writing – 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. She preferred to escape into fantasy.)

My Trip to Austen

Prideful.

And prejudiced.

There could be no other interpretation of the committee’s response when I offered to deliver a lecture on Victorian comedy at their science fiction book fair.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that organizers of sci-fi book fairs are in desperate need of more interesting speakers.

I told them so.

They told me to get out.

Ruffian interns shepherded me to the street.

I received a call.

“Did you hear they approved a symposium on Jules Verne?” asked my agent.

Another blow.

I had been drawn to Texas, confident of the community’s embrace. Thousands would attend the fair, each a potential fan of my work.

I needed to be heard.

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.

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.

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

Category: writing