Stanton Fenwick

Fenwick Appears

Act One

Stanton Fenwick wrote a book. It wasn’t long. It wasn’t deep. It was just a simple farce, decades behind its time.

He worried his book would be misunderstood, that the world wasn’t ready for early twentieth-century literature.

Another concern: Stanton didn’t know how to write.

But he knew what he found funny, especially dry comedy. So he tapped out a few chapters.

His wife hated them.

He knew he was onto something big.

(His wife hated all of his favorite comedies.)

The Mirror

“Please come in,” I called from behind the folding table.

The door opened.

An old man entered the room and stood before me, shifting awkwardly. He wouldn’t make eye contact.

I frowned.

“You don’t look like me at all,” I complained.

(I didn’t want to tell him I was a half point better looking.)

One sweltering day in August, when my patience was at its stickiest, I received an email from a discount tour guide. He was offering personalized legacy trips through England, helping Americans reconnect with their forgotten aristocratic heritages.

Having always sensed my innate nobility, I was sure the trip would deliver a fascinating reveal.

(It was promised in the advertisement.)

I phoned two friends, proposing we flee our oppressive environment to seek our oppressive roots.

I was not alone in my enthusiasm.

Both friends suspected they were distantly royal. It was worth checking out.

After calling a financial associate to propose a credit limit increase, three tickets were obtained, and we commenced our journey.

The Mechanics of Manifestation

11/25 I posted a short story that used reaching #1 in a niche Amazon category as a gag in the plot (as I was nowhere close)

11/26 I offered my book for free in an Amazon giveaway promotion

11/28 I hit #1 in the Absurdist Literature category (in the free list)

In my next story, I’m totally writing about winning a Thurber Prize. I believe they call this manifestation.

Le Morte d’Aspiration

A brief history of publishing ambition, self-sabotage, and the long, doomed line of Fenwickdragon.

Uther Fenwickdragon, King of Britain, lusts after Migraine, Duchess of Cornwall, wife of a very minor character. With the aid of magic spellcheckery, Uther disguises himself as a writer and beds Migraine, conceiving a novella, An Aspiration To Lie Flat.

Uther disavows Aspiration until, nearing death without a publication, he claims the book as his own.

Early Reviews and Ratings

It’s early days, but feedback from my LibraryThing book giveaway of An Aspiration to Lie Flat looks very promising.

Here are some excerpts from the reviews. (The full reviews and more can be found on LibraryThing.)

“This is a totally inane book that should be read by many.”

Edit: I couldn’t agree more.

“To me, it was a big joke, in a good way.”

“This story is hilarious, absurd, has a lot of heart, and is almost scary as in how I can imagine it could actually happen to someone.”

“What a fun whirlwind of a read! Keep in mind that at a quick 129 pages there simply isn’t a lot of time for nuance. Just enjoy the ride! I sure did!”

“I wasn’t sure what to expect from An Aspiration to Lie Flat, but it completely won me over. The humor is dry and understated, the kind that lingers and gets funnier the more you think about it. The main character is a disaster in the best way, yet you can’t help but root for him. The writing is sharp, fresh, and unlike most books I’ve picked up. If you enjoy offbeat, clever stories that break away from the usual formula, this one is definitely worth reading.”

If you enjoy this blog, you will almost assuredly enjoy this book!

Battles are Won with Logistics

I examined my supplies. They were sufficient.

I began to shuttle them to the front, without alerting the enemy.

Like Thermopylae, fighting was soon confined to a narrow pass, easier to defend.

At last, victory was in sight.

I fought my way to my assigned seat and placed my carry-on bag in the last available overhead bin.

I sat. I buckled. I conquered.

I held a book launch party…

…in the Historical Society’s reading room.

Let me begin this report by extending my heartfelt gratitude to the entire society staff for their assistance throughout the day. (Rest assured, the fifty-five dollar balance on my invoice will be arriving shortly.)

After a brief reading, which seemed well received by the listening security guard, I hosted a public signing for my new book An Aspiration To Lie Flat. The society seated me behind a large desk stacked with paperback copies of my book, in a gorgeous space large enough to accommodate the expected crowd.

Things were going well until the security guard—whose reaction I had clearly misjudged—approached.

“Your writing would be so much better if you let your characters feel any emotions besides pissed off and hurt,” he lectured.

“Thanks,” I replied, feeling pissed off and hurt. “Would you like me to sign a copy for you?”

“No. I’m definitely not interested. That chapter you read? Said it all, man. Said it all.”

Fortunately, the other two society employees were kinder. One told me she would consider purchasing my book in the future.

I counted it as a sale.

What a rewarding experience!

I am pleased to report that the entire event proceeded without incident. Wait times remained acceptably low throughout.

To those who could not attend: I understand. Parking was limited.

What I Want From Fiction

I want different things from fiction than the market currently provides, at least in any great abundance.

For example, I don’t enjoy atmospherics. I especially dislike long passages describing a place everyone is already vaguely familiar with (even more so when the process is used by the author solely to demonstrate verbal wizardry.)

Though it is not recent, take this passage from Brideshead Revisited:

“Oxford, in those days, was still a city of aquatint. In her spacious and quiet streets men walked and spoke as they had done in Newman’s day; her autumnal mists, her grey springtime, and the rare glory of her summer days—such as that day—when the chestnut was in flower and the bells rang out high and clear over her gables and cupolas, exhaled the soft vapours of a thousand years of learning.”
— Evelyn Waugh

That is beautiful, highly evocative writing. It is much better than anything I can produce.

But it bores me when books go on and on that way.

(Also, please note that I’m passing up an easy ‘soft vapours’ joke about Waugh’s Brideshead prose in an effort to appear mature. This is a moment of personal growth.)

What about emotional depth and backstory?

My Search for an Editor Continues

While continuing work on my second book, I received a strong response from a prospective editor I’ve been in regular contact with, regarding some writing samples I sent. I found it very promising.

I’ve posted it below (after making my own light edits for clarity.)

——

Dear (young) man,

You have got to stop (befriending) me or I will (launch) a restraining (embrace) against you.

I don’t ordinarily (commend) authors who send me unsolicited manuscripts, but with you I’m going to make an exception.

As far as I’m concerned you’re a complete (person) and a total (catch).

The delusion required to think I might (not like you) boggles the mind.

Look, (everybody) is going to read your book, OK? Get that through your (shapely) skull.

Are you aware most people (overvalue) plots? Not you. That’s for sure.

You didn’t write a book, you wrote a (masterpiece).

How? Why? Were you frequently (patted) on your head as an infant?

Everything about you is (terrific).

(Please) contact me again.

(Run) off and (thrive),
Ed