Countess
04-19-2007, 12:54 PM
At least one person on Gather is a Satiric Einstein. This was too funny to not post somewhere else. I suppose Bill got dissed by the contest as well, and is bitter about it (he should be; with his writing style he should have won the d*** thing.)
************************************************** *
Actual litter inspired the idea for Gather’s national literary contest. Standing on a street corner on a frosty, cold, blustery, adjective burdened, late winter day, dirty piles of slush soaking into his cracked leather shoes, the Administrator watched the icy wind blow on and on and on and on as it swirled exhausting little tornadoes of debris around the gutter.
“That’s it!” he thought, while simultaneously questioning the use of quotes for internal monologue, and worse, sourly noting not one, but two ! early adverbs. Damn! Is early also an adverb? And are question marks and exclamations points allowed ? in the middle of a sentince…sentance…sentence?
Could misuse of commas be far behind?
Tripping clumsily from the cold street into his office a few minutes later, he thanked the awkward transition for his warm feet, sat back lazily, and pondered his idea, guessing that it might have brilliance. Or rather, the idea seemed possibly brilliant. No! Damn it! he exclaimed, bolting up. He felt uneasy because bolts usually fasten things down. But his discomfort was dispelled by the pleasure of his new italicized thoughts. No! Damn it! he repeated, again, with dynamic verve. Brilliance radiated from the idea.
This inspiration would be the Philosopher’s Stone of literary contests -- literally turning litter into literature.
The beauty of the idea would place Gather.com as administrator of the contest, somewhere in the distant background, and about as accessible as a fleeing deer when viewed through the wrong end of a telescope, in partnership with a Major and Distinguished Sub-branch of a Renown Publisher mainly known for non-fiction publishing, but actually publishing this fiction--that is, the Sub-branch is known for non-fiction, not the Renown Publisher that actually itself publishes mainly fiction (one must always reinforce ones intimate, and dare I say, personal, connection with ones reader through the use of clear and succinct word usage), and of course, with additional sponsorship from a National Bookseller willing to provide a card table behind the fan fiction and/or used gardening catalogues section for display and promotion of the winner -- well…well, between all that -- this could be a…a… What was the point of this paragraph again? he gasped in his mind. He felt an odd pressure behind his eyes.
“Get in here!” the Administrator screamed to his Personal Assistant, Tom Gera…Gresh…Garach…JUST TOM!
The assistant darted into the office. “I came as fast as I could,” Tom said excitedly, still breathless from chasing that deer.
“How are you, Tom?” the Administrator asked.
“Fine, sir,” Tom replied.
“Nice day, wouldn’t you say?” asked the Administrator.
“Very nice,” said Tom.
“Might be some rain tomorrow,” guessed the Administrator.
“Really, sir? I heard blustery with possible light sprinkles, but crisp, maybe even sparkling, every breeze there for a purpose, every sunny ray propelling the day forward.”
“Wha…what’s that?” The Administrator said, snapping awake. He brushed a fly off his cuff. “So Tom, how would you like to fake a literary contest, become my proxy as it were, my public face?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Let me explain metaphorically. Gather is like a tree falling on a distant star, like a bird flying under concrete. Without a significant upsurge in ad revenue, Gather is like feathers on a leaf. Do you understand?”
“Excuse my impertinence, sir, but I think your metaphors are actually somewhat similar to similes. But I get your meaning. Gather needs more members.”
“Exactly!” He rocked back in his chair and settled his head into the comfortable depression a previous accident had left in the drywall. After a moment of contemplation, he righted the chair with a [crash]. “Where was I?” he said, shaking his head. “Look. I’ve already contributed my 10% to True Genius. Get busy on your half.”
“But sir,” Tom said, “I’ve never faked a literary contest before.”
I pushed away from my desk and walked to the window, staring reflectively at the faint outline of my features in the glass. This is my office, my domain. I love the grime, the cobwebs, even the desiccated spider on the windowsill. And I am the first person to truly appreciate this view, though its beauty was past, and is in the present nothing but the building next door, a wall of decayed and featureless bricks.
“It’s easy to fake a literary contest,” the Administrator said. “Just write a couple thousand novels.”
“But if I write all the novels, how is that a contest?” Tom asked. He stared at the Administrator, and also watched a fly land on his shoulder, the Administrator’s shoulder, not Tom’s. How can he stare at that brick wall? How could anyone work in such a decayed and featureless office? Surely Tom wasn’t the first, second, or even third person to notice that the featureless window just enhanced the decayed grimness by offering such a pointless view.
The Administrator was speaking: “You’re too hung up on semantics, Tom. Words don’t matter in a literary contest. It’s about new members!” He waved the air dismissively and turned around, startling the fly. “Besides, I’ll choose the winner before the contest…save all the fuss. Then we’ll run the competition for a month or two and be lucky to get another fifty or sixty random authors. But so what? A big loser pile means many happy writers.”
The fly buzzed around the room and watched compound Toms, sitting on multiple chairs, pondering this logic. Where should I land next? the fly mused, its spherical eyes and multiple lenses making every possibility many possibilities.
Tom decided that the Administrator’s reasoning made sense. “I’ve never written a novel,” he said.
“Neither have most of the people who’ve written one,” the Administrator replied. “Just remember, a novel contest isn’t about writing. It’s about criticism.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Tom, my dear, dear boy,” the Administrator said, returning to his desk. “Surely you don’t believe readers will find your novels interesting. Nothing fascinating will happen in your stories and your characters will fall flatter than clay on a hot sidewalk. On the other hand, what could be more gripping, more charged with drama, conflict, tone, and pacing…more seething with powerful, authentic dialogue than hordes of critics gnashing and lashing?”
“Does that mean I have to write the novels and the criticism?”
“Absolutely not! It’s bad enough that all the novels will sound the same. Lord help us if the critics lack a unique literary voice.”
Tom considered this. “Don’t get me wrong, sir. I like the idea. But I wish I knew something about plot development.”
“Tommy, Tommy, you worry too much. Just start every novel with a dream, make your main characters beautiful women in physical danger from brutal husbands/boyfriends/ex-lovers/sociopathic males…but alas, I’m getting redundant.”
“What about setting? I can’t write two thousand novels about the same place.”
The Administrator rolled his eyes. “Why not? Everybody else does. Don’t complicate this, my boy. Let the genres guide you. Mysteries, for example. Lots of smoke, fog, and dark street corners where burned-out -- but redeemable -- cops, private eyes, or insurance underwriters shuffle through rain-drenched streets kicking empty whisky bottles and tripping over red fish. What are you doing?”
“Taking notes, sir.”
“Ah…research. You’re already way ahead of most novelists. I’ll help you.” He grabbed a pen and tapped it against his front teeth. “Let’s see. Science Fiction -- at least one machine with more personality than any of the main characters…a warp, either drive or time…a being, completely, utterly, and incomprehensibly alien, yet equipped with convenient human appendages.” He rubbed his chin. “Oversized insects are good. But make sure every shoe in the novel remains at human scale. And don’t forget extraterrestrial sex. Those non-blob aliens can be hot.” He loosened his tie and took a deep breath. “Okay, how about a love interest trapped in a parallel universe? A mysterious, beautiful, and very sexy woman with large intellectual powers -- close enough to our dimension for your hero to perceive, but beyond his grasp of physical laws.”
“I like it, sir!” Tom burst, but without all the mess. “What conflict! That should inspire a story or two.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Use that outline for every story.”
“God! This is so easy. Writers are such whiners.”
“Believe me, writers are nothing compared to their loved ones. Think about it. What could be more natural than sitting alone in a corner, typing, muttering, gazing at the wall with a dreamy expression, and not feeling good about yourself until you’ve traded your most cherished realities for fantasy? I dare say if it wasn’t for clean dishes and a poorly mowed lawn, what writer would even need a loved one?”
“I see your point.”
“Now, to continue. By its very nature, anything goes with Fantasy. So, if you absolutely can’t make your fantasy incomprehensible, then at least make it unpronounceable. If you set your mind to it, you should be able to write a dozen fantasy novels in less than a week. Think of the keystrokes you’ll save by not using vowels.”
“And Chic Lit?”
“Easy. The entire novel takes place in a café…preferably one without needless distractions…like other patrons. Don’t forget to describe the reflective glimmer of the silverware, the companionable, crumb-wiping texture of the napkins, the unique, surprising, and enlightening roundness of the diner plates -- basically the elements of the dining experience we’ve never seen before. Oh, and the coffee. It must be exquisitely layered with creams, liqueurs, chocolate, cinnamon, orange peels, grape leaves, hazel nuts, fluoride, molybdenum 99 -- anything but coffee really -- and its metaphorical significance must enhance the sparkling chic lit banter.”
“Got it.”
“Subtext…very important. Did you know that when women get together at the same café, at the same time, on the same days every week, they start drinking the same mochachino? Something to do with the moon, I think.”
“This is excellent,” Tom effused, using his handkerchief to wipe up. “So much for the novels. What about the critics?”
“Go down to Accounting and harvest a few cubicles. I don’t know how much those people know about literature, but they depreciate a mean asset. Imagine what they could do with a misplaced semicolon.”
Tom shuddered. “I know them well, sir.”
“Talk to Mike. See if he’s available.”
“Mike. Is he the one who spends hours meticulously combing through files looking for errors and inconsistencies? And when he finds them, everybody hates him for it?”
“Yes. Perfectly natural reaction…and a lot simpler than solving the problem. By the way, add that reaction to your list of clichés.” The Administrator wagged his index finger. “Always remember: trite motivations, hackneyed phrases, overblown reactions, and false emotions save time. Use them in your novels whenever possible.”
“I can do that, sir.”
“Don’t tell me. Show me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Speaking of telling, you can probably tell that I don’t care much about the novels. But, by God, those critics have to be fleshed out! I want vital, slavering, teeth-gnashing characters. I want anger, violence, bitterness…you can go easy on remorse…but give me lots of venom, lots of nattering, lots of high-minded disgust. And forget dissection. We need vivisection! I want cringes, squirms, and lacerations. I want brutal crushing and gory maiming--all under a microscopic glare.”
“But, sir, if you’ll forgive me.” Tom stared at the floor and bit his lip. “Even though these novels are just for show…and well, fake and everything. I’ll still pour my heart and soul into each and every one of them. I’m not sure I can stand all that cringing, maiming, and crushing.”
The Administrator laughed. “Relax, my boy, you’ll be safe. The critics will be maiming each other.”
“Oh…thank God.”
“Well, mainly. We have to show some interest in the novels. I suggest a broad cross-section of critics. A noble one…talk to Collins. An insipid and bitter one…call him Ishmael.” He scribbled on a notepad: Tom over at Legal -- legal? -- Legal? “Bloody grammar!” he scowled. Then he relaxed. Why am I worrying about grammar when some editor can fix it later? Then he wrote: Buy speling dicsionary, on a separate pad.
He handed the first note to his assistant. “This other Tom guy actually knows something about literature. Hunt him down. If we don’t use his talents we’ll be in terrible trouble.”
“Shouldn’t we have a few female critics?”
“Good idea. We need at least one sexy one. Sexy, but acerbic. Someone dark. A fearless woman with luscious lips and a sly grin. She has to be hot, eager to bite, and as smug as a black widow after a heady meal.”
“I know just the babe…er, woman, sir.”
“Go on.”
“Her name is Belladonna. She sharpens knives in the company commissary.”
“Belladonna…deadly nightshade. That has a nice ring. But let’s stay informal. Shorten her name to Donna.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Also, stir things up with a feud between the critics. Something that will carry over from review to review…spread through the novels like cancer.”
“How about a tiff between Mike and Sherri?” Tom said, though he had asked a question. “They share the same last initial.”
“How will that help?”
“It may cast useful confusion over the contest…make people wonder if the two are related and secretly working together. Keep suspicions focused on the participants and away from our conspiracy.”
“Bite your tongue, lad. This is no conspiracy. It’s a plan to commit a subversive act, nothing more.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“I’ll leave the other critics to your discretion.”
“Very good, sir. I was thinking Kate for her sweet and insightful commentary. Karl for well thought-out, helpful, and penetrating observations.”
“Good, good.”
“Chandra is tough, but fair and illuminating. So is Lori. And for another hint of mystery, I think I’ll assign someone to be a nameless critic-at-large, a sort of Many Beneficial Words type person.”
“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“I admit this level of creativity is contagious,” smiled Tom, equally thrilled by a smile’s ability to speak. “And I can finally see the economic brilliance of your idea. Thousands will flock to the critical bloodbath, join Gather, and vote for the most scathing reviews. They might even rate a few novels. You really are a genius, sir.”
“Thank you.”
“But I do have one question.”
The Administrator leaned forward and interlocked his fingers. “Yes?”
“Sir, I know you said the winner would be chosen before the contest.”
“Naturally,” said the Administrator, “we can’t expect a legitimate publisher to print slush. We’ll choose an author already under contract and slip him or her into the contest.”
“Of course that makes perfect sense. But as we weed our way through the dreck toward the ultimate “winner”, how do we choose the semi-finalists?”
The Administrator smiled. “Well, we’re certainly not going to insult ourselves or anybody else by turning this into a popularity contest. Can you imagine? Contestants with half a computer and a drawer full of socks can game the system and propel themselves forward. Or worse, drive by one or two rehab support groups and bribe a bunch of losers to post insightful comments like: ‘Can’t wait for Chapter Two’ and ‘Wow man, I knew you forged a mean prescription, but this is awesome’.”
“So what’s the solution?”
“Simple. We use a time-honored technique developed by the publishing industry. We separate the obviously readable and grammatically coherent from the blatantly unedited and ludicrously inarticulate -- and then we pick names at random from a five-gallon bucket.”
“Wow. That is fair.”
“Experience has shown that nobody in this industry can predict a successful novel. Randomness rules. A black swan like Harry Potter was rejected dozens of times by industry professionals. Most of those same editors still don’t trust themselves around straight razors. And even seven books later, Harry Potter is basically one story.
“So, never forget that many popular authors try writing against their success…and fail to achieve even a close second victory. Does that mean they’re suddenly bad or uninspired writers?”
“No, sir.”
“Then go write your novels. You may even learn to love the process. In the meantime, I’ll devote my talents to True Literature…that is, Marketing. My current project is an epic volume that matches a city full of names with phone numbers. So far, I haven’t been able to interest anyone in buying it. But, I have faith that everybody will eventually own a copy of this book. This keeps me going while I improve it, and find the clearest way to tell my story and engage my readers. God knows I have an impressive cast of characters. But I think my plot is a little thin.”
“Sounds exciting. Good luck with that, sir.”
“Thank you, Tom,” the Administrator said. “Luck has everything to do with it.”
************************************************** *
Actual litter inspired the idea for Gather’s national literary contest. Standing on a street corner on a frosty, cold, blustery, adjective burdened, late winter day, dirty piles of slush soaking into his cracked leather shoes, the Administrator watched the icy wind blow on and on and on and on as it swirled exhausting little tornadoes of debris around the gutter.
“That’s it!” he thought, while simultaneously questioning the use of quotes for internal monologue, and worse, sourly noting not one, but two ! early adverbs. Damn! Is early also an adverb? And are question marks and exclamations points allowed ? in the middle of a sentince…sentance…sentence?
Could misuse of commas be far behind?
Tripping clumsily from the cold street into his office a few minutes later, he thanked the awkward transition for his warm feet, sat back lazily, and pondered his idea, guessing that it might have brilliance. Or rather, the idea seemed possibly brilliant. No! Damn it! he exclaimed, bolting up. He felt uneasy because bolts usually fasten things down. But his discomfort was dispelled by the pleasure of his new italicized thoughts. No! Damn it! he repeated, again, with dynamic verve. Brilliance radiated from the idea.
This inspiration would be the Philosopher’s Stone of literary contests -- literally turning litter into literature.
The beauty of the idea would place Gather.com as administrator of the contest, somewhere in the distant background, and about as accessible as a fleeing deer when viewed through the wrong end of a telescope, in partnership with a Major and Distinguished Sub-branch of a Renown Publisher mainly known for non-fiction publishing, but actually publishing this fiction--that is, the Sub-branch is known for non-fiction, not the Renown Publisher that actually itself publishes mainly fiction (one must always reinforce ones intimate, and dare I say, personal, connection with ones reader through the use of clear and succinct word usage), and of course, with additional sponsorship from a National Bookseller willing to provide a card table behind the fan fiction and/or used gardening catalogues section for display and promotion of the winner -- well…well, between all that -- this could be a…a… What was the point of this paragraph again? he gasped in his mind. He felt an odd pressure behind his eyes.
“Get in here!” the Administrator screamed to his Personal Assistant, Tom Gera…Gresh…Garach…JUST TOM!
The assistant darted into the office. “I came as fast as I could,” Tom said excitedly, still breathless from chasing that deer.
“How are you, Tom?” the Administrator asked.
“Fine, sir,” Tom replied.
“Nice day, wouldn’t you say?” asked the Administrator.
“Very nice,” said Tom.
“Might be some rain tomorrow,” guessed the Administrator.
“Really, sir? I heard blustery with possible light sprinkles, but crisp, maybe even sparkling, every breeze there for a purpose, every sunny ray propelling the day forward.”
“Wha…what’s that?” The Administrator said, snapping awake. He brushed a fly off his cuff. “So Tom, how would you like to fake a literary contest, become my proxy as it were, my public face?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Let me explain metaphorically. Gather is like a tree falling on a distant star, like a bird flying under concrete. Without a significant upsurge in ad revenue, Gather is like feathers on a leaf. Do you understand?”
“Excuse my impertinence, sir, but I think your metaphors are actually somewhat similar to similes. But I get your meaning. Gather needs more members.”
“Exactly!” He rocked back in his chair and settled his head into the comfortable depression a previous accident had left in the drywall. After a moment of contemplation, he righted the chair with a [crash]. “Where was I?” he said, shaking his head. “Look. I’ve already contributed my 10% to True Genius. Get busy on your half.”
“But sir,” Tom said, “I’ve never faked a literary contest before.”
I pushed away from my desk and walked to the window, staring reflectively at the faint outline of my features in the glass. This is my office, my domain. I love the grime, the cobwebs, even the desiccated spider on the windowsill. And I am the first person to truly appreciate this view, though its beauty was past, and is in the present nothing but the building next door, a wall of decayed and featureless bricks.
“It’s easy to fake a literary contest,” the Administrator said. “Just write a couple thousand novels.”
“But if I write all the novels, how is that a contest?” Tom asked. He stared at the Administrator, and also watched a fly land on his shoulder, the Administrator’s shoulder, not Tom’s. How can he stare at that brick wall? How could anyone work in such a decayed and featureless office? Surely Tom wasn’t the first, second, or even third person to notice that the featureless window just enhanced the decayed grimness by offering such a pointless view.
The Administrator was speaking: “You’re too hung up on semantics, Tom. Words don’t matter in a literary contest. It’s about new members!” He waved the air dismissively and turned around, startling the fly. “Besides, I’ll choose the winner before the contest…save all the fuss. Then we’ll run the competition for a month or two and be lucky to get another fifty or sixty random authors. But so what? A big loser pile means many happy writers.”
The fly buzzed around the room and watched compound Toms, sitting on multiple chairs, pondering this logic. Where should I land next? the fly mused, its spherical eyes and multiple lenses making every possibility many possibilities.
Tom decided that the Administrator’s reasoning made sense. “I’ve never written a novel,” he said.
“Neither have most of the people who’ve written one,” the Administrator replied. “Just remember, a novel contest isn’t about writing. It’s about criticism.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Tom, my dear, dear boy,” the Administrator said, returning to his desk. “Surely you don’t believe readers will find your novels interesting. Nothing fascinating will happen in your stories and your characters will fall flatter than clay on a hot sidewalk. On the other hand, what could be more gripping, more charged with drama, conflict, tone, and pacing…more seething with powerful, authentic dialogue than hordes of critics gnashing and lashing?”
“Does that mean I have to write the novels and the criticism?”
“Absolutely not! It’s bad enough that all the novels will sound the same. Lord help us if the critics lack a unique literary voice.”
Tom considered this. “Don’t get me wrong, sir. I like the idea. But I wish I knew something about plot development.”
“Tommy, Tommy, you worry too much. Just start every novel with a dream, make your main characters beautiful women in physical danger from brutal husbands/boyfriends/ex-lovers/sociopathic males…but alas, I’m getting redundant.”
“What about setting? I can’t write two thousand novels about the same place.”
The Administrator rolled his eyes. “Why not? Everybody else does. Don’t complicate this, my boy. Let the genres guide you. Mysteries, for example. Lots of smoke, fog, and dark street corners where burned-out -- but redeemable -- cops, private eyes, or insurance underwriters shuffle through rain-drenched streets kicking empty whisky bottles and tripping over red fish. What are you doing?”
“Taking notes, sir.”
“Ah…research. You’re already way ahead of most novelists. I’ll help you.” He grabbed a pen and tapped it against his front teeth. “Let’s see. Science Fiction -- at least one machine with more personality than any of the main characters…a warp, either drive or time…a being, completely, utterly, and incomprehensibly alien, yet equipped with convenient human appendages.” He rubbed his chin. “Oversized insects are good. But make sure every shoe in the novel remains at human scale. And don’t forget extraterrestrial sex. Those non-blob aliens can be hot.” He loosened his tie and took a deep breath. “Okay, how about a love interest trapped in a parallel universe? A mysterious, beautiful, and very sexy woman with large intellectual powers -- close enough to our dimension for your hero to perceive, but beyond his grasp of physical laws.”
“I like it, sir!” Tom burst, but without all the mess. “What conflict! That should inspire a story or two.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Use that outline for every story.”
“God! This is so easy. Writers are such whiners.”
“Believe me, writers are nothing compared to their loved ones. Think about it. What could be more natural than sitting alone in a corner, typing, muttering, gazing at the wall with a dreamy expression, and not feeling good about yourself until you’ve traded your most cherished realities for fantasy? I dare say if it wasn’t for clean dishes and a poorly mowed lawn, what writer would even need a loved one?”
“I see your point.”
“Now, to continue. By its very nature, anything goes with Fantasy. So, if you absolutely can’t make your fantasy incomprehensible, then at least make it unpronounceable. If you set your mind to it, you should be able to write a dozen fantasy novels in less than a week. Think of the keystrokes you’ll save by not using vowels.”
“And Chic Lit?”
“Easy. The entire novel takes place in a café…preferably one without needless distractions…like other patrons. Don’t forget to describe the reflective glimmer of the silverware, the companionable, crumb-wiping texture of the napkins, the unique, surprising, and enlightening roundness of the diner plates -- basically the elements of the dining experience we’ve never seen before. Oh, and the coffee. It must be exquisitely layered with creams, liqueurs, chocolate, cinnamon, orange peels, grape leaves, hazel nuts, fluoride, molybdenum 99 -- anything but coffee really -- and its metaphorical significance must enhance the sparkling chic lit banter.”
“Got it.”
“Subtext…very important. Did you know that when women get together at the same café, at the same time, on the same days every week, they start drinking the same mochachino? Something to do with the moon, I think.”
“This is excellent,” Tom effused, using his handkerchief to wipe up. “So much for the novels. What about the critics?”
“Go down to Accounting and harvest a few cubicles. I don’t know how much those people know about literature, but they depreciate a mean asset. Imagine what they could do with a misplaced semicolon.”
Tom shuddered. “I know them well, sir.”
“Talk to Mike. See if he’s available.”
“Mike. Is he the one who spends hours meticulously combing through files looking for errors and inconsistencies? And when he finds them, everybody hates him for it?”
“Yes. Perfectly natural reaction…and a lot simpler than solving the problem. By the way, add that reaction to your list of clichés.” The Administrator wagged his index finger. “Always remember: trite motivations, hackneyed phrases, overblown reactions, and false emotions save time. Use them in your novels whenever possible.”
“I can do that, sir.”
“Don’t tell me. Show me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Speaking of telling, you can probably tell that I don’t care much about the novels. But, by God, those critics have to be fleshed out! I want vital, slavering, teeth-gnashing characters. I want anger, violence, bitterness…you can go easy on remorse…but give me lots of venom, lots of nattering, lots of high-minded disgust. And forget dissection. We need vivisection! I want cringes, squirms, and lacerations. I want brutal crushing and gory maiming--all under a microscopic glare.”
“But, sir, if you’ll forgive me.” Tom stared at the floor and bit his lip. “Even though these novels are just for show…and well, fake and everything. I’ll still pour my heart and soul into each and every one of them. I’m not sure I can stand all that cringing, maiming, and crushing.”
The Administrator laughed. “Relax, my boy, you’ll be safe. The critics will be maiming each other.”
“Oh…thank God.”
“Well, mainly. We have to show some interest in the novels. I suggest a broad cross-section of critics. A noble one…talk to Collins. An insipid and bitter one…call him Ishmael.” He scribbled on a notepad: Tom over at Legal -- legal? -- Legal? “Bloody grammar!” he scowled. Then he relaxed. Why am I worrying about grammar when some editor can fix it later? Then he wrote: Buy speling dicsionary, on a separate pad.
He handed the first note to his assistant. “This other Tom guy actually knows something about literature. Hunt him down. If we don’t use his talents we’ll be in terrible trouble.”
“Shouldn’t we have a few female critics?”
“Good idea. We need at least one sexy one. Sexy, but acerbic. Someone dark. A fearless woman with luscious lips and a sly grin. She has to be hot, eager to bite, and as smug as a black widow after a heady meal.”
“I know just the babe…er, woman, sir.”
“Go on.”
“Her name is Belladonna. She sharpens knives in the company commissary.”
“Belladonna…deadly nightshade. That has a nice ring. But let’s stay informal. Shorten her name to Donna.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Also, stir things up with a feud between the critics. Something that will carry over from review to review…spread through the novels like cancer.”
“How about a tiff between Mike and Sherri?” Tom said, though he had asked a question. “They share the same last initial.”
“How will that help?”
“It may cast useful confusion over the contest…make people wonder if the two are related and secretly working together. Keep suspicions focused on the participants and away from our conspiracy.”
“Bite your tongue, lad. This is no conspiracy. It’s a plan to commit a subversive act, nothing more.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“I’ll leave the other critics to your discretion.”
“Very good, sir. I was thinking Kate for her sweet and insightful commentary. Karl for well thought-out, helpful, and penetrating observations.”
“Good, good.”
“Chandra is tough, but fair and illuminating. So is Lori. And for another hint of mystery, I think I’ll assign someone to be a nameless critic-at-large, a sort of Many Beneficial Words type person.”
“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“I admit this level of creativity is contagious,” smiled Tom, equally thrilled by a smile’s ability to speak. “And I can finally see the economic brilliance of your idea. Thousands will flock to the critical bloodbath, join Gather, and vote for the most scathing reviews. They might even rate a few novels. You really are a genius, sir.”
“Thank you.”
“But I do have one question.”
The Administrator leaned forward and interlocked his fingers. “Yes?”
“Sir, I know you said the winner would be chosen before the contest.”
“Naturally,” said the Administrator, “we can’t expect a legitimate publisher to print slush. We’ll choose an author already under contract and slip him or her into the contest.”
“Of course that makes perfect sense. But as we weed our way through the dreck toward the ultimate “winner”, how do we choose the semi-finalists?”
The Administrator smiled. “Well, we’re certainly not going to insult ourselves or anybody else by turning this into a popularity contest. Can you imagine? Contestants with half a computer and a drawer full of socks can game the system and propel themselves forward. Or worse, drive by one or two rehab support groups and bribe a bunch of losers to post insightful comments like: ‘Can’t wait for Chapter Two’ and ‘Wow man, I knew you forged a mean prescription, but this is awesome’.”
“So what’s the solution?”
“Simple. We use a time-honored technique developed by the publishing industry. We separate the obviously readable and grammatically coherent from the blatantly unedited and ludicrously inarticulate -- and then we pick names at random from a five-gallon bucket.”
“Wow. That is fair.”
“Experience has shown that nobody in this industry can predict a successful novel. Randomness rules. A black swan like Harry Potter was rejected dozens of times by industry professionals. Most of those same editors still don’t trust themselves around straight razors. And even seven books later, Harry Potter is basically one story.
“So, never forget that many popular authors try writing against their success…and fail to achieve even a close second victory. Does that mean they’re suddenly bad or uninspired writers?”
“No, sir.”
“Then go write your novels. You may even learn to love the process. In the meantime, I’ll devote my talents to True Literature…that is, Marketing. My current project is an epic volume that matches a city full of names with phone numbers. So far, I haven’t been able to interest anyone in buying it. But, I have faith that everybody will eventually own a copy of this book. This keeps me going while I improve it, and find the clearest way to tell my story and engage my readers. God knows I have an impressive cast of characters. But I think my plot is a little thin.”
“Sounds exciting. Good luck with that, sir.”
“Thank you, Tom,” the Administrator said. “Luck has everything to do with it.”