Friday we got a whole foot dumped on us, and we're on the third day of isolation. Not bad, given that we still have electricity and running water. Bad, once I considered that the semester might be extended as a result. We live on a country road. The interstates are the first ones to get salted and sprayed. Ours has been plowed and raked a few times, but no salt. Not sure how long it takes the county to get around to this kind of thing.
Meanwhile, I've used the extra time to transcribe "Hammer and Keys." I've got about 50 pages left and it just hit the 80k word mark. Might not be as high as I originally thought, but no matter.
The Brandon Sanderson lectures have been amazing, along with his podcast Writing Excuses. They provide the sort of professional guidance I wish I had had years ago when I was first starting. But no matter.
Truth be told, I didn't put a lot of thought into what I was going to write about this week. I've been brainstorming a lot of different ideas, one of which I hope to turn into a series later in life. I found two more writing contests that I plan to enter. Still no word on any of my submitted stories.
As disappointing as it is for me, all I can come up with is another rendition of Reject a Hit.
Dear Mr. King,
We've read the finished manuscript of your novel It. I regret to say that we are unable to accept it for publication at this time. Well, no. Honestly, I'm not sorry! I hated this book! Wanna know why? The clown. You've turned a classic icon of children's entertainment into a bloodthirsty monster. I married a professional clown and she threatened to divorce me if I accepted this...thing. Ok, maybe clowns can be scary, but you provoked her. There's an anti-clown agenda in this thing and I won't be a part of it (no pun intended).
For posterity's sake, I guess I have to come up with a legitimate reason to reject the book. Fair enough. The chronology is ridiculous and confusing. The novel begins in 1958 and we get a chapter per character as they live in Derry, which might as well be called StephenKingstan since it's yet another one of your small-town-nightmarish-festering-armpit-wounds whose people have no redeeming qualities (except the Irish cop, I liked him). Then we jump forward to 1985 and get a chapter per character in their grownup lives. In between, we get the diary entries of one of the main characters as he records bits of evidence to prove that It has returned.
And speaking of It, why would any sensible author use a pronoun as the title of their work? Are you trying alienate all of the English teachers in your audience? You yourself were a teacher, which intensifies my disgust.
Power to the pen.
Hopefully I'll be more on my game next week.