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WK38
Apr 24, 2023 13:12:08 GMT
Post by rockefeller on Apr 24, 2023 13:12:08 GMT
Booked my first online doctor's appointment ever last week. See, our GP (whom I never saw in the 20 years he was our GP) quit a while back. We tried some government find-a-doctor service that no one we know has ever found a doctor through. Even tried calling a few local practices, none of which are taking new patients, but one of which recommended using a web doc. So finally gave it a shot for this little hernia looking bump I was whining about last time. Slick! Took maybe 10 minutes to fill out the online form. (Funny you can opt not to disclose your gender, but must disclose your "vaccine" status. Wonder how long we'll keep drinking this Kool-aid.) Had an appointment booked for 10:34 the next morning, waited maybe 3 minutes for a very nice nurse practitioner to appear. A few questions, a little chit chat, and got my ultrasound requisition. Were our GP still around, I'd have probably waited 2 weeks for an appointment, then sat masked in the waiting room for at least an hour, then maybe another half hour in some treatment room in my undies (which I don't wear), then gotten nickel-and-dimed for the necessary form. So, good riddance. Saw that the Ontario College of Physicians is in the process of revoking the licenses of 30 or so doctors who spoke badly of the "vaccines" and prescribed ivermectin. So not only do we now have even fewer GPs, but we're scraping the bottom of the barrel.
Which brings me to the walk-in-clinic-long queue of cap sitting in my little lift-top desk now that everyone on the Floor here seems to have either quit or died. Six lovingly crafted submissions begging my attention. I'm thinking I might have to treat this more like a creative writing contest than a writers' workshop.
So, of the six, to wit, My Friend Charlie, The seeds of things (which non-capping of the title is already a strike against), The Slice, White Feather, Here Anyway, ENCORE (which all-capping of the title is perhaps less of a strike against) and The Slice, only one made me want to read beyond the first page. They seem overall competently penned. Intelligent. Articulate. But for me to read on, I need to know and care what the piece is about. I need conflict, a challenge. I need some narrative promise upon whose delivery I can anticipate. And, as I said, only one, so far, has managed to pull this off.
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WK38
Apr 25, 2023 14:38:50 GMT
Post by rorschalk on Apr 25, 2023 14:38:50 GMT
[Like Tinkerbell in a luminescent soap bubble, the Rorschalk floats down in a ray of sunlight from the craggy heights of the steep-sided mountain valley that now encompasses the remote location encompassingThe Floor. In fact, the Floor has now become a place one may only reach with the help of a Sherpa, an almost mythic locale spoken of in song by Geddy Lee interpreting the lyrics of Neil Peart as he interpreted Samuel Taylor Coleridge's Vision in a Dream, a stereoisomer of the notion that we are spirits in a material world acting out our stories as told by an aged cannoli wrapped in an enigma ... but I digress.]
Ahem, whilst you prattle on like the wise man that you are, sir, may I demand satisfaction for your "To Wit" which led me to believe there would be some resolution as to the disposition of the capital spilling from your vintage roll top desk...
To wit sir! To wit? Too to wit...TO WIT! A twit by any other name, sir! A most revolting anticlimax has left me blue and hanging as I waited for you to finish...
Well?
In your face!
[The Rorschalk looks around at the majesty of creation, the shadowed cliff walls striped by millions of years of geological striations, the dark river flowing thousands of feet below and the strips of sky through which the burning white disc of the sun daily briefly makes an appearance, then scratches his chin and wonders if the old sage Rockefeller has jury rigged a wi-fi hotspot on this remote plot of blessed ground before continuing his monologue]
In answer to this problem, I offer my own To wit...
To wit, sir! Which cap is still in spin and which five have been stuffed out the porthole into the deluge, which, to my sight, is now an anachronism since all you have to do to scatter stuff to the wind is step up to the edge of the abyss not 5 feet from where we stand and unhand it, them or any number of other unsavory pronouns for capital you can gainsay. No?
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WK38
Apr 25, 2023 16:54:42 GMT
Post by rockefeller on Apr 25, 2023 16:54:42 GMT
Patience, good sir. America wasn't burned in a day. Further perusals, reflections and musings are forthcoming (God willing).
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WK38
May 1, 2023 13:36:50 GMT
Post by rockefeller on May 1, 2023 13:36:50 GMT
Even though I don't sub anymore, I'm still on the mailing lists of a few zines I used to bounce my genius off of. So every once in a while Electric Lit hits me with a poem or short that more or less holds my interest to the end (like this one: electricliterature.com/aita-for-repairing-my-neighbors-house-by-marian-crotty/) and I have to ask myself why. It's never about great erudition, a rich vocabulary, technical perfection or beautiful description. In Crotty's story above, the voice is simple, honest, so sincere that I suspect the narrator is unreliable. The conflict and narrative promise are all laid out in the first sentence. I want to know more. Turns out it's an exquisitely painful look at failed relationships, at unrequited romantic love. Not at all analytical or philosophical or even particularly intelligent, but just as seen through the eyes of one pathetically smitten and naive man.
Contrast this now with the previously referenced caps awaiting judgment here. Evans's My Friend Charlie's voice is similar: simple, honest and straightforward, employs credible specifics. But by the 3rd page, there's no inkling of a "story." I suppose wondering what (and why) it's about could serve as a kind of hook... but for me, not enough, or maybe too much, of a promise. Also, I've never been a fan of verbatim dialog, especially in 1st person POVs, which starts to increase. Also the format's a little wonky. So it's out The Porthole, into The Deluge, and on to the next. Someday I might finish it just to see if I was wrong, and think, Oh crap! It's great. Totally worth the extended throat clear. At which time I'll feel like even more of an asshole and wish it'd hit the ground running.
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WK38
May 2, 2023 14:51:41 GMT
Post by rockefeller on May 2, 2023 14:51:41 GMT
Now that VCs need to adopt our finance lingo to reach even this lofty Floor, I've been musing on the voice, this TQRSpeak. Personally, I'd rather see great writing than humble compliance, which I myself have always found challenging. Although one metaphor did just occur to me. Creative writing and its incumbent story telling, like the intrinsically valueless fiat we call money, has been greatly diminished by wanton printing. Just as every trillion dollars your government creates out of thin air takes the paper (or plastic) in your pocket a step closer to worthlessness, every story you craft and submit dilutes the ocean of others, making each that much less likely to be read. Like I seriously doubt even one of Salinger's Nine Stories would "find a home" here or anywhere else today, unless maybe in some little non-paying, non-read blogzine. In other words, writers have made it ridiculously hard for themselves to be read anymore, much less paid, in fleeting love or government warbucks.
Which brings me to Muller's the seeds of things, 4963 words of which I read maybe 1500 before the somewhat stilted voice and abundance of dialog saw me skimming/skipping to the end to see if maybe it shed any light on the opening's magic fish and superstitious villagers, which the dying puppy didn't. So into the Deluge it goes.
I know that between my anhedonic burnout, literary biases and just plain ornriness, I'm an unfairly hard sell when it comes to fiction. Plus the whole inflation thing. Just as I could probably buy a farm with the cash in my pocket, it wouldn't surprise me at all to see this piece in Look or Saturday Evening Post or another of the few venues buying short fiction, if it could be sent back 100 years in time.
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WK38
May 2, 2023 15:05:55 GMT
Post by rorschalk on May 2, 2023 15:05:55 GMT
Au contraire mon frere! The VC don't necessarily NEED to adopt the lingo, alls I'm saying is in the case of PISS GIRL had old jane followed through with the lingo throughout the entire pitch, instead of just referencing "crapitol" [sic] the last sentence of it, then the weak summary portion of it may, let me stipulate MAY, it may have mitigated the damage done by the two sentence synopsis that did little to advance interest in the offer on the table.
To wit (excerpted from our updated guidelines):
What will trip my trigger is as ineffable as telling you it needs to Touch the Monkey. It 's just that certain joie de vivre je ne sais quois or the venture capitalist with a certain way about them that translates well through that first contact that will get them read here.
Thus, am I freed from any iron clad or perception of iron clad protocol of the learned elders of the Monkey. I reserve the right to refuse service or othwerise on a case-by-case basis. Now, leave the gun...and take the cannoli.
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WK38
May 3, 2023 14:59:38 GMT
Post by rockefeller on May 3, 2023 14:59:38 GMT
Ah, I see. I see, and appreciate the firewall. It's a whole fit and feel thing, too ethereal for rigid description. The pitch has to make you want to read the (fool's) cap. Then, having traversed this first gauntlet, its opening pages have to make me want to read the rest. And so on, and so forth, until it returns to you in your capacity as Monkey and final adjudicator. No mean feat!
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WK38
May 12, 2023 13:52:16 GMT
Post by rockefeller on May 12, 2023 13:52:16 GMT
I grew up in an urban Christian commune in a Chicago suburb. So when America decided to make the world safe from Vietnam, it was expected I'd go for a CO exemption. But I disliked belonging to this Fellowship of shared cars, finances, housing and beliefs, and how it seemed to have usurped my nuclear family. I was embarrassed by our affiliation. House church service attendance was mandatory; I learned to hate hymns as music and the Bible as literature. I remember, at the age of 11, sitting staring at a wall one Sunday, listening to some sermon's oft repeated explanations of existence, and thinking: false. I didn't (and still don't) know the answers, but knew (with a kind of faith) then that those weren't it. I intended to enlist (or be drafted) as soon as I turned 17. Not because I loved my country (to which I'd pledged allegiance every day in school since I was 6). I hadn't believed its lies since JFK's assassination (execution). Happily for me, my dad, an Old Testament scholar, left this community he'd helped found, before it entered its cult phase and before I could make my stupid rebellious gesture, to take a teaching job at the University of Waterloo.
So, yay. I'm still around with almost all my pieces.
And I could relate somewhat to this White Feather cap, which, when it comes to gatekeeping, is more important than the quality of writing (whatever that is). The conflict was introduced early enough (2nd para) to keep me reading. The war-is-bad theme remained adhered to. It appeared well researched. It had a disappointing ending, but not unrealistic or unbelievable. The grammar did not get in the way of the narrative. I was engaged enough in the story to not notice mistakes (if there were many). The line, Mr. Burton raised his arm and continued his questioning. “Why not? You seem fit,” while I know intends "fit" for service, made me wonder when "fit" became a synonym for sexy in the UK. I also believe, "Write." The dying ordered. needs a noun in the second sentence, and that it should all be one sentence. But, small potatoes. Far from a show stopper. Up it goes.
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WK38
May 29, 2023 13:05:03 GMT
Post by rockefeller on May 29, 2023 13:05:03 GMT
A guy I've known for 50 years was recently assessed by a doctor as suffering from "mild to moderate cognitive decline." So of course he had his driver's license suspended, and his credit card and bank accounts all frozen and placed under a government-assigned guardian's power of attorney, who so far has done nothing. I had to pay his phone bill to keep him connected. He owns a house, but let a family move in and push him out without payment on a mis-brokered real estate deal that's still in limbo. He's been institutionalized a number of times, spent most of the winter hospitalized, not allowed to leave the floor. He insists his brain is functioning normally for a man in his early 70's. And really, he doesn't seem any more incompetent than he was back in our pot-smoking, pcp-and-acid-dropping, recreational downers days of yore. Maybe even better than during his alcoholic (pre-AA) era. But then, just the other day, a hospital doctor, pursuant to a cursory interview masquerading as a cognitive test, pronounced him a-okay, allowing for his immediate discharge and free cab ride to a homeless shelter, albeit still with no access to his accounts or a valid drivers license, or apology for his long incarceration. Oh, and he'd tested positive for Covid 3 days prior. Yes, we all know it's just a mild cold. But still, shouldn't we adhere to our lies? Anyway, I share this sad story because Sweeney's Home Again cap has me questioning my own cognitive health. It strikes me as articulate and erudite. But, after a dozen or so pages, I still have no clue what it's about, what the story is or even who's telling it. The 1st person POV leans toward the collective us/we, and the tense seems a blend of past and past perfect. Far as I can tell, The narrator's my kind of guy: sardonic, cynical... I want to say intelligent, because he clearly is. Some real expository genius. My instincts suggest there's some goodstuff here, and if I could muster the concentration and cognition to suss it out, I'd think it was great. But just as my demented friend can't figure out how to change his voicemail message (which contains a lot of helpful prompts from some nurse), I can't figure out what's going on in this cap. It just occurred to me, perhaps too belatedly for my own writing to benefit, that, however clever and deep your insights and metaphors, you need to keep your reader's inner child in mind. Which this cap does not. At least not mine. So, though it is with more uncertainty than I'm comfortable with, I'm consigning it to The Porthole. Clearly a lot of thought went into its creation. I'd like to hear what the VC thinks it's about, is saying. But then if you have to ask, you probably won't understand the answer anyway.
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