At this point in the blog, we all know that the print publishing industry is a flailing one-eyed carp in the raging river of battery acid that is the global financial system. Changes are afoot, and there's a good chance that your next copy of The Iliad will be stuffed with ads for seitan-flavored tomato paste and decorative press-on fingernails. Writers and readers will be equally whiny about it.
But what if, as an alternative to bitching, we smartly embrace these changes and actually build our new works of word-art around our generous corporate benefactors? Okay, an example:
The aging subway train doors slowly clattered shut, shuddering as they rushed toward each other, like long-lost lovers with late-stage Parkinson's.
The doors' disheartening dance obscured Brandy's view of Marcus, he on the inside, she on the outside. The symbolism was obvious to both, and they shared a sorry smile through the graffiti-scratched window. The train departed, dragging the scraps of their relationship in its rat-filled wake.
"Thank God for Cymbalta," a relieved Brenda noted aloud. "This innovative anti-depressant has made it possible to practically float through life's little rough spots." Flashing a smile that felt nearly genuine, she enthusiastically scaled the station steps, forgetting Marcus' name along the way. As her gaze and mood reached toward the heavens, she experienced almost none of the drowsiness or stomach upset that are often caused by Wellbutrin and many other Cymbalta alternatives.
Not sure if you even noticed the product messaging in that passage -- go back and give it a look -- but that's what great writing can bring to both readers and advertisers. Wait a minute... I've been dicking around trying to get money from book publishers, which is like asking a homeless guy for a job. Why haven't I been offering to write ad fiction for large corporations? Holy shit, I just invented another new type of book.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Idea 44 - Oats: The Inside Story
It's all too easy to take things for granted, and not just oats. But oat appreciation is something I hold very dear, and while it may not be the drippingly sexiest subject on Earth, I'm betting that there are a lot of closet oaties out there who would welcome this book like a molting nighthawk welcomes a swarm of golden Aphids:
It's thought that early homo habilis, one of our simple-minded ancestors, were the first to partake of the oaten bounty in any significant quantity. And while oat bran was prized by foraging females for its satiating prowess, it was most often mashed into a thick paste and forced deep into the tracheas of weaker clan members in order to suffocate them, thus thinning the man-herd.
...
When Lord Ludvig Von Quartermaine received the first shipment of oats from dusky Persia, he believed it to be a dried clotting agent for seeping war wounds. It was the well-traveled Prime Minister Chauncelory who educated the royals on the process of baking the oats, separating the chaff, then grinding, watering, and boiling the meal into a palatable beige mess. Of course, the State Vicar denounced the process as witchery, and both Chauncelory and the entirety of Persia were burned to embers.
I'm not just in this whole book deal thing for the money, although that's about 95% of it. But if I can teach just one person to appreciate what we have in the noble oat, while concurrently being paid a revoltingly large sum for harnessing my idea-talent, then it will all have been nearly worthwhile.
It's thought that early homo habilis, one of our simple-minded ancestors, were the first to partake of the oaten bounty in any significant quantity. And while oat bran was prized by foraging females for its satiating prowess, it was most often mashed into a thick paste and forced deep into the tracheas of weaker clan members in order to suffocate them, thus thinning the man-herd.
...
When Lord Ludvig Von Quartermaine received the first shipment of oats from dusky Persia, he believed it to be a dried clotting agent for seeping war wounds. It was the well-traveled Prime Minister Chauncelory who educated the royals on the process of baking the oats, separating the chaff, then grinding, watering, and boiling the meal into a palatable beige mess. Of course, the State Vicar denounced the process as witchery, and both Chauncelory and the entirety of Persia were burned to embers.
I'm not just in this whole book deal thing for the money, although that's about 95% of it. But if I can teach just one person to appreciate what we have in the noble oat, while concurrently being paid a revoltingly large sum for harnessing my idea-talent, then it will all have been nearly worthwhile.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Idea 43 - Ultra-Kicks: From Old Skool to Future Steez
You have no reason to know this, but there are an alarming number of sneaker addicts out there -- people who obsessively collect rare, odd, and sometimes even Japanese athletic shoes. These people are commonly referred to as "sneakerheads". Seriously. I didn't make that up. Google it, I'll wait.
Obviously, these people have a significant amount of disposable income and make questionable purchasing decisions... sounds like it's time for a ridiculously overpriced coffee table book:
At left: limited edition Adidas Stan Smith "Spiders", owned by Jezz Navins, 28-year old graphic designer/t-shirt sculptor. Made entirely of spider silk, they dissolve immediately upon wearing, which explains their bargain basement retail price of $899.
Pictured at right are one of only 40 known pairs of the mythical Reebok Pump Plazzma, in which the eponymous air bladder is filled with the blood of former NBA star and Reebok spokesman Dee Brown.
I've even got a cool buzz marketing idea -- the first 1,000 copies will be assembled by retired workers from the fabled Southern Myanmar Nike factory, some as old as 14. And there'll be an even smaller run in which every single page has been stained with genuine Korean child tears.
Obviously, these people have a significant amount of disposable income and make questionable purchasing decisions... sounds like it's time for a ridiculously overpriced coffee table book:
At left: limited edition Adidas Stan Smith "Spiders", owned by Jezz Navins, 28-year old graphic designer/t-shirt sculptor. Made entirely of spider silk, they dissolve immediately upon wearing, which explains their bargain basement retail price of $899.
Pictured at right are one of only 40 known pairs of the mythical Reebok Pump Plazzma, in which the eponymous air bladder is filled with the blood of former NBA star and Reebok spokesman Dee Brown.
I've even got a cool buzz marketing idea -- the first 1,000 copies will be assembled by retired workers from the fabled Southern Myanmar Nike factory, some as old as 14. And there'll be an even smaller run in which every single page has been stained with genuine Korean child tears.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Idea 42 - Woodwinds in the Ether: a collection of verse
Poetry. Holy shit, can't believe I haven't thought of this before. I could easily be "a revelatory and lyrical new voice, undoubtedly poised to uproot all that's sacred within the cloistered world of verse" or some shit like that. Let's light this wick:
Caterwauling, she emerges
Snip, cry, hold, cry, cry, die
(That part was about a baby being born, with a quick hint about how she'll die eventually, not sure if that was clear)
Mortgages, re-mortgages intertwine with aspirations of gilded
nonsense, placeholders for the actual, keep the seat warm, keep the
seat warm
(I'm just sort of going with this, I'm pretty sure it's great, but I haven't written poetry since I felt sort of isolated that time in high school.)
Watch age barrel up the dusty driveway, grandfather's rotting truck, bumping
through ruts, first gear grinding, dimming headlights, see through yogurt cataracts,
wish for it, wish for it
Burn
Jesus. I kind of freaked myself out there -- it was pretty eerie how I managed to pretty much sum up the human experience without really trying. It was like I was channeling Edie Brickell or something.
Caterwauling, she emerges
Snip, cry, hold, cry, cry, die
(That part was about a baby being born, with a quick hint about how she'll die eventually, not sure if that was clear)
Mortgages, re-mortgages intertwine with aspirations of gilded
nonsense, placeholders for the actual, keep the seat warm, keep the
seat warm
(I'm just sort of going with this, I'm pretty sure it's great, but I haven't written poetry since I felt sort of isolated that time in high school.)
Watch age barrel up the dusty driveway, grandfather's rotting truck, bumping
through ruts, first gear grinding, dimming headlights, see through yogurt cataracts,
wish for it, wish for it
Burn
Jesus. I kind of freaked myself out there -- it was pretty eerie how I managed to pretty much sum up the human experience without really trying. It was like I was channeling Edie Brickell or something.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Idea 41 - Next Stop, Surpriseville!
I'm tired of all this effort. I need to crank a couple novelty book ideas out. Here's one all you subway-commuters out there will love: I'm gonna make note of one totally funny and surprising thing that happens on the subway on the way into work -- yes, every single day. Why not? It's an accessible hook, and that's pretty much all you need.
(NOTE: This one actually happened to me yesterday, but I'd have to make most of them up, of course.)
Day 1:
This morning, a homeless man was walking down the subway car begging, and he was either blind or faking blind really well. Since he was probably special, I decided to give him a dollar. But I was stuck in a weird seat where I couldn't reach the begging-basket, so I tapped the guy next to me on the shoulder and asked him to pass the dollar to the (probably) blind dude. But! That guy next to me was totally confused or crazy or foreign, because he kind of mumbled something then started to put my blind-money is his own pocket! I was like "No, it's for the blind guy!" and I pointed at the guy with the cane, and then my seat-neighbor finally figured it out and gave it to him. I was like "What a city!"
It seems like this'll be an easy one -- I could bullshit 20 or 30 of these things in an afternoon. Like "Oh wow, a pregnant lady started singing", or "Can you believe it, the conductor had this crazy way of announcing the stations". It's a sure hit -- people love bemusedly shaking their head and thinking "Man, everyday life isn't boring after all!"
(NOTE: This one actually happened to me yesterday, but I'd have to make most of them up, of course.)
Day 1:
This morning, a homeless man was walking down the subway car begging, and he was either blind or faking blind really well. Since he was probably special, I decided to give him a dollar. But I was stuck in a weird seat where I couldn't reach the begging-basket, so I tapped the guy next to me on the shoulder and asked him to pass the dollar to the (probably) blind dude. But! That guy next to me was totally confused or crazy or foreign, because he kind of mumbled something then started to put my blind-money is his own pocket! I was like "No, it's for the blind guy!" and I pointed at the guy with the cane, and then my seat-neighbor finally figured it out and gave it to him. I was like "What a city!"
It seems like this'll be an easy one -- I could bullshit 20 or 30 of these things in an afternoon. Like "Oh wow, a pregnant lady started singing", or "Can you believe it, the conductor had this crazy way of announcing the stations". It's a sure hit -- people love bemusedly shaking their head and thinking "Man, everyday life isn't boring after all!"
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Idea 40 - The Summit Of Our General Discomfort
Hemingway ain't got nuthin' on me. I mean, he does, or did before he bought it -- you know, he had actual talent, and an amazing collection of experiences, and he was good in fights and stuff. But that doesn't mean I cant write a terse, spare short story in which the matter-of-fact depiction of extraordinary lifestyles seems to somehow judge the reader for living so boringly. See if you can tough this one out:
McCutcheon neared the summit with Gabongo trailing. He knew he would have to leave the damned Sherpa behind and he was angry. "Mister Mac, you slow down some, you will die of the height sickness."
He knew the silly fool was right, of course, but there was climbing to be done and the peak beckoned and he would either survive it or he wouldn't.
"Go back to the village, you old donkey. Tell Missus Mac to go shopping in town, tell her I'm simply resting." McCutcheon burned from his last failed attempt at summiting, from the scorn he either received or imagined from the fellows at the Antler Cafe on the Rue de la Montagne, where the last light of the heartless arctic day reached through the Pass and reflected gaily off the small tables where the soldiers sat over their grappas and wept.
"Useless bugger," he muttered, as his ancient guide shambled down the slope.
A moment later, he observed how cold the night had become when his fingers fell off.
"Damn."
I'm the one who wrote this, and even I feel like I'm on that mountain with McCutcheon, or perhaps in the cafe with those soldiers, those old-young souls whose wounds will never heal.
Crap! I'm still writing like him! What if I'm stuck like this?! I'll be such a dick!
McCutcheon neared the summit with Gabongo trailing. He knew he would have to leave the damned Sherpa behind and he was angry. "Mister Mac, you slow down some, you will die of the height sickness."
He knew the silly fool was right, of course, but there was climbing to be done and the peak beckoned and he would either survive it or he wouldn't.
"Go back to the village, you old donkey. Tell Missus Mac to go shopping in town, tell her I'm simply resting." McCutcheon burned from his last failed attempt at summiting, from the scorn he either received or imagined from the fellows at the Antler Cafe on the Rue de la Montagne, where the last light of the heartless arctic day reached through the Pass and reflected gaily off the small tables where the soldiers sat over their grappas and wept.
"Useless bugger," he muttered, as his ancient guide shambled down the slope.
A moment later, he observed how cold the night had become when his fingers fell off.
"Damn."
I'm the one who wrote this, and even I feel like I'm on that mountain with McCutcheon, or perhaps in the cafe with those soldiers, those old-young souls whose wounds will never heal.
Crap! I'm still writing like him! What if I'm stuck like this?! I'll be such a dick!
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Idea 39 - Now Lighter Than Ever
Sexy, sexy advertising. The press can't get enough of Mad Men, and I think that other current-day ad guy show might still be on the air. Bonus: I've been in the ad biz myself for quite a while, so I totally have an insider's view of how incredibly exciting and arousing it all is. Buy this on for size:
"Your assignment--"
"--if you choose to accept it!" Copywriter Mark Blanham had unleashed one of his trademark zingers. He laughed wildly. Mark was well over thirty.
Edie Narson, senior account executive and unremarkable mother of two, continued.
"Your assignment is to generate awareness and purchase intent for Eatwell's innovative yogurt product, Aireolus."
"Aureolas!" Art director Nate McClantock enjoyed breast-related ribaldry as much as the next Renaissance man. Inevitably, Mark and Nate high-fived.
"It's called Aireolus," Edie impassively continued. "It's a major innovation in the yogurt industry, because it has a lighter texture."
Then came a long moment during which no one spoke.
All seemed to be waiting for something else, some additional information that would make it all okay.
But of course, nothing came. Nothing but the deadening weight of the truth: they would all spend the next five months of their lives dedicated to creating a surprising, exciting, and compelling advertising campaign to promote a yogurt with a debatably lighter consistency than many other yogurts.
The silence in the room was the space between and the hammer and the bullet.
Then someone was passing out some papers.
So yeah, I'm not really sure where this one's gonna go, I could have a lot of fun with it I think. Mark and Nate seem like fun guys (although I don't know them very well yet!). I guess I could try getting a Don-Draper-like character in there, but I'm pretty sure those guys are all dead.
"Your assignment--"
"--if you choose to accept it!" Copywriter Mark Blanham had unleashed one of his trademark zingers. He laughed wildly. Mark was well over thirty.
Edie Narson, senior account executive and unremarkable mother of two, continued.
"Your assignment is to generate awareness and purchase intent for Eatwell's innovative yogurt product, Aireolus."
"Aureolas!" Art director Nate McClantock enjoyed breast-related ribaldry as much as the next Renaissance man. Inevitably, Mark and Nate high-fived.
"It's called Aireolus," Edie impassively continued. "It's a major innovation in the yogurt industry, because it has a lighter texture."
Then came a long moment during which no one spoke.
All seemed to be waiting for something else, some additional information that would make it all okay.
But of course, nothing came. Nothing but the deadening weight of the truth: they would all spend the next five months of their lives dedicated to creating a surprising, exciting, and compelling advertising campaign to promote a yogurt with a debatably lighter consistency than many other yogurts.
The silence in the room was the space between and the hammer and the bullet.
Then someone was passing out some papers.
So yeah, I'm not really sure where this one's gonna go, I could have a lot of fun with it I think. Mark and Nate seem like fun guys (although I don't know them very well yet!). I guess I could try getting a Don-Draper-like character in there, but I'm pretty sure those guys are all dead.
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