Earth to Major Limp Pen: A Brief Primer of Critical Prose Terms

There are thousands of book, articles, Internet sites and opinions on what process is required to develop commercial grade prose. The welter of these materials can drown an aspiring author in a tsunami of information.

I have spent years learning the terms, tools and self-editing skills needed to craft acceptable prose. The advanced editing of a text is far beyond the scope of this article, and to be frank, I don’t want to work that hard writing about something so well documented.

I have more pressing things to work on–how to say tentacle seven different ways in a short story, for instance.

The new writer faces incredible hurdles in order to achieve publication. Editors reject work with little or no explanation. The primary reason they do this is their workday never ends. Far into the late hours, the editor of a publishing house is still working, plowing through a pile of manuscripts on the nightstand. Their lack of supportive feedback has nothing to do with the quality of their philanthropic leanings, and everything to do with time.

They just don’t have it.

This naked fact means that as a writer, you have to do your job well enough to make it off that nightstand. Lack of presentation, polish and originality will land your sweat and tears in the round file–a polite euphemism for the trashcan.

I have met so many writers in workshops, critique circles, website communities and in person that are infected with a strange and juvenile attitude distortion. There are repellent sub-varieties of this attitude, but the common traits of it are unmistakable.

Their frame of mind goes something like this:

‘I am a creative genius. My lumpy prose, tedious subject matter, myopic descriptions, gross adverbs, withered cliches and appalling grammar should be published, because I wrote it.’

Earth to Major Limp Pen, reality check!

In the writing world, professional presentation and original products are king. Unless you want to spend the rest of your life blackmailing ego strokes from your poor family and unfortunate friends, without the validation of publication and and a paycheck, you better learn the basics.

Let’s look at just a few of the critical terms you’ll need to understand in order to begin crafting prose into something acceptable for human consumption.

Outline:

An outline is a writing tool that some writers use to keep themselves on track. It involves creating a skeletal structure for your story or article. It can help you stay on course. There are multitudes of outline templates on the Internet, for every kind of writing project. They vary in style depending on what your writing about.

First Draft:

This refers to your first attempt to write something. This is when you allow your words to pour onto the page. This is my favorite time, primarily because I don’t have to clean up the mess yet. The only drawback is the less you know… Read More...

Chugger Charlie

For you, dear reader, a freeze-frame cameo of the pleasures of animal stewardship. The waddling, gluttonous feline ‘Charles Chugger Wellington’ (a.k.a my housecat) has decided he is bored, and therefore hungry.

I am fast asleep.

He positions himself an inch from my left ear and bats it with a paw. His claws are partially extended, and the sharp prick of them draws a gasp.

The green neon of the nightstand alarm clock reports 2:13 am.

The boyfriend grunts.

Ancestral Apache warlords scream to life deep in my gut, clamoring for war; the Irish ones just want a beer.

Various behavioral modification applications flit through my thoughts.

He chuffs softly, voice cracking with desire, and then rubs his sweet smelling fur under my nose. I feel a cold kiss on my ear lobe.

There are a few things I could try. Cold water dunking, electric collars, or maybe get a hyperactive dog to add to the house (pity the dog). The absurdity of bringing a mutt into Charlie’s house gives me a shiver.

There is another alternative.

I could skip the love slave manners and the appropriate socialized responses, and go straight for tavern level obliteration. Just surrender to the bliss of histories’ amygdalae and murder the little sucker.

He chuffs again, this time adding a moan. The sound is husky, appealing, and quite impossible to ignore. It is the sound of utter trust, thrumming with vibrant streaks of patience. It is the gentle voice of a wise, aging monarch who must deal with a slack-jawed slave.

The sound travels through my right ear and streaks through my nervous system, spreading tingling goose bumps that broadcast pleasure flares in the neuronal tides. The pleasure is reminiscent of post-coital tremors. Hormonal feminine fire responds with a tidal wave of maternal instinct. It love- smothers the hungry ancestral voices, leaving them fuming in the ignominious realm of impotence.

I sigh and open my eyes.

He pulls his head back and gazes deep into my eyes. In the orange light of the alley streetlamp, they are shimmering, luminous, and exert a sirens appeal. He stretches for me, in slow motion, muscles flexing, fur glittering, and allows the heavy undercoat of his belly to slide down my arm.

I snap out of it. I have to get him out of here before he chuffs again. I must be strong.

My groping hand finds a pillow to smack him with. I am so very stupid. Twenty two pounds of haste translates into the force of a donkey hoof in the bread basket, when the paws are planted on top of your solar plexus. Nausea, vertigo, and the jeering of the ancestors; with a curse, I turn onto my side, burying myself in pillows to protect me.

Chronic pain robs me of sleep, so the pillow brutality is pure self-defense.

Honest.

Sweet silence and drifting away, a lazy leaf spiraling down to peace and refuge, and a reprieve from the cruelty of the flesh…maybe I can get… Read More...

The Freedom Tool

I first saw it about two weeks ago. Small and haggard, and obviously homeless, it stood in the field off the road. Wondering how this little white puppy survived the freezing night temperatures, I caught sight of the thing that I hate most about people doing to homeless dogs—a cord tied around its small neck. Pity and anger both surged up my blood–pity for the lonely, vulnerable puppy, hardly a few weeks old, and anger over the insensitivity of people—most likely the brats who roam about the town and “play” with stray puppies in this manner.

Feeling at once that I couldn’t just pass by, I walked back to go along the road to the nearest shops. I knew I had to buy something to feed the pup, but also get that special “tool of freedom” with which I had made it happen before. Yes! When it comes to cutting the cord of slavery, nothing works like a cute pair of scissors. This time I got one for just 15 rupees from a shop. When I returned to the filed with the scissors, a bun, and a small pack of biscuits, I saw what I feared (as from prior experiences): the pup had left. I looked for it about the place, but there was no sign of it there. Wishing it safe, I got home with the stuff—unsuccessful.

Over the following days, winter grew pretty harsh with overcast and intermittent rain, and icy winds—the townsfolk confined to their houses, and still inside to their rooms. Quite a few times, sitting by the heater in my room on nippy evenings, the thought crossed my mind that the small pup would not make it through that kind of weather. Those were the moments bringing back my wishful mood: if I only had my own house to take these little homeless pups in; to save them from life-threatening weather and at least equally dangerous people.

Then one morning, as I was returning from the market via the same route, I spotted the dirty white pup standing near a tree off the road, the awful cord still tied around its neck. Happy to see it alive, I still felt ill at ease at the sight of its “slavery necklace”. Though I had remembered to carry my freedom tool in my pocket on my previous visit to the market, this time I had left it home. And since I couldn’t afford just walking away, I rushed to the shops to get the helpful stuff.

With a new pair of scissors and some eatables, I returned to my subject. It was there, right under the tree. Leaning to it, I fed it some bread—which it welcomed hungrily—and took out the freedom tool from the shopping bag. Carefully, I cut the cord off the pup’s neck. Viola! Our friend was free! Feeding it the rest of the bread, I walked back home happily, thinking that… Read More...

The Large Basement

“You’re crazy if you think I’m going down into that basement.”

“That was the last thing he said to you?”

“Yeah.”
 
Mike Sayers sat looking across his desk at his friend Barry Ortiz.

“How long since you last saw Sam?”

“Three days ago.”

The last time Barry had seen him Sam had been talking about how spooked he was regarding the labyrinthine space under his new home or ‘The House’ as it was referred to in Albuquerque lore.  Mike being a skeptic when it came to all things spooky thought Sam had most likely taken a road trip.
 
“He’s probably in Vegas, Barry.”
 
“Maybe, but I don’t want Sam to be another story to go with that old place.”
 
Mike hadn’t spent a lot of time with Sam Eaves, but he’d quickly picked up on how high strung the man was, he spooked easy. He leaned his large frame back into his chair. Mike was a big guy, six one, two hundred pounds, blonde and blue. Barry was the opposite, average height and build, with sharp brown eyes and dark hair.
 
“Sam was pretty twitchy. I’m sure he’s fine, he probably just needed to get out of the house for a while.”
 
“Have you ever been to the basement in that place Mike? Even in the daytime the creep factor is pretty high.”
 
Barry was the real estate agent who’d sold the property to Sam. It was a house with an unfortunate past so Sam had gotten a very good deal.
 
“I guess the size of the basement must be something else? I can understand, with the size of the house.  It could easily be sitting on top of five thousand feet of space.”
 
“Sixty eight hundred square feet.”
 
“Yeah, well you should just be glad you found someone to buy it. I’m familiar with its history, and I can imagine how much trouble it was to unload. I’m not superstitious, but a lot of people are. You must have given Sam a hell of a bargain.”
 
“He thought it was a sweet deal. At first. Then he started complaining about the basement. Just going into his kitchen where the entrance was made him nervous.  It got so bad he had a locksmith come over and put a heavy-duty lock on the door. I went over there last week, and Sam had me go down there with him. We only made it to the bottom of the stairs.”
 
“You haven’t been down there before?”
 
It was a logical question. Barry came from a long line of realtors. His grandfather had sold the mansion back in the thirties,… Read More...

The Water Horse: Legend of the Deep (2007)

Some films are simply memorable, for they capture the essence of love in its purest form. And this is so true of The Water Horse.

Set in Scotland during the Second Waorld War, it shows the story of a little boy Angus (Alex Etel) finding the egg of a creature that will grow into a “Sea Monster” for those with a weak heart and dormant soul; but for Angus, this new life he nurtures in his home, secretly, is the best friend ever. It is not long before Crusoe, as Angus has named it, only by its look, scares those who catch a glimpse of it, and little Angus with his small team of confidants will do anything to save his friend from any harm.
The love and that kindred human spirit we take pride in are masterfully instantiated in the bond between Angus and Crusoe. The sounds and scenery are strikingly beautiful, and the special effects notably realistic. The film strings an interesting connection to the once-popular Loch Ness Monster, showing how craving a little publicity leads away from a reality and draws one into fakery. You don’t miss seeing human ignorance and narrow-mindedness against the pure heart of a child and the universality of love returned by something that has been labeled as “terrible” without reason.

Unlike those many sci-fi films where gigantic species are life-threats, The Water Horse shows the other side of this fantasy: there is no such thing as a monster if you have love and believe in it; just open your heart unto life! No better can fantasy and film get where this heart-warming film takes us – the ride of a lifetime!