How To: Write a Novel with George Winston
Hello there, ya useless hunks of jelly-meat! But mostly jelly. I know how jelly-filled my own readers are. You pathetic sullen humps of goop. It is time for my column yet again, so you can take precious minutes away from the gaping chasm of anguish that is your daily life. Take solace that I can siphon some precious seconds away from your sickeningly boring existence to discuss the art of writing. In this case, novels.
You’ll need:
Paper
Pen
Fish-heads (more than you would think)
Allow me to ignite your fetid neurons to the finer points of book-crafting.
Think of all of the people you hate, and make a list of them.
Try to name some people that you like.
Okay, I know that’s hard for you. How about some people that you think are merely ok?
You can’t put down yourself. Just try to think of one person you might not hate.
I know this is a real doozy of an assignment. You probably haven’t talked to a person in years.
That should help you write; lack of a social life is crucial.
Once you feel devoid of kinship toward any living human being, buy a house in the hills somewhere. Can also be in the “boonies” or in the “sticks”.
Plant rotten-fish lined traps around the perimeter of your house.
Barricade yourself inside the house using chairs and a heavy chifforobe or two, and remove all possible distractions; writing is miserable and your body will try to avoid it at all costs.
Sit down at your desk.
Well, you should probably have a couple more pens. I mean, you can’t write with just one pen!
You should probably get a snack now, while you are up for the pen. I mean, that’s just more efficient.
Upon searching for a snack, discover how unorganized the fridge is. You can’t write a novel with the fridge in such disarray!
Spend more time than you ever have in your entire life cleaning and organizing the fridge.
Conjuring up interest in forgotten pickles, arrange around a dozen slowly but artfully on a plate.
Feeling quite accomplished, return to your work station.
Taking care to eat a bite of pickle now and then to keep up your strength, begin writing in earnest.
Pour your soul onto the page. Wow, you really are something. You could be a modern Hemingway. Who’s to say you aren’t?
Write longer than you ever dreamed you could have, exhausting every reserve of exposition, drama, and wit.
Do a lap around the room, basking in your vast achievement.
Hear an odd scratching sound when circling past the window.
Looking out, discover that several hundred cats have descended on your fish-traps, their low weight failing to set off the traps’ mechanisms.
Observe dejectedly as the cat horde slowly dismantles your defenses.
Settle in for the night, reading only by candlelight and making as little noise as possible.
Awaken to numerous cats lying on top of, and all around, your face.
Wonder aloud if this is simply what happens to all writers of great works.
Standing up slowly, survey several dozen cats snoozing on various surfaces.
Some portion of the cats will likely awaken at your standing.
They will demand breakfast.
After sating the crowd with the remainder of your fish heads, return to your novel, confident of at least twenty pages in the bank.
Upon realizing that you had only completed 2 and a half pages earlier, inform the cats that they are in charge for the moment and that you will be returning with whiskey.