On Writing And Reading..

For the majority of my readers who aren't yet aware – I'm writing a book.

Not a “serious” book where I'm actually looking to get published, but a short story belonging to the fantasy genre for my English Major, the due date of which is coming up in a month or two.

Google “why writing a book is annoying” and you'll get 36,100,000 hits.

Thirty six million and one hundred thousand hits – that's a lot.

I can understand why, though. I recently spent a chunk of my holidays forcing myself to rewrite my story. Hopefully this time I'll get a lot more positive feedback than I do aimless criticism.

The one thing I'm sick of hearing from so many people who read my work is that it “lacks characterisation.”

No. Screw you. Don't pull that “well, if they're all saying it, it probably does..” crap on me.

Find me a story belonging to the fantasy genre that features a troll's innermost thoughts and feelings, revealing this to the reader so well that we come to know every corner of his dark, twisted mind intimately.

Usually, a troll is described as an ugly, tall man with a penchant for eating people.

That's it.

Did The Brothers Grimm get rejected numerous times because the doddery readers were unaware that the charming price was a closet-homosexual and fancied his butler?

Nope. No way.

They're stories using original models – something that's no longer wanted by anyone, because they seem to think that most readers have a vested interest in knowing the secret working of every single characters mind.

Well damn, I'm sorry your own life isn't interesting enough for you.

That's not even the end of it, though. People also like to waffle on about “poor plot development” as though they're commenting on the subtle notes of a bottle of wine.

Generally speaking, “stories” are labelled under “fiction” for a good reason. As such, the plot can be as “developed” as I bloody well like.

It's a fictional story based on the life of a waitress from the moment she wakes up at four o'clock in the afternoon to the time she tumbles back into bed with a new stranger a few hours later...Did I mention she gave out hand-jobs for a bit of cash on the side?

Oh wait. No. Don't tell me – you want to know how she FEELS while she's giving out hand-jobs willy nilly and serving drinks to drunks in her spare time, right?

Typical.

I have a tendency to read a lot of fantasy novels in my spare time. A bit like homework. A lot of the stuff being published these days is just crap, and I'm shocked that people read it. It's a real pity there aren't more people out there that think like me.

Come to think of it, it's even more of a pity that I'm not an established author or handsome or a doctor recently flown in to perform clitoral surgery – instant notoriety among women if you're in on the latter, I can assure you.

I figure it's about time that I started killing off famous authors that really shouldn't be famous in the first place. Hell, I could be ironic at the same time and write a book about it.

I could murder one or two authors a month (starting with Stephanie Meyer) using all kinds of different weapons.

How should I write it?

Well, I suppose I could write it like a diary. Why not, after all?

Dear Diary,

I'm going to murder one or two famous authors a month, and preferably have rid the world of the majority of them within a year...After which I'll come straight home and write all about it.

Leaving a trail for the Police to follow me home doesn't seem like that great an idea, even if I would like to kill all the horrible authors in the world.

Before I even get to that, though, there's another problem - I've never actually killed anyone before.

Ever.

The closest I've been to murder is flushing my dead fish Fluffy down the toilet when I was 10 years old...Or eating a really rare steak – one that was practically still mooing on the plate.

As such, the first kill would have to be no challenge at all. I'd need somebody who wouldn't fight back after being hit. Perhaps I could find someone in Europe. It's a big place, and I'm pretty sure it still exists because I still get the occasional view from someone in Germany.

I'd quite like my first kill to be easy. A bit like losing my virginity to a much older woman.

Aunt Virginia was always very accommodating in that regard. She was always my favourite nanny. Apparently, at thirteen my penis was bigger than her dead husbands.