore, “has it really come to this?” Slamming his laptop screen down, he ordered another drink and turned his attention to the bar’s TV, where the seventh race at Aqueduct was about to start. “Where did all the words go?”
Moore had published seven novels, but now, if his name was mentioned at all, it was usually preceded by “whatever happened to.” His publisher was slow returning his calls and he was thinking of teaching creative writing at the community college, an end his ex-mother-in-law had predicted for him long ago. “A writer’s got to eat,” he sighed, ordering another scotch. “There’s also the bar tab and Carl.”
Carl was his bookie and the most pressing problem. Carl had already sent his goon around twice. “Third time’s bone-breaking,” the goon had said. “I usually start with the fingers, but seeing how you’re a writer and all, I’ll start with your legs.”
“It might as well be the fingers for all the good they’re doing,” thought Craig. The twelfth race was coming up later and he’d bet on Rushmore, the longest of shots. It wasn’t much, not enough to get right with Carl, but if he won it would go a long way toward keeping him out of the hospital.
Moore had abandoned his usual system and had placed this bet purely on sentiment. A college girlfriend had nicknamed him Rush after their first night together and it had stuck, even though he’d hated it. Rushmore had seemed like the best horse to waste money on.
The bar door opened, and Moore’s attention was diverted, along with every other man’s in the place. She had long blond hair, curves that didn’t stop, and legs that went aalll the way up. “That’s a stupid expression,” he thought, “legs always go all the way up.” Her red dress put an end to further coherent thought as she walked his way and sat down beside him.
“Buy a girl a drink?” she purred. “Weren’t you that writer?”
“A fan. Just what I need,” thought Moore, gesturing to the bartender.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Crystal,” she replied, “if it matters.”
It didn’t, but Moore was still too much of a gentleman to say so.
His attention entirely on his new companion, Moore didn’t notice as Rushmore’s jockey rode his mount to victory, postponing his date with the emergency room.
Moore also got lucky with Crystal.
When Moore woke up the next morning, all he found in his bed was a note: “I had a wonderful time. Name a character after me.”
Moore went to his bathroom and started to take a long, hot shower. In the middle of it, he had an idea for a book. He’d had ideas in the shower before, of course. Lots of them. But they never made it past his morning shave. This one was different. He became so engrossed in it that he couldn’t remember if he’d washed his hair. He didn’t notice the shampoo on his head when he toweled himself off and he wouldn’t have cared anyway. Moore needed to get to his computer now. There was no shave this morning and wouldn’t be for several days.
His idea was for a cop thriller about a serial killer who patterned his murders after famous literary slayings, starting with “The Pit and the Pendulum.”
“This is beyond gold,” he thought, “this is a franchise!”
Moore turned on his computer and looked at the cursor in anticipation rather than frustration.
“Hello, cursor,” he said to the screen.
“Hello,” said the computer. “I’ve been expecting you. Let’s get to work.”
Moore was too excited and absorbed in his writing to notice that his computer had just talked to him.
He started typing rough notes. “The main character will be Detective Steve Larson, a renegade. I’ll give him a sexy sidekick named Officer Crystal Jones, and I’ll call the villain the Copycat Killer.” He paused for a minute to let thoughts of movie rights and sequels float through his head. “Maybe I can throw in some evil nuns and call it “Sisters from Hell.” He settled on “Working Title” for now, then stopped for a break.
“Get back to work,” said the computer.
Moore had heard his computer talk before, but it had always been some weird Windows feature. This was different -- it had never sounded gruff.
“It’s been five years since you’ve written anything,” said the computer. “Get to work or start sawing wood.”
“What do you mean, ‘sawing wood’?” asked Moore.
“Write without pay until somebody offers pay. If nobody offers within three years, the candidate may look upon this circumstance with the most implicit confidence as the sign that sawing wood is what he was intended for.”
“That’s Mark Twain.”
“At your service,” said the computer. “You have a cigar in your desk drawer. It’s cheap, but I want you to smoke it for me. I haven’t had a good smoke in almost 120 years.”
Moore decided to play along. The computer sounded an awful lot like Hal Holbrook doing his famous imitation of Mark Twain. Someone was pranking him – probably his publisher.
“I’m writing a thriller,” said Moore. “You wrote ‘Tom Sawyer.’ What do you know about mysteries?”
“Elmore Leonard’s busy and George Orwell doesn’t like your politics, so you’re stuck with me,” said Twain. “Besides, I wrote ‘Tom Sawyer, Detective’.”
“Not one of your better works. But why are you in my computer?”
“Death is overrated and it’s boring,” replied Twain. “As to your computer, how should I know? I was born in 1835 and wrote with a fountain pen. Enough dawdling. Get the cigar and get to work. And bring a whiskey while you’re at it. ‘I haven't a particle of confidence in a man who has no redeeming petty vices.’”
“Are you going to keep quoting yourself?” asked Moore.
“As much as possible,” said Twain. “I was famous for my wit.”
Moore couldn’t escape Twain. Whenever he wrote anything, Twain would comment.
“The difference between the almost right word and the right word is the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning. You’re writing lightning bugs. Your readers want the lightning! And buy some better cigars.”
“This is ridiculous,” said Moore. “I’m a very successful writer and I know how to write.”
“You’ve been successful,” corrected Twain, “and I wrote books that people love more than a hundred years later. People forget about yours after a day. Also, get some more whiskey.”
“I know, I know,” said Moore, “’too much of anything is bad, but too much of good whiskey is barely enough.’”
Moore worked hard on his book, harder than he’d ever worked before. Twain wasn’t with him the whole time, but the cigar smoke and empty whiskey bottles were. At the end of six months, he had a serviceable first draft of “The Adventure of the Copycat Killer.”
“My time with you is up,” said Twain one morning.
“What do you mean? I’m not done,” replied Moore.
“Do you think you’re the only writer who needs help?” responded Twain. “James Patterson’s stuck again and there’s always Stephen King. Write another draft, take out the parts readers tend to skip, and if it sounds like writing, rewrite it.”
“That’s Elmore Leonard,” said Moore.
“I know, but he’s a friend,” said Twain. And with that, the computer went blank.
After several more rewrites, Moore was ready to send the manuscript to his publisher. He waited anxiously for a response. And waited. And waited some more.
At last it came.
“Dear Craig,
I’m glad to see you’re writing again. You have a good idea, but it reads like something from the 19th century. Have you been following someone’s “rules of writing”? Loosen it up, bring it up to date, and send me another draft.
Very truly yours,
Albert MacIntyre”
After he threw out all his Mark Twain books, the cigars, and the whiskey, Moore knew what he had to do. He turned on his computer, opened “Copycat Killer,” and deleted it. Then he started a new draft: “Sisters from Hell.”
“Evil nuns will sell,” Moore thought. “It almost writes itself – without Mark Twain!”
When his publisher eventually got the manuscript, he recommended that Moore teach creative writing at the community college.
Since it was either teaching or sawing wood, Moore reluctantly accepted a position, which delighted his ex-mother-in-law. She would be less thrilled with his success. Three of his students would win Pulitzer Prizes for Fiction, all of whom would credit one common factor in their successes: they ignored Moore’s class on Ten Rules for Successful Writing.
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Date: 2018-10-14 03:58 pm (UTC)Great work. Nice insertion of the prompt!
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Date: 2018-10-15 04:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-10-16 04:53 pm (UTC)"my mount, Rushmore" - OMG, G!!!! THAT is hysterical. Your mind is not like my mind.
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Date: 2018-10-17 02:02 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2018-10-15 09:34 pm (UTC)This was great.
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Date: 2018-10-16 07:10 am (UTC)Also the idiot didn't look for Crystal again or check on his horse.
(Know that me reacting means I read it and enjoyed it...)
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Date: 2018-10-16 04:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-10-16 07:18 am (UTC)Not to mention quoting himself all the time-- because Twain had some good ones, and they all fit in here perfectly. Plus, Elmore Leonard being a friend... of course he is.
"Weren't you that writer?"
Ouch! That's about as bad as, "Didn't you used to be somebody?" But Craig clearly had it coming.
I couldn't help thinking that Twain's writing advice was probably pretty solid, if stylistically outdated. Which leaves the real problem being Craig's talent, not the mentor who tried to help shape it. ;)
Fun stuff!
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Date: 2018-10-16 12:00 pm (UTC)A fun read :)
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Date: 2018-10-17 12:24 am (UTC)Love this!!!!
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Date: 2018-10-18 09:49 pm (UTC)I had no idea where this was going, but I enjoyed it a lot all the way until the end. Very cute.
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