Motivation From Lemony Snicket

Some of you, mostly Miles, are doing the NaNoWriMo challenge. I'm not, but I surbscribed anyways to the pep talks they give you every couple days, because they're interesting and informative. Like this one:

Dear Cohort,

Struggling with your novel? Paralyzed by the fear that it's nowhere near good enough? Feeling caught in a trap of your own devising? You should probably give up.

For one thing, writing is a dying form. One reads of this every day. Every magazine and newspaper, every hardcover and paperback, every website and most walls near the freeway trumpet the news that nobody reads anymore, and everyone has read these statements and felt their powerful effects. The authors of all those articles and editorials, all those manifestos and essays, all those exclamations and eulogies - what would they say if they knew you were writing something? They would urge you, in bold-faced print, to stop.

Clearly, the future is moving us proudly and zippily away from the written word, so writing a novel is actually interfering with the natural progress of modern society.

It is old-fashioned and fuddy-duddy, a relic of a time when people took artistic expression seriously and found solace in a good story told well. We are in the process of disentangling ourselves from that kind of peace of mind, so it is rude for you to hinder the world by insisting on adhering to the beloved paradigms of the past. It is like sitting in a gondola, listening to the water carry you across the water, while everyone else is zooming over you in jetpacks, belching smoke into the sky. Stop it, is what the jet-packers would say to you. Stop it this instant, you in that beautiful craft of intricately-carved wood that is giving you such a pleasant journey.

Besides, there are already plenty of novels. There is no need for a new one. One could devote one's entire life to reading the work of Henry James, for instance, and never touch another novel by any other author, and never be hungry for anything else, the way one could live on nothing but multivitamin tablets and pureed root vegetables and never find oneself craving wild mushroom soup or linguini with clam sauce or a plain roasted chicken with lemon-zested dandelion greens or strong black coffee or a perfectly ripe peach or chips and salsa or caramel ice cream on top of poppyseed cake or smoked salmon with capers or aged goat cheese or a gin gimlet or some other startling item sprung from the imagination of some unknown cook. In fact, think of the world of literature as an enormous meal, and your novel as some small piddling ingredient - the drawn butter, for example, served next to a large, boiled lobster. Who wants that? If it were brought to the table, surely most people would ask that it be removed post-haste.

Even if you insisted on finishing your novel, what for? Novels sit unpublished, or published but unsold, or sold but unread, or read but unreread, lonely on shelves and in drawers and under the legs of wobbly tables. They are like seashells on the beach. Not enough people marvel over them. They pick them up and put them down. Even your friends and associates will never appreciate your novel the way you want them to. In fact, there are likely just a handful of readers out in the world who are perfect for your book, who will take it to heart and feel its mighty ripples throughout their lives, and you will likely never meet them, at least under the proper circumstances. So who cares? Think of that secret favorite book of yours - not the one you tell people you like best, but that book so good that you refuse to share it with people because they'd never understand it. Perhaps it's not even a whole book, just a tiny portion that you'll never forget as long as you live. Nobody knows you feel this way about that tiny portion of literature, so what does it matter? The author of that small bright thing, that treasured whisper deep in your heart, never should have bothered.

Of course, it may well be that you are writing not for some perfect reader someplace, but for yourself, and that is the biggest folly of them all, because it will not work. You will not be happy all of the time. Unlike most things that most people make, your novel will not be perfect. It may well be considerably less than one-fourth perfect, and this will frustrate you and sadden you. This is why you should stop. Most people are not writing novels which is why there is so little frustration and sadness in the world, particularly as we zoom on past the novel in our smoky jet packs soon to be equipped with pureed food. The next time you find yourself in a group of people, stop and think to yourself, probably no one here is writing a novel. This is why everyone is so content, here at this bus stop or in line at the supermarket or standing around this baggage carousel or sitting around in this doctor's waiting room or in seventh grade or in Johannesburg. Give up your n ovel, and join the crowd. Think of all the things you could do with your time instead of participating in a noble and storied art form. There are things in your cupboards that likely need to be moved around.

In short, quit. Writing a novel is a tiny candle in a dark, swirling world. It brings light and warmth and hope to the lucky few who, against insufferable odds and despite a juggernaut of irritations, find themselves in the right place to hold it. Blow it out, so our eyes will not be drawn to its power. Extinguish it so we can get some sleep. I plan to quit writing novels myself, sometime in the next hundred years.
--Lemony Snicket

Short Story- The Red Telephone Booths

Well, I tried to write this short story completely during Spuds, but it didn't work... I got stuck ^^' I got some real help from my friend, (who told me that i'm really good at setting up long stories..... but of course that is a BAD thing for a short story) she helped, but its still... stuck for a plot point. all i know is its supposed to end up as a "And that's why I was late to school today" story. Well, comment, help, all that crap ^^



The story begins with five red telephone booths standing side-by-side. They were old, and had signs that read, “Out of Order.” They were empty, obviously because to someone who didn’t know better, they were out of order. But to someone who did know better, they were elevators to the underworld.

Unseen to mortal eyes, up out of each of the telephone booths, five different “people” rose up in succession of each other. One of the “people” took a step out of the telephone booth, still unnoticed by the humans walking past.

He chuckled quietly and said, “I still think it’s ridiculously funny that the humans can’t see us when we’re right here.”

“You know why.” Another man said as he stepped out beside him. The two looked almost identical. The first’s name was Eryx, and the second was Finn. They were vampire twins.

“Those silly mortals can’t see us because they’re so self-absorbed and too busy to notice five people magically appearing in five out of order telephone booths.” Said a third person, a female this time. This one’s name was Annette. She had a lovely voice that made it undeniable that she was a siren.

“Yes,” Eryx said with another chuckle.

“Well, we must be moving on.” Another male voice said. This one was Darien, a quite tall skinwalker. Standing next to him was Hayley, a petite hamadryad. These two were a couple.

“Yes, and so off we go!” Eryx said cheerfully. He led the group down the streets of the city towards a certain house in a certain suburb where a certain person lay sleeping.

The group walked silently down the streets, like shades in the morning light; Eryx at the lead, and Finn by his side. Annette walked gracefully, gazing around at her surroundings. Darien and Hayley took the rear, holding hands. It did not take them long to get to the subdivision where their subject lived. They walked past the rows of streets, looking for one particular name.

Eryx stopped and pointed up to the green street sign, which read, “Shady Raven Court.” He and the group turned and moved down the lane, growing closer and closer to where they were going. Eryx seemed to be counting as he past each of the houses, looking for the certain one. Finally, Eryx and the others came to a halt and stared at the house across the street. They had arrived.

Inside the normal house on the normal street, a seemingly normal boy lay in his normal, age-appropriate room. He lay spread-eagle on his stomach, one foot hanging off the bed, uncovered. He had no idea what was in store for him that day.

Suddenly, the boy was rudely awakened by seemingly appearing on the floor with his mattress on top of him. He shot up, pushing the mattress up off of him. His head spun around to see what had caused this disturbance in his sleep patterns. The five strangers standing around him met his eyes. His jaw dropped and no sound came out to express his reaction to five, quite attractive, strangers in his room.

“That was quite effective, Finn, thank you.” Eryx said. Finn nodded with a quick, mischievous smile that disappeared instantly. “Well then, Liam, old boy, you’ll need to come with us.”

The boy’s eyes bugged out of their sockets, “How do you know my name?” He asked.

“We take care to know everybody’s name when we come to take them away.” Eryx said.

“Take me away?!” Liam shouted.

Darien and Finn hushed the boy and Eryx said, “Please, do be quiet, we wouldn’t want your parents to wake up, now would we?”

Liam was silent and stared at Eryx. He gulped and said, in a trembling voice, “Where are you taking me?”

“No time now, we’ll tell you on the way!” Eryx said. “Right now, you will need to get dressed.” Liam looked down and his eyes grew wide when he realized he was wearing nothing but a pair of pajama pants. He pulled up his blanket with a flushed face as Annette giggled.

Liam soon took up the courage to say, “Well I’m not going to change when you’re all standing there!”

They all took the hint. Darien was the first out, and he helped Hayley and Annette step out of the window. Eryx and Finn followed.

Liam sat for a moment, trying to decide whether he was asleep or not. He pinched himself to check and found that, unfortunately, he was awake. He rose and quickly threw on some clothes. He grabbed his backpack and stepped out the window.

“Good man.” Eryx said, and he turned and began back the way they had come.

“NOW are you going to tell me where we’re going?” Liam asked.

“Not necessarily.” Annette said in a teasing voice.

“What?! Why?” Liam exclaimed.

“Because surprises are always fun!” Annette said with a smile. She skipped ahead of Liam, right behind Eryx and Finn.