Lesson 3: Synopsis
Even though my writing is so beautiful, it makes readers shit pennies, the silence from agencies led me to conclude I was mistaken to treat them like human beings. Their hearts couldn't be moved by emotional moments big enough to clog an elephant's vagina. I had to focus instead on a formulaic plot structure and clip a $100 "reader's fee" to my submission.
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Canadian, of course. What am I, made of cash and rock-hard abs?
However, I still thought it smart to exploit America's seething prejudiced types before they could give their money to a legitimately awful recipient like the KKK -- or worse, the KKKK (slogan: "Now with extra Ku!").
Better their dollars go to me than to some Kickstarter project that wants to build a robot that's 72x more efficient than a human at leaving racist YouTube comments, right?
Since my electro-swing plot was pretty strong, I repurposed it for a less challenging concept. And there's nothing less challenging than the military wank novels enjoyed by your high school friend's dad. You know the guy? He claimed to have been a Super-Secret Service agent and a Red Beret, which he explained was some sort of Airborne Tank Ranger.
I decided I'd play my second crack at the ol' armchair warrior genre smarter. If you're going to write this kind of book, you had better start browsing thrift stores for an old bomber jacket and some Aviator shades. Consider a pen name that's very butch, like Frank Governor or Dick Splinter.
15 December 2012
To the Freedom Liberty America for Americans Agency:
I write a lot of the time! I am very good at it! Publish my goddamn book. It is called The Sagittarius Imperative: An Echo 9 Team Novel.
I am the author of Protocol 58008 (writing as Claude Toncey) and I have a very large penis.
P.S. Yours is probably large, too.
Brandon MacKinley is a grizzled ex-Coast Guard operative who looks ruggedly his 51 years, but has the physique (and sexual stamina) of a 20-year-old thanks to a demanding day job as a writer. But what MacKinley's neighbors don't suspect is that his thrilling career penning espionage fiction hides a very real danger more wild than anything he could write about.
MacKinley secretly leads America's top-secret assault force on the jobs the SEALs are scared to do. (Note: I mean this with no disrespect to our fine boys in the Navy, but it's true.) That team has no name, but if it did, it would be ...
... Echo 9.
As per submission guidelines, one of the elite operatives is a stoic powerhouse called Deke, and another is a beautiful but deadly blonde sniper who is the world's foremost "hacker." She will "hack" the Chinese mainframe to prevent China from "E-Mailing" the president's travel itinerary to al-Qaida.
Phone calls are not a threat because al-Qaida doesn't speak Mandarin.
Just a typical Tuesday for Echo 9, you say? There's just one problem: The Chinese leadership collective known as Golden Luck Mind knows the U.S. is trying to stop al-Qaida from murdering the president. If they can prove America is trying to defend itself, China will have all the justification it needs for the United Nations to launch pre-emptive nuclear missiles into the sun, blowing it up and dooming the United States to eternal darkness.
In this taut political situation, MacKinley and his right-hand man, Aloysius Cadwallader (affectionately known to the team as "DipShit"), must pose as Chinese nationals and infiltrate the Chinese Computer Headquarters at the U.N. summit.
They were inside.
According to their intel, all they had to do was follow the Chinese flags dyed crimson with innocent blood to the Computating Laboratory. There, they would employ the strange device known as a USB to spread a virus to every electronic device in China ... short-circuiting them all before the electronic-mail could be sent.
Would it work? This techno-wizardry was beyond him. He only understood the old ways -- the way of the gun and the sword and whatever came before the sword. DipShit handed him the C-4 and they quietly blew the door to the inner chamber off its hinges with well-placed boomy charges.
This caption classified by Executive Order.
Yes, it would work. Mack trusted Chastity Saintclaire with his life, even though she was of French extraction; now he'd have to trust her with the lives of 314,999,998 fellow Americans. More than trusted her, if he was being honest with himself. He stabbed a surprised guard in the eye before either of them had time to think about the fact that the man would never see his family again. It was Chas who had told him not to blame himself for his wife's death. Now he saw the way she looked at him despite her being only 21 years old, and God help him ...
The alarm went off. DipShit threw baffle grenades at it, and it stopped, sheepishly, like an erupting volcano might stop if a comet that was largely ice struck it.
... He looked that way at her, too. They reached the end of the corridor and could go no further. Mack and Dip squinted until they were close enough to the guards to do what they did next. Screaming like an ancient Scottish warrior, Dip hurled a claymore at the men, pulling the det cord as he did so, the way a man starts a lawnmower that he's throwing at someone. The men didn't even have time to gurgle in horror before their larynxes were pulped along with their entire bodies.
Photo credit redacted for reasons of national security.
Their guts oozed like hamburger through the fingers of a hairy teenager.
"DipShit: sit-rep." He would not try saying that phrase 12 times fast.
"My Mandarin's a little rusty," admitted Dip. "But I think this sign in front of us says 'Here is glorious room of cloning Chinese version of ace American superteam ...' "
No, thought Mack's swiftly racing boggled mind. No. No! NO! It explained so much: the hairs missing from Chas' hairbrush ... the theft of Mandelbaum's foreskin ... the waiter who had hastily cleared the plate with Mack's fingernail still on it ...
"... 'Team of Echoes No. 9,'" concluded Dip gravely, his voice echoing around the now-silent hallway the way the mine's explosion was still echoing in their ears. Neither man said anything until one of them did.
"The good news is with that you get wonton," DipShit added to the silence, but his customary hilariously banal racist humor fell flat in that moment. Through the secure door's indestructible window, they watched the eggs begin to hatch.
Lesson 4: Sample
By Thoth! I wasn't getting anywhere! I was running out of time for NaHoStrugPubYoNoMo, and still no bites from publishers. I had several more good ideas, but with only two weeks left, no way could I write 50-page samples for each of them. The only solution was to combine them all into one final push. It was here that I learned to baffle and dazzle the weary editors of autumn with my cover letter, then submit any damn thing I wanted, no matter how tenuous the relationship.
19 December 2012
To the Greater Penobscot Area Amateur Writers' Agency:
How would you like to represent the most ground-breaking novel of your career?
I'm giving you the opportunity for once in your stupid life to make the right choice and represent a true artist who is doing something new. A Heart Recalcitrant isn't your typical sci-fi erotic bildungsroman about a Japanese cowboy who becomes a pirate. This is a J-Sci-Bil Yee-haw Arrrotica with a brain.
About me: I am the author of over 300 novels, including Die, Earthman, Die! and Time-Vikings: Blood Unknown under the pen name of Gaius Rexotope.
In non-sci-fi, my pseudonym of Derek Globberman published the men's erotic pamphlet One Shade of Scarlet (based on the RedPorn clip) and the pickup artist's manual No Fatties: The "True" Story of How a Solid 3 Dated Only 9s and 10s.
My most significant work to date, however, was under my own name with Brendan McGinley's Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian.
I am currently working on the latest in The New Adventures of Huck Finn, Boy Detective series of children's books. I don't need to tell you the latest installment, The Ice Cream Bandits, shook the Scholastic best-seller list with its vicious triple homicide climax. Publisher's Weekly called it "Unbelievable" and "Outrageous," with "An ending that defies the very term 'children's fiction.'"
There, that is everything anyone could ever write in fiction this century. Can we make some money now?
c/o The Molly Molasses Memorial Library
Old Town, ME
As you're no doubt aware, the literati love nothing more than books about themselves. Any novel about a middle-aged intellectual who's bored with sex is guaranteed to draw quotes like "Powerful ... an unsettling but deeply satisfying look at the larger forces that move all our lives. A book for anyone living in a post-9/11 world."
That's the genius of my newest work -- no, I daresay opus. Yes, the lead character of A Heart Recalcitrant is a vampire priest ... but he's a vampire priest in residence at a small New England college. The many, many genres are subtly interwoven into what is, on the surface, a tale of navel-gazing and Xanax addiction.
Belial DuSangre is ... you know what? Screw it. Just read the sample.
To crawl along a wind-brushed beach in winter, to know a woman by her obnoxious laugh, to smell the world through a child's nostrils once more ... these pleasures were forevermore beyond Belial DuSangre. Entombed within the dank confines of his office at Nos Ferat University, with its pleasant Gothic campus and suitably isolated roads, the college's non-denominational chaplain knew he could busy himself with teaching and homilies until the eventual casking that comes to us all ...
Or would he? Perhaps he would simply trundle on forever, preserved in the everlasting life of the written word all around him like a pickle. Or a vampire. I'm not saying the two are similar, I'm just saying they both last well beyond their natural lifespan.
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Pictured: Vampire or simile?
Belial rubbed his eyes and beheld the last drops of the setting sun, feeling, rather than a man his age -- though Donna used to say he looked ageless -- invigorated at this hour. He had quaffed at the cup of life once upon a heartbreak ago, and knew no way but the way of disenchantment. Such was the burden of the intelligent man in this world.
[Want to read more? SEND ME A CONTRACT and get this FREE tote bag!]
A year later, I have not received even a curt reply from any agents or editors. You probably haven't either, sucker.
That's right, I called you a sucker. Did you waste your time following these instructions? Muah ha ha ha! Another NaHoStrugPubYoNoMo, another 100,000 competitors eliminated!
This crazypants "advice" letter has been circulating for centuries and was believed to have been originally written by Miguel de Cervantes. But don't worry, you haven't lost a month of productivity; you've gained a world free from your terrible novel about life on a rutabaga farm told from the point of view of an autistic illegal immigrant.
Sure, you feel bad now. But next year you'll be smart enough to perpetrate this scam on some other sucker. While they're busy drafting crazy letters, your own Indian orphan sweatshop will be up and running at full steam! Till next year ... suckers!
Note: Mr. McGinley is on vacation. Today's column was guest-written by Nobel Prize-winning author Alice Munro.
Brendan hasn't authored anything more ambitious than Electro-Swing Acts You Should Be Listening To, but refers you to his buddy Alex's brand-spanking new mystery novel, Silent City, DOB's How to Fight Presidents, and Gladstone's Notes from the Internet Apocalypse.