novels | Curmudgeon at Large

I am looking for volunteers to fulfill my deepest fantasy – a fully compliant recipient of my endless complaining.

I will be your master: you will be my slave. I will complain, bitch and moan at will: you will not be allowed to resist.

You will have to sign a 26 page agreement beforehand written entirely in indecipherable legalese in the smallest available font size. You will then have to listen to me sing it back to you in its entirety off-key.

I will speak to you through a voice modulator so that my complaints will be heard by you in various unpleasant voices:

Screech from Saved by the Bell
Howard’s mother from The Big Bang Theory
Marge Simpson
The 38^th Vice President of the United States, Hubert H. Humphrey
Gilbert Gottfried

If you fail to heed my commands or stop listening attentively to my bitching and moaning or show the slightest degree of resistance, you will be subjected to various forms of torture:

Participating in endless sessions of Richard Simmons’ workout tapes;
Watching prerecorded sessions of Meet the Press starting with the original series from the 1950’s with Lawrence E. Spivak;
Listening to Donald Trump’s previous presidential campaign speeches;
Reading all of Tori Spelling’s “books;”
Sitting in a public restroom stall yelling “I am not committing an unnatural act” over and over.

In order to speak, you will first have to ask permission by crossing your knees and your eyes, doubling over in an expression of pain, raising your right hand and pointing at your crotch with your left hand. This is also the method you will employ when requesting a bathroom break.

I may, from time to time, have you dress up in different attire of my choosing. Some examples are:

Captain Kangaroo
Flo, the Progressive Insurance lady
Lurch
The Hunchback of Notre Dame
Queen Victoria

Your reward for your participation will be to receive an autographed copy of my upcoming book Fifty Shades of Grumpy at a discounted price.

You’re welcome.

Happy writers are all alike. Every unhappy writer is unhappy is his own way.¹

¹paraphrased from Anna Karenina

Actually, that’s not true. Unhappy writers are all alike as well. Like me, they stare at a blank page and wait for inspiration. I decided the other day that writing the next great American novel can’t be THAT hard. What do these guys do but find a plot, put a bunch of words together and, Voilà!, in roles the reviews and the acclaim, not to mention the road tour, the book signings, the money and of course the novel-loving groupies.

On Monday morning, having decided to write the next great American novel, I wake up, eat breakfast, prepare for a great start and now stare and stare and expect that somewhere on the blank page is that magical smudge that will grow and grow and turn into page after page of magnificent verse.

1 pm: I found the smudge on the page but it refuses to grow. It’s probably shy or a slow grower or a late bloomer. It just needs a little time.

3 pm: No change. I think that I will retrieve the mail and get a snack.

5 pm: Still no change. Man, that smudge is not cooperating one bit. I think that my sock drawer needs rearranging.

7 pm: You guessed it. A glass or two of wine while I’m waiting would be helpful.

9 pm: This smudge is starting to irritate me. I need another glass of wine.

11 pm: C’mon smudge! I’m not looking for the next War and Peace, just your basic inspiring novel. Time to break out another bottle of wine.

1 am: Wass th’ matta, smudgy? Gimme break. I jus’ wan’ ta zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. . .

—

Okay, so maybe the next great American novel was biting off more than I could chew. How about the next great American screenplay? After all, how hard can THAT be? You slap together a background to set the tone, assemble a few notable characters, give them some dialogue and Voilà!, your off to the producer and then opening night and the road tour, the signings, the money and of course, the screenwriter-loving groupies.

On Tuesday morning, I wake up (slowly), take an aspirin, eat breakfast and prepare myself for the next great American screenplay. Now let me see, a choice backdrop. Of course, a castle in Victorian England, where all great screenplays begin. A few choice characters – Heathcliffe and Violet. I’m rolling now. Add the dialogue and I’m there. I knew it was easy.

1 pm: A scene in a Victorian castle drawing-room. Violet enters the room where she finds Heathcliffe busily at work at his writing desk.

Heathcliffe: “Damn, these accursed bills!”

Violet: “Why, Heathcliffe, whatever is the matter?”

Heathcliffe: “Can’t you see that I am busy, Violet?”

Violet: “O, Heathcliffe, why do always act so severe with me?”

[Aside to myself. Does anybody talk like this nowadays? Did anybody talk like this in Victorian England? I need to rethink this.]

3 pm: Revised Heathcliffe, Violet dialogue. Yech, this revised dialogue stinks. Maybe a walk around the block would help.

5 pm: Newly revised dialogue. No, this isn’t it. Underwear drawer needs rearranging.

7 pm: New, newly revised dialogue. No better than before. Relax and have a drink of wine.

9 pm: Still no improvement. I need another glass of wine.

11 pm: I should be done with Act 1 by now. Damn, where’s that wine bottle?

3 am: Sla, bluk …? Huh? Where am I?

—

Alright, so maybe screenplays are just as hard as novels. Perhaps I should ratchet back a notch before attacking novels and screenplays. Hmm… I know, the next great American cartoon. How hard can THAT be?

1 pm: