June 21, 2005

Write, Son. Write like the Wind!

There was a Writer's Club meeting during lunch today but I blew it off. Sponsored by work, no less. I'm not much of a joiner and writing is such a solitary activity anyway that all I could picture was a bunch of introverts sitting around the table engaging in pretentious conversation.

But fortunately one of my work colleagues attended. He reports, you decide if it was worth it:
I had thrown on a mud colored corduroy jacket with leather patches on the elbows that I had bought off a bum for a fiver. I mussed my hair a little, pasted on my best cynical sneer, and slouched sullenly into the room. After quickly scanning for a good looking young thing to set next to I eased into a seat between an earnest looking Arab man and a thin oriental girl...Most of the workshop revolved around generating good ideas. Something I haven't done since I wrote that pioneer day parade piece for the Mt. Vernon Times last summer. I came out of there with a couple of handouts and free copy of Writers Digest. Not a bad haul considering my low expectations.
Not to be outdone, another frustrated writer/co-worker weighs in, not letting not having gone weigh him down:
I forgot all about the writers club. I pictured a room of heavyset Jean Teasdales wearing muumuus and clutching dog-eared manuscripts, waxing rhapsodic about how the last rejection letter was personally addressed (unlike all those ones addressed to Dear Submitter), who entertain fantasies of meeting Fabio when he poses for the cover of their blockbuster bodice-ripper that turns the genre upside down; mingling with mouth-breathing slumpshouldered pastyfaced thirtysomethings with the bad posture, curved back and narrow shoulders of lifelong D&D junkies who have expanded on the fictional "I never thought I would be writing to Penthouse Forum, but the most unbelievable thing just..." letter they submitted in college; interspersed with earnest young emo males sporting Cleopatrick eye makeup, angular bangs with carefully and conscientiously tousled back and sides, whose two-dimensional characters serve as editorial backdrops demonstrating that they have not outgrown the obligatory college-age phase of Ayn Rand worship. I pictured all that, and couldn't decide which one I wanted to go as. I'll stick with launching sarcastic broadsides from my pathetic cubicle.
Now that boy can write.

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