Placeholder - The Fast Food Joint

Once in a while I get in a mood where I want to share things with people. As a follow-up to the post I did a couple months back (November, I think?) here's another short excerpt from a piece I've been working on.

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Sometimes it feels like the only thing that keeps me going is remembering that there's always someone out there whose life sucks more than mine. At least I'm not that guy.

The problem is, the world is full of those guys, and the list can change in a second, and nobody's exempt from it. And at block seven I knew my number was coming up. The first block in the stygian torrent had been a grim camaraderie, a mutual acknowledgment that the rain's bitter path paralleled my own. The second block began the whisperings of betrayal, and by the fifth the rain was battering me as badly as the rest of the city. Weather was a fickle bastard, and I needed a reprieve from its onslaught. I found sanctuary at the next corner, marked by a neon revelation proclaiming

"Fast Food

Open Late"

A half-dozen kids were there, none of them old enough to be out of college, some of them looking like they were still in high school. The girl with braces had a ribbon in her ponytail, and I wondered if she was a cheerleader. I also wondered why she was here. With a figure like hers she could be a hostess at a real restaurant, making twice as much for doing half the work. The guy with braces was wearing expensive glasses, and too much gel in his hair. I wondered if he was gay, or just a big fan of anime. I hadn't seen hair like that since I used to watch Dragonball Z as a kid. He was wearing a tie, so I guessed he must have been the manager. Halfback was joking around with Beanpole in the kitchen (damn open kitchens, no privacy at all), Blondie was scowling while washing things, and...

"Hi there. Can I take your order?"

...Wham. An Angel. Tall, slim, blond, a playful half-smile on her lips that made you want to break out grinning too. And that damn rain outside was puppies and cotton candy if she was a day older than eighteen.

"Er...um...not right now. I just needed to get out of the rain. It's murder tonight."

"Yeah, I can see that. I hope it lets up before too long. I have a test to study for, and I don't want to have to worry about walking home in the rain too."

"Oh...yeah. I know what you mean. I'm in the same boat. I mean, no test or anything, but I'm trying to wait it out if I can."

"That's a good idea."

Shit, THIS was the guy who's life sucked more than mine? This pretty little girl? Something about that made me very uncomfortable.

Hairgel called Angel over for something. "I'll be right back. If you decide you want anything, let me know." Her blue eyes were wide and innocent, but that playful, knowing smirk never left her lips. She turned around and bounced over to Hairgel, and I could feel an embarrassed heat crawling across my cheeks.

"Thanks, yeah..."

Halfback looked in my direction, then turned back to Beanpole. I looked for a booth in the furthest-back corner I could find and crashed in it. I could feel prickling heat rising up my neck and onto my face. I crossed my arms and lay my dripping head down on the table. What the hell, man? What the hell?...

Rhodes vs. Card, round 3

For those of you who have known me for any length of time, you almost certainly know that I'm embroiled in a long, bitter, and utterly fictitious feud with notable author and professor Orson Scott Card.

We've had a few face-to-face encounters, both of them dramatic. In 2006, I attended the Summit Players production of Romeo & Juliet he directed (mentioned after the first "*" page break. I was in the audience). Last spring, he came to see me perform in New Day at First Baptist Church (look for it after the second "*" page break, although the review of Star Trek that makes up the bulk of the article is also an interesting read).

This weekend, it was time for round 3. Orson Scott Card was offering the one-day workshop Roads Into Writing, and I knew I couldn't give up the opportunity to learn Mr. Card's deepest secrets and use them against him. My fiery temper was quelled when I arrived at the workshop and realized he's brought a posse along with him, the estimable writers Edmund R. Schubert, Aaron Johnston, and Brandon Mull. I would just have to sit and observe; the challenge would have to wait for another day.

The deadly quartet—cleverly disguising themselves as a "panel"—introduced themselves to the attendees, a mixed group representing a range of ages, ideologies, and interests (although many were identifiable as SVU students). As the introductions wound down, I knew it was time to prepare myself for the main event.

Pen clutched like a dagger at the ready and notebook brandished like a shield, Orson Scott Card himself led off with a vicious double-header. Back-to-back discussions on "Viewpoint & Structure" and "Inventing the Story" with but a brief break in between left me reeling, and even that break barely gave me a chance to catch my breath, as I scrabbled furiously with dagger and shield to prove, along with the other greenhorns, that I knew the subtle but effective "Third Person Limited" technique. As the second session came to a close, we were commanded to share our training with our peers during the mid-day break. At the table I had infiltrated, I and my other colleagues seemed satisfied with each person's mastery of this technique. For our efforts, we were rewarded with lunch (and even a brownie!).

After this precious period of repose, Aaron Johnston demonstrated his own formidable expertise in "Finding Time to Write". Having heard of his background in improvisational theater, my attention was rapt since I knew I may not know what to expect from him, and when. And that attention was well-warranted as he managed to divide a typical schedule into "have-to-dos", "like-to-dos", and "time wasters", then proceeded to perform combinations on "have-to-dos" to decimate their numbers, and then like a master of t'ai chi to use the momentum of their own inevitability to change "have-to-dos" into writing opportunities. Johnston's assault continued as he demonstrated how to viciously cut "like-to-dos", and to eliminate all "time wasters".

Appropriately impressed, my initial dire intent was tempered by humility as Brandon Mull took the stage. His presentation—"Essential Elements of Story"—wasn't as insidious or complex as Aaron's, but his mastery of the basics marked him a true expert. Characters-Relationships-Trouble-Decisions-Consequences! As he demonstrated how each of these five fundamental tenets of writing interwove with the others to create a story, my admiration only grew.

The last of Card's companions was Edmund Schubert. Edmund was wounded; a pulled tendon in his shoulder kept his arm in a sling for most of the day. He took the stage however, and removed the sling, eliciting a collective gasp from his captive audience. Even injured, Ed would allow himself no limits.* His discussion on "Query Letters" revealed him as a man who was no stranger to intricate tactics, and he discussed the advantages and drawbacks of such maneuvers as multiple and simultaneous submissions, submitting query letters, and the importance of "knowing thy enemy/agencies/publishers/editors". To most effectively deal with these individuals, it is essential to know their submission guidelines and follow them. This will allow you to approach closer to the agencies, publishers, and editors safely. If their guidelines are not followed, you will never be allowed to approach close enough to demonstrate your skill. He also warned to beware bogus agents; fiendish mercenaries who prey on the weak and inexperienced.

As the day ended, I knew that in this arena, at least, I was no match for my nemesis, Orson Scott Card. My challenge to him would have to wait for another day, and our raging feud to be set aside for a brief time. Humbled, I began the 3 hour journey back home.

*To alleviate potential concerns, Mr. Schubert did clarify to us that he was recovering nicely from the injury and that the sling was no longer necessary; he was wearing it more as a reminder not to over-extend himself. Removing the sling allowed him to more comfortably write on the chalkboard while holding the microphone.