August 8 2009
I posted this article for the first time more than a year ago. Readers seemed to like it then, so I'm posting it again.
*****
Despite the fact that Toronto is a large cosmopolitan city, writers conferences are rare here. Consequently, when I saw an ad in the newspaper for The Desperate Writers Conference, I decided to attend.
During the day of the conference, there were at least a dozen seminars and workshops at the hotel about how to become a successful writer. I dropped in on three or four of them, and I found that all of the advice given could be boiled down to two points. Write what people want to read, and then find the right agent. To me, this advice seemed to be on a par with the stock market tip that one should buy low and sell high.
At the end of the day, there was a wine and cheese party, so I thought I'd at least get to compare notes with some of my fellow starving authors. Usually, I'm very shy at parties, but I willed myself to be more sociable this time because these were my comrades in arms, so to speak.
First, I found myself talking with a thin, nervous looking woman.
"Writing is so hard," she said. "I've been working for five years now on my book How To Be Super Happy."
"Why is it taking so long?" I asked.
"I've just been too damned depressed to finish it."
"I can see how that would be a problem," I said.
"What do you write, George?"
"Mysteries and science fiction."
"Oh, so you're not a real writer."
"Apparently not," I said.
Next, I met a bearded man who wore a tweed jacket that had leather patches on its elbows.
"I've written the definitive biography of Elmer Bootsnoot," he said. "All the publishers to whom I've sent copies act as though they've never heard of the man."
"Philistines are everywhere," I said.
"What do you write?" he asked.
"Mysteries and science fiction."
"My word!" the bearded man said. "I thought you were a serious writer."
"Not serious enough, I guess."
I decided that, when the next person asked me what it was that I wrote, I'd make up the silliest thing that I could imagine. As I was about to get my coat, a young man wearing horn rimmed glasses walked up to me.
"I got some great ideas today on how to market my book," he said. "It's titled Two Hundred Poems About Jello. For some reason, it hasn't been selling. What do you write?"
"Well," I said, "I've just finished a novel. It's called Kiss The Bullet and it's the story of a one eyed gay parrot who is driven to madness by his addiction to crackers."
"It's refreshing to finally meet another serious writer here," the young man said. "You wouldn't believe the trash that these other people are trying to peddle."
"Actually, I might," I said.
*****
George
P.S. Please visit my website at www.checkmatefiction.com for some free short stories.
]]>July 31 2009
If you watch any daytime TV at all, you'll soon realize that the most popular shows on the air are daytime serials, affectionately known as "the soaps". These programs provide the same sexual fantasies for women that porn does for men. Even though I'm a guy, I enjoy some things about the soaps. The clothes aren't bad, for example.
My favourite soap opera is One Life To Waste which tells the story of how the men and women who live in the town of Miseryville cope every day with the horrors of being young, rich and beautiful. Here's an excerpt from a typical episode:
It is afternoon in Miseryville and Sharon has gone over to Ashley's house for some coffee and conversation. As the scene opens, the two women are sitting in Ashley's living room.
Sharon: So, how are you doing, Ashley?
Ashley: Not good. I'm very worried about my daughter Dee.
Sharon: You mean Frank's daughter?
Ashley: No, I divorced Frank before Dee was born. I had Dee while I was divorcing Tom. That was when I was having the affair with David, but I really think I got pregnant the night I slept with Harry. I couldn't be sure because of that weekend I spent at the motel with the three Chinese sailors. Anyway, I'm really concerned about Dee.
Sharon: Why?
Ashley: She's been sleeping around with boys. I'm afraid she might turn into a slut.
Sharon: Young girls these days have no morals. They don't even marry the boys they have sex with. I mean, how do they expect to get alimony? Anyway, I wish I had your problem. I'm worried sick about my son Jason. He's always neat and polite. He isn't much interested in sports or girls. I think he might be... Oh, I can't even say it.
Ashley: You think he might be gay?
Sharon: No, Silly. I think he might be a liberal. I found some magazines in his room. It was the most perverted filth about universal health care and things like that. Oh, Ashley! I'm afraid he might even belong to an environmental group.
Ashley: Wow! Better get him into therapy right away. I'd recommend that cute Dr. Green. He's terrific in bed. Why does life have to be so awful anyway? Take my sister Laura. She's in a wheelchair now and breathing through a ventilator after that botched surgery she had. It was while she was doing chemo for the cancer they discovered while she was in hospital with her broken back. Yesterday, she looked up at me and smiled. She told me that, despite everything, she was finally happy.
Sharon: What did you say?
Ashley: I just disconnected her ventilator. Who does she think she is anyway?
*****
What about you? Do you have a favourite soap?
George
P.S. Please visit my website at www.checkmatefiction.com for some free short stories.
March 1st 2009
I was at my computer, working on my latest novel, when my wife came into the room. She was carrying a cordless phone.
“Somone from The Beacon wants to talk to you,” she said.
The Beacon is one of those neighborhood newspapers that's about three pages thick and arrives on your front porch wrapped in five pounds of advertising flyers.
“Hello,” I said into the phone.
“Mr. Condon? This is Fred Kelp of The Beacon. I write their book reviews and I want to interview you about your mystery novel Spilled Blood.”
I happen to agree with P.T. Barnum's statement that there is no bad publicity, just as long as they spell your name right.
“Sure,” I said. “What would you like to know?”
“Not over the phone. Come over to my office, tomorrow at two o'clock.”
I had my first misgivings when Kelp's “office” turned out to be the kitchen of his basement apartment, but I told myself I was dealing with The Beacon and not with The New York Times.
“First question,” Kelp said. “What do you think should be done about pornography?”
“What does that have to do with my book?” I asked.
“Ducking the question, eh?”
“No. Some people like porn and others hate it. I leave it to individual choice.”
“Hmmm! What about drugs?”
“I don't use them,” I said, “but other people have the right to decide what to put into their bodies.”
Kelp nodded.
“What about terrorism?” he asked.
“It's definitely bad. Are we going to talk about my book or not?”
“Sure. What's it about?”
“You haven't read it?” I asked.
“Of course not. I don't have time to read every crappy book that get's published.”
“Have a nice day, Mr. Kelp,” I said as I headed for the door.
A few days later, my wife brought me the latest edition of The Beacon.
“Kelp did that article about you,” she said.
“Will I like it?” I asked.
“I don't hink so. The headline is Drug Crazed Porn Writer Supports Terrorists.”
I read the item quickly, and then I handed the newspaper back to my wife.
“You missed the worst part,” I said. “He spelled my name wrong.”
George
P.S. Please visit my website at www.checkmatefiction.com for some free short stories.
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