Stanton Fenwick

My Search for an Editor Continues

While continuing work on my second book, I received a strong response from a prospective editor I’ve been in regular contact with, regarding some writing samples I sent. I found it very promising.

I’ve posted it below (after making my own light edits for clarity.)

——

Dear (young) man,

You have got to stop (befriending) me or I will (launch) a restraining (embrace) against you.

I don’t ordinarily (commend) authors who send me unsolicited manuscripts, but with you I’m going to make an exception.

As far as I’m concerned you’re a complete (person) and a total (catch).

The delusion required to think I might (not like you) boggles the mind.

Look, (everybody) is going to read your book, OK? Get that through your (shapely) skull.

Are you aware most people (overvalue) plots? Not you. That’s for sure.

You didn’t write a book, you wrote a (masterpiece).

How? Why? Were you frequently (patted) on your head as an infant?

Everything about you is (terrific).

(Please) contact me again.

(Run) off and (thrive),
Ed

The Maria Triptych

Act One

The phone rang.

It was bound to be Maria. Only she made habit of ruining my day so early.

“It’s nice to hear from you,” I said.

(I hated that she made me lie.)

This prompted a torrent of regurgitated pleasantries. Maria was a human greeting card.

I tuned her out until a threat emerged.

“For your cousin?” I asked. “Naturally, I’d love to, but…”

I sighed.

“Three o’clock? Today? Yes, I’d be delighted to stop by.”

Unfortunately, I couldn’t pretend to be busy.

(Maria could see my car from her kitchen window.)

“You too!” I enthused. “I’m really looking forward to it!”

We hung up.

I was enraged.

Now I’d be a wreck until the awful thing was over.

Fenwick Appears

Act One

Stanton Fenwick wrote a book. It wasn’t long. It wasn’t deep. It was just a simple farce, decades behind its time.

He worried his book would be misunderstood, that the world wasn’t ready for early twentieth-century literature.

Another concern: Stanton didn’t know how to write.

But he knew what he found funny, especially dry comedy. So he tapped out a few chapters.

His wife hated them.

He knew he was onto something big.

(His wife hated all of his favorite comedies.)

The Bead Incident

Act One

My neighborhood threw a block party during Mardi Gras. I showed up with lots of beads to throw around, but it turned out to be a very different type of celebration.

There were poorly maintained children’s rides, a pair of baristas who claimed to be singers, and an opportunity to speak with the mayor, who was strolling the grounds.

I caught his attention by tossing a bead necklace over his head. He grimaced when he saw me.

“Not you,” he muttered. “Not today.”

I mentioned my book and offered to serve as the town’s author laureate.

(The mayor said he would take it under advisement.)

The moment seemed right for a public speech.

One sweltering day in August, when my patience was at its stickiest, I received an email from a discount tour guide. He was offering personalized legacy trips through England, helping Americans reconnect with their forgotten aristocratic heritages.

Having always sensed my innate nobility, I was sure the trip would deliver a fascinating reveal.

(It was promised in the advertisement.)

I phoned two friends, proposing we flee our oppressive environment to seek our oppressive roots.

I was not alone in my enthusiasm.

Both friends suspected they were distantly royal. It was worth checking out.

After calling a financial associate to propose a credit limit increase, three tickets were obtained, and we commenced our journey.

What I Want From Fiction

I want different things from fiction than the market currently provides, at least in any great abundance.

For example, I don’t enjoy atmospherics. I especially dislike long passages describing a place everyone is already vaguely familiar with (even more so when the process is used by the author solely to demonstrate verbal wizardry.)

Though it is not recent, take this passage from Brideshead Revisited:

“Oxford, in those days, was still a city of aquatint. In her spacious and quiet streets men walked and spoke as they had done in Newman’s day; her autumnal mists, her grey springtime, and the rare glory of her summer days—such as that day—when the chestnut was in flower and the bells rang out high and clear over her gables and cupolas, exhaled the soft vapours of a thousand years of learning.”
— Evelyn Waugh

That is beautiful, highly evocative writing. It is much better than anything I can produce.

But it bores me when books go on and on that way.

(Also, please note that I’m passing up an easy ‘soft vapours’ joke about Waugh’s prose in an effort to seem mature. It is a moment of personal growth.)

What about emotional depth and backstory?

I held a book launch party…

…in the Historical Society’s reading room.

Let me begin this report by extending my heartfelt gratitude to the entire society staff for their assistance throughout the day. (Rest assured, the fifty-five dollar balance on my invoice will be arriving shortly.)

After a brief reading, which seemed well received by the listening security guard, I hosted a public signing for my new book An Aspiration To Lie Flat. The society seated me behind a large desk stacked with paperback copies of my book, in a gorgeous space large enough to accommodate the expected crowd.

Things were going well until the security guard—whose reaction I had clearly misjudged—approached.

“Your writing would be so much better if you let your characters feel any emotions besides pissed off and hurt,” he lectured.

“Thanks,” I replied, feeling pissed off and hurt. “Would you like me to sign a copy for you?”

“No. I’m definitely not interested. That chapter you read? Said it all, man. Said it all.”

Fortunately, the other two society employees were kinder. One told me she would consider purchasing my book in the future.

I counted it as a sale.

What a rewarding experience!

I am pleased to report that the entire event proceeded without incident. Wait times remained acceptably low throughout.

To those who could not attend: I understand. Parking was limited.

Battles are Won with Logistics

I examined my supplies. They were sufficient.

I began to shuttle them to the front, without alerting the enemy.

Like Thermopylae, fighting was soon confined to a narrow pass, easier to defend.

At last, victory was in sight.

I fought my way to my assigned seat and placed my carry-on bag in the last available overhead bin.

I sat. I buckled. I conquered.

Historically Screwed

When I finished my book, An Aspiration to Lie Flat, I realized I’d accidentally written a British novel. The problem was, I live in America.

While much of the English-speaking world shares literary traditions, there are definite regional differences.

For obvious reasons, Britain heavily influenced English language literature in the U.S. This was true from the arrival of the colonists up to the American Revolution when the U.S. began to form a national identity.

The divorce between the nations was final. Art was not placed under joint custody. Americans went on to develop our own literary traditions, ignoring Britain as they ignored us.

As a result, Americans sat out over a century’s worth of evolution in British comedy. We skipped Jerome K. Jerome and only tuned back in to encounter farce in Wodehouse’s middle to late years.

This is the core difference between the two national traditions:

At Home With The Artiste

There is no better proof that too few people are writing comedic books than the fact that my book belongs to no available category on any website that demands genre classification.

When you explore the comedy category of Amazon, you delve into the low-brow end of the comedic spectrum. It is a corner of the market where jokes about burps are right at home.

It is not a place for my book.

For the past day or two, the top paid advertisement on An Aspiration To Lie Flat’s Amazon listing has been for a book entitled A Comprehensive History of the American Lawyer’s Positive Impact on Society, in which every page is blank.

How droll.

I’m trying not to feel hurt that Amazon thinks readers considering An Aspiration To Lie Flat might prefer a book with blank pages.

I can’t lie, though. It stings.