"Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind." - Dr. Seuss
1.28.2010
The Unlucky Novelist
This article is sponsored by Stella Urtois
Five years ago, forty-two year old retiree James Brahgn McGowan Philippa Edwards was an aspiring writer, then tragedy struck a few months ago when publishing company Funky Esquire Books returned James' manuscript with a letter claiming that the novel was "too similar to A Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams." So we grabbed a six pack of Stella Urtois and jumped on a bus to meet James and his wife at their humble two room, four door semi-detached in Cricklewood, London, to find out more about the story and to have a good laugh at him.
When we arrived, we found the front door had been smashed in, James' wife appeared in the hallway draped in a fleece blanket and clutching a dirty teddy bear, she explained "Oh, when James discovered that his book had been rejected because of plagiarism he bashed the door in with a hammer." We tried not to laugh and cracked open a couple of beers as Mildred led us into the living room where James was lying on the floor in an apparently catatonic state, his eyes glued to the ceiling.
I took a big swig of warmed Stella, "What's wrong with him?"
Mildred lifted James' arm and gently placed the stuffed toy beneath it, "These past five years have been hell while he was writing . James would lock himself in the garden shed with the typewriter, sometimes screaming and breaking windows with his fists - he even murdered our cat and two gold fish in the name of art." she said nonchalantly, the tired voice of a woman who had seen the gradual demise of her novelist husband, "He finally snapped, after all the mini snaps, he had a major snap and he's just a vegetable now."
James suddenly stirred, and perkily said, "Can you make me another cup of tea please Mildred?" Mildred's face turned red, she mumbled something then hurried out of the room. "There is something wrong with me," he continued, "maybe I have a gift, I don't know, maybe it is a curse, but whatever it is, I did not copy another person's work, I have never read A Hitchhiker's Guide to the Solar System, or whatever that book is called."
"We contacted the publisher and he confirmed that your novel is very similar, except the character names are different, and instead of mice, you use hamsters."
"Which character names are different?"
"Arthur Dent is David Geronimo Bent, and Slartibartfast is Mark Joseph Smith." I noticed A Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy in his DVD collection on the shelf, "Is that DVD yours?"
"No, it belongs to Mildred. I don't like what you are insinuating, and I don't appreciate journalists coming to my house uninvited and especially ones who don't have the common courtesy to remove their shoes when entering the host's gracious abode. Now gentlemen, before I call the police, please kindly show yourselves the way out."
"But you was the one who asked us to come and talk to you."
His wife stood at the doorway, "You should leave now." she said.
Luckily for us we brought the Stella Urtois.
Five years ago, forty-two year old retiree James Brahgn McGowan Philippa Edwards was an aspiring writer, then tragedy struck a few months ago when publishing company Funky Esquire Books returned James' manuscript with a letter claiming that the novel was "too similar to A Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams." So we grabbed a six pack of Stella Urtois and jumped on a bus to meet James and his wife at their humble two room, four door semi-detached in Cricklewood, London, to find out more about the story and to have a good laugh at him.
When we arrived, we found the front door had been smashed in, James' wife appeared in the hallway draped in a fleece blanket and clutching a dirty teddy bear, she explained "Oh, when James discovered that his book had been rejected because of plagiarism he bashed the door in with a hammer." We tried not to laugh and cracked open a couple of beers as Mildred led us into the living room where James was lying on the floor in an apparently catatonic state, his eyes glued to the ceiling.
I took a big swig of warmed Stella, "What's wrong with him?"
Mildred lifted James' arm and gently placed the stuffed toy beneath it, "These past five years have been hell while he was writing . James would lock himself in the garden shed with the typewriter, sometimes screaming and breaking windows with his fists - he even murdered our cat and two gold fish in the name of art." she said nonchalantly, the tired voice of a woman who had seen the gradual demise of her novelist husband, "He finally snapped, after all the mini snaps, he had a major snap and he's just a vegetable now."
James suddenly stirred, and perkily said, "Can you make me another cup of tea please Mildred?" Mildred's face turned red, she mumbled something then hurried out of the room. "There is something wrong with me," he continued, "maybe I have a gift, I don't know, maybe it is a curse, but whatever it is, I did not copy another person's work, I have never read A Hitchhiker's Guide to the Solar System, or whatever that book is called."
"We contacted the publisher and he confirmed that your novel is very similar, except the character names are different, and instead of mice, you use hamsters."
"Which character names are different?"
"Arthur Dent is David Geronimo Bent, and Slartibartfast is Mark Joseph Smith." I noticed A Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy in his DVD collection on the shelf, "Is that DVD yours?"
"No, it belongs to Mildred. I don't like what you are insinuating, and I don't appreciate journalists coming to my house uninvited and especially ones who don't have the common courtesy to remove their shoes when entering the host's gracious abode. Now gentlemen, before I call the police, please kindly show yourselves the way out."
"But you was the one who asked us to come and talk to you."
His wife stood at the doorway, "You should leave now." she said.
Luckily for us we brought the Stella Urtois.
1.09.2010
The Man Who Slept With A Dead Chicken
Terry, the farmer, remembers, "Harry arrived at the farm early in the morning in his chauffeur driven limo. He had one of them paper party hats on his head and a kazoo in his mouth. He told me it was his birthday and he wanted to buy a dead chicken. At first I thought he just wanted something to cook, but then he said he wanted a dead chicken to sleep with. I was kind of shocked at first, but then I thought it's the man's birthday, I should give him what he wants. Fortunately, one of my hens had died from overnight ground frost, so I gave him that one."
We went to visit Harry at his five hundred acre mansion to ask him more, "Well," he giggles, "It was my birthday! Birthdays are about fun, right?"
We couldn't agree more! Birthdays are indeed about fun! We congratulated him for turning fifty-five, and asked if he had any plans for his next birthday, he shyly answered, "I'm thinking of spoiling myself with a dead squirrel!" How decadent! And why not indeed?
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