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Alas, the spirit did not move me to blog this week because...I wrote a short story! Insert sparkles here. Or I should say, I wrote another short story, but that first attempt was so weird that I am confident it will explode as soon as an editor lays eyes on it.
Anyway, I sent my manuscript to Boyfriend, who, full disclosure, is ferociously intelligent and not at all shy about ripping anything idiotic to shreds. Will I have the graciousness to accept constructive criticism? Stay tuned!
The best part about finishing the story was doing a Google search for literary agents, and coming up with the true, magnificent events of 2005, when a group of sci-fi writers created the worst book ever, called Atlanta Nights, under the pen name Travis Tea (say it fast). They were out to get a deceitful publisher, PublishAmerica, which purported to be a real publisher but actually did POD (publish-on-demand, meaning their writers' works didn't make it to bookstore shelves). Read about it here.
An excerpt from their fake opus: Mmm-hmm. Come and get this big Afros and indescribably tender. His hands moved surely. Recover for a mess. She'd have noticed if it had so impetuously across the pelting Georgia Girl Grill. This came from a chapter generated entirely by computer. Nice.
The result: PublishAmerica sent an acceptance letter for the horrendous manuscript, proving that they didn't even bother to read the stinker! Hoist by their own petard! By the way, their website made my good taste cry. Yes, they're still in business!
Dear readers, I got my grubby paws on a full copy of Atlanta Nights, and ohmyLord, I had to stop reading because I was getting eye strain from the awfulness. But I shall slog through it, because I have the sinking feeling that my own work will mirror a lot of the deliberately horrible writing in here. The best potholes are the ones you can see because you chucked in some flares beforehand, amirite?
And so, in conclusion: happy Friday!
Alas, the spirit did not move me to blog this week because...I wrote a short story! Insert sparkles here. Or I should say, I wrote another short story, but that first attempt was so weird that I am confident it will explode as soon as an editor lays eyes on it.
Anyway, I sent my manuscript to Boyfriend, who, full disclosure, is ferociously intelligent and not at all shy about ripping anything idiotic to shreds. Will I have the graciousness to accept constructive criticism? Stay tuned!
The best part about finishing the story was doing a Google search for literary agents, and coming up with the true, magnificent events of 2005, when a group of sci-fi writers created the worst book ever, called Atlanta Nights, under the pen name Travis Tea (say it fast). They were out to get a deceitful publisher, PublishAmerica, which purported to be a real publisher but actually did POD (publish-on-demand, meaning their writers' works didn't make it to bookstore shelves). Read about it here.
An excerpt from their fake opus: Mmm-hmm. Come and get this big Afros and indescribably tender. His hands moved surely. Recover for a mess. She'd have noticed if it had so impetuously across the pelting Georgia Girl Grill. This came from a chapter generated entirely by computer. Nice.
The result: PublishAmerica sent an acceptance letter for the horrendous manuscript, proving that they didn't even bother to read the stinker! Hoist by their own petard! By the way, their website made my good taste cry. Yes, they're still in business!
Dear readers, I got my grubby paws on a full copy of Atlanta Nights, and ohmyLord, I had to stop reading because I was getting eye strain from the awfulness. But I shall slog through it, because I have the sinking feeling that my own work will mirror a lot of the deliberately horrible writing in here. The best potholes are the ones you can see because you chucked in some flares beforehand, amirite?
And so, in conclusion: happy Friday!
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