I thought I would post a message to my dedicated fans. The rest of you can go to hell, as usual. I’ve been one busy guy trying to set up and learn to operate new equipment for my world-conquering Youtube channel, which will feature a charming and well-spoken young man whose charisma and style will attract viewers of all denominations just as soon as I can kidnap and hypnotize a suitable candidate.
In the meantime, I’m just not really interested in “ending” my story about Jupiter and Marc. In fact, I’m almost able to convince myself that it IS ended. After all– the really “good stuff” is over. I have feelings about this “good stuff” similar to my feelings about commerce on Youtube. Since I went all patrician and subscribed to Youtube premium, I can now look down my bifocals at the peasants who have to use ad-blockers, and wave my little hands in a fluttering motion when some guy who is doing a Warhammer video suddenly starts doing a commercial. It’s like watching Your Show of Shows from about 1956 and having them suddenly start talking about how great Chesterfields are.
Mmm mmm. Real smokin’ pleasure for real men! Men who work hard! Like me!
So here’s the deal. I did my great “fiction writer” experiment and while I can see how a fella could get good at it, it still tastes like chemicals to me. Sorta like Chesterfields. A “popular” novel is no mystery to me in it’s construction or format. You have a hero, and he lives a life that is full of all sorts of trivial shit. The Yankees. The hazardous shoes. The Big Spender from Delaware. The workings of a blockbuster that Uncle Grant swiped when he was with the RAF.
The hero faces a wall. It’s insurmountable. The worst part is that his hands are some slippery from the leaky can of WD40 that he promised to deliver to the dying Yogi Berra’s wife. He could just walk away– but he’s the hero. He can’t defeat the wall. Not unless he cheats. and he won’t do that. But then, just as it looks hopeless, he realizes that if he wears the hazardous shoes and does what Yogi Berra said to do, then the Big Spender will spend just enough to get the bomb workings out of hock…
The mechanism is rusted. But then we go back to page four, where some kid–an awful little girl named Frances, tells him that WD40 can remove rust. Any rust– she said.
Just as the bomb is about to blow them all to hell, the WD40 saves the day.
It’s dumb. It’s OK though. It’s “entertaining” and an expert can make you believe it. All the stupid parts and everything. But it’s still a trick that the author plays on the readers. I may be an old misanthrope, but I do not possess a twisted desire to trick people for fun.
To be a best-selling author of “popular” fiction, though, you have to have that desire. Or luck. Lots of luck.