Bum Fuck Egypt
My parents live in a two stop light town. Sure, there isn't much to do on a Friday/Saturday/any night. The grocery store is a maze of mismatch isles and it closes down at eight. The locals all know you by name, street address and plate number. But it's peaceful. The houses are inexpensive. And there are three dollar stores to amuse yourself with!
I'm really trying this whole "positive outlook" thing. I hear it does wonders for your attitude.
Bless the neighbors who are so concerned with your safety they put video cameras on their roof facing your house. Or the kids at the park who put on firework shows at 3 am to let you know they think you're oversleeping. Bless the blue hairs and cows, tractors and school buses who block the only road out of
I can be thankful for everything this little town has given me...
Except for my "friend," the gas station attendant. I've never been so uncomfortable getting gas in my whole life. I almost ran out one morning on the way to work because I'd rather walk my happy ass 50 miles than listen to him talk. You see, he's writing a book. He got involved with one of those self publishing scams a while ago and now he thinks he's a pro. "A modern day Twain." The con-artists actually sent him an email saying the book had reached the best sellers list!
Those of us not living in Bum Fuck Egypt know this isn't true.
But he believed.
Attendant: You off this weekend?
Attendant: I have tomorrow off. I think I'm going to work on my novel.
Tink: Well that sounds like a lovely way to spend a day off.
Attendant: I'll bring you the first three chapters some time.
Tink: Oh. Um. Ok. *Goes to leave*
Attendant: Wait a second. *Digs around behind counter* I just so happen to have a copy with me today!
Tink: Gee. That's great.
It wasn't just a copy. It was laid out in a binder with a cover page, all prepared. He'd been waiting to make his move. The first page was nothing but descriptions of a room. He wrote in detail about where tables and chairs were placed, what they were made out of, and how they looked and felt. The next few pages described his characters. "He was of average height and build with a long winding beard and sharp blue eyes..." Blah, blah, blah. I tried not to fall asleep. Two chapters later he started into the actual story.
He writes well, albeit using the words "chided" an obsessive amount. But there's too much narrative and the story feels recycled from something Tolkien wrote. It's about a bunch of dwarves, humans, and elves that band together to fight off some evil trolls. The main character has a hammer that makes him indestructible, but when he uses it he hears sinister voices in his head. Sound familiar? Maybe it was melted down later on to forge a ring. Hmmm.
I have to bring the binder back to him tonight. Here's the problem. What do I say? Should I be honest? Should I lie to him like everyone else? Normally I would be thrilled to read someone else's writing. I know some eloquent authors (and should-be authors): Jess. Mamalujo. Mignon. Stephen King. Ok, so I don't know King. I don't know this guy either. In fact, he creeps me out a little. The moment that binder landed in my hands I thought, "How soon can I give this back?"
So considering the nature of the writing and our relationship to each other, which is nil, should I be honest or I should I be nice and get the hell out of there?
Speaking of pushing off writing on unsuspecting victims...
DOT: Twisted Tink has been updated with a new chapter, "One Small Step For Fairies." Sorry for the delay! I really appreciate those who have continued reading, despite my inconsistent updating. I made this chapter extra long for you. I'm still taking guesses as to what's going to happen next. No one's gotten close enough to the answer to win the personalized post.
There will be no post tomorrow. I'm taking the day off to catch up on everyone's blogs.
Thank you to everyone who came by and wished me a Happy Birthday. And thank you Jay for sending half of those well-wishers here. ;)