Let's Write A Book!
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05-12-2013, 03:20 AM (This post was last modified: 05-12-2013 03:34 AM by DLJ.)
RE: Let's Write A Book!
A care worn drudge, trudging his way to the office on a chilly July morning. Grey skies overhead; specks of rain drops on the litter strewn pavements; smells of coffee and croissants waft into his cocaine befuddled nostrils – it had been a typical evening with the usual debauchery that is simply a normal part of “making-nice” with clients after a book deal.

The day begins with a caffeine injection … maybe two, before fumbling for the keys to gain access to the glorified rat-infested latrine that is the Sydney office.

Inside, it is dingy but warm. The walls are bare, apart from a few brown stains and a curling picture of the company directors from happier days when there was still hope.

“Hey babe. How’s it hanging?” snarls Mei-Mei, the doll-faced cutie / receptionist behind the bar / front desk. The roll-up hanging from her glossy lip drops ash into her gin glass.
“Been better” he mutters, shrugging off his coat and tossing it onto a pile of empty beer crates. “What’s happening?”
“Not much. You here for the meeting? There’s a few people upstairs”
“Yeah … thought I’d show my face.”

Carlo, the IT department, raises his head from his keyboard. He’s obviously been there all night; there’s an Alt-key stuck to his forehead. He belches. Anita, the bookkeeper looks up from her spreadsheets and throws him a look that would stop a runaway train.

Upstairs the air is thick with stale smoke, perfume and body odour.
“Air-con still not fixed, then.” He pulls out a chair. His hand sticks to something. He sets up his laptop and looks around at the sullen faces, grey with lack of sleep, eyes sunken, pupils dilated; hardly human, merely shades and spirits of disillusioned detritus.

The boss sits at the head of the cracked and uneven table. Something about his demeanour says: “Why am I here with these reprobates? I should be seeking enlightenment in Tibet, not sifting through crappy novels and film scripts”.

The meeting, as ever, serves no particular purpose: Sales targets and distribution of some film scripts to wade through and reject.

Note to self: "Jake and Chantelle... promising / love story / arty porn. Lose the winds and spaceships".

Towards evening; the same grey Sydney sky; the boys in their souped-up dude-mobiles unnecessarily revving their engines to impress the girls in high heels and underwear tottering into the 'dry-cleaners' that is the Commodore Hotel, to collect their 'suits' for an evening and potential marriage.

He draws a deep breath of nicotine and stumbles home alone.

Tomorrow will be the same … and the day after.

Still … could be worse … could be in Wellington.

Jake and Chantelle, he muses, Chantelle and Jake Consider maybe.

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06-12-2013, 05:44 PM (This post was last modified: 06-12-2013 05:48 PM by Free.)
RE: Let's Write A Book!
Update: Listed below is our book in which I have placed some cohesive order to it:

"If you think that is what it takes to impress me, then obviously you don't have a damn clue what I am all about," said Jacob, as he motioned to his security guard to escort the wanna-be screen writer out of the office lobby. "Next time, don't try sticking your ideas in someone's face without at least booking an appointment."

Chantelle stood at a distance, watching what she believed to be an arrogant and unnecessarily rude display of absolute power corrupting absolutely. She casually walked outside towards the aspiring screen writer and said ...

"It was a dark and stormy night."

"What?", said Jake as he looked up from his barely touched manuscript. He'd picked it up off the ground where the security guard tossed it and was still dusting it off when he'd heard the woman's voice.

"Isn't that how they all start... "It was a dark and stormy night.."?" She said smiling and as she noticed the confused look on the guy's face, she put her hand out, "I'm Chantelle Freeman and, you are...?"

Jake was confused. "Uhhh ... I'm known as Jake of the Tiny Balls Clan. Hi."

He said it under his breath but didn't really care if she or anyone heard it. He was done, this latest incident in a long string of shitty pitches and interviews, had completely kicked his ass. He looked at her hand and didn't bother taking it but just turned and started walking. His saunter was all that was left of his ego and even that was slumped and shaky... it was more of a limp, really.

Why did he think this would be any different? No one wanted to listen to his shitty story line and even if they did, they would want to rewrite it. There was no way he would get this story into onto the screen, let alone have his name under it as screenwriter.

"Hey!", Jake heard from behind him, "Jake! I can help you because... I know you... I was you!". Jake stopped mid-stride and let himself relax before he turned around.

"Oh? Is that so?", said Jake stiffly.

Suddenly, and without warning a blinding light shone down on Jake. Gaping jaws and silence gave way to violent winds, and the sound of debris being strewn across the hallway.

A thunderous, and mighty voice spake to Jake and Chantelle. Jake stood there, dumb-founded and deadpan, in too much shock to comprehend what was being said. Chantelle cowered behind a nearby table which had blown her way, covering her ears with trembling hands and screaming blood-curdling shrieks.

"Commander, the second probe confirms contact!"
First officer Braft turned back to coms console checking the probe data for the fourth time, this on top on the first probes info burst received several days earlier which every one of the 821 crew members had replayed countless times.

Commander Jelkt abrupty left the command sphere without a word to the crew on deck, they knew her moods enough to avoid eye contact. The wall display in the conference sphere was still linked from the meeting held seven hours previous. "So its confirmed then, commander Jelkt," an elder statesman of the Radonian faction said from the wall screen with a degree of authority mixed with fear.

"Yes my elders, the destroyers of worlds are back in this galaxy,and they have a name, they call themselves Human".

That was enough.

Tray Korn thought he had read every bad manuscript ever conceived, but this one had the markings of pure ass-wipe written all over it. A story about some wanna-be writer named Jake, a woman named Chantelle, some kind of ungodly paranormal activity, and then it suddenly breaks away into a rip-off of Battlestar Gallactica?

He folded the manuscript into his breast pocket, and then headed out the door. A care worn drudge, trudging his way to the office on a chilly July morning. Grey skies overhead; specks of rain drops on the litter strewn pavements; smells of coffee and croissants waft into his cocaine befuddled nostrils – it had been a typical evening with the usual debauchery that is simply a normal part of “making-nice” with clients after a book deal.

The day begins with a caffeine injection … maybe two, before fumbling for the keys to gain access to the glorified rat-infested latrine that is the Sydney office.

Inside, it is dingy but warm. The walls are bare, apart from a few brown stains and a curling picture of the company directors from happier days when there was still hope.

“Hey babe. How’s it hanging?” snarls Mei-Mei, the doll-faced cutie / receptionist behind the bar / front desk. The roll-up hanging from her glossy lip drops ash into her gin glass.
“Been better” he mutters, shrugging off his coat and tossing it onto a pile of empty beer crates. “What’s happening?”
“Not much. You here for the meeting? There’s a few people upstairs”
“Yeah … thought I’d show my face.”

Carlo, the IT department, raises his head from his keyboard. He’s obviously been there all night; there’s an Alt-key stuck to his forehead. He belches. Anita, the bookkeeper looks up from her spreadsheets and throws him a look that would stop a runaway train.

Upstairs the air is thick with stale smoke, perfume and body odour.
“Air-con still not fixed, then.” He pulls out a chair. His hand sticks to something. He sets up his laptop and looks around at the sullen faces, grey with lack of sleep, eyes sunken, pupils dilated; hardly human, merely shades and spirits of disillusioned detritus.

The boss sits at the head of the cracked and uneven table. Something about his demeanour says: “Why am I here with these reprobates? I should be seeking enlightenment in Tibet, not sifting through crappy novels and film scripts”.

The meeting, as ever, serves no particular purpose: Sales targets and distribution of some film scripts to wade through and reject.

Note to self: "Jake and Chantelle... promising / love story / arty porn. Lose the winds and spaceships".

Towards evening; the same grey Sydney sky; the boys in their souped-up dude-mobiles unnecessarily revving their engines to impress the girls in high heels and underwear tottering into the 'dry-cleaners' that is the Commodore Hotel, to collect their 'suits' for an evening and potential marriage.

He draws a deep breath of nicotine and stumbles home alone.

Tomorrow will be the same … and the day after.

Still … could be worse … could be in Wellington.

Jake and Chantelle, he muses. Chantelle and Jake, maybe.

How can anyone become an atheist when we are all born with no beliefs in the first place? We are atheists because we were born this way.
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07-12-2013, 06:10 AM
RE: Let's Write A Book!
... And it was all a dream.

The people closely associated with the namesake of female canines are suffering from a nondescript form of lunacy.
"Anti-environmentalism is like standing in front of a forest and going 'quick kill them they're coming right for us!'" - Jake Farr-Wharton, The Imaginary Friend Show.
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07-12-2013, 06:40 AM
RE: Let's Write A Book!
(06-12-2013 05:44 PM)Free Wrote:  Update: Listed below is our book in which I have placed some cohesive order to it:

"If you think that is what it takes to impress me, then obviously you don't have a damn clue what I am all about," said Jacob, as he motioned to his security guard to escort the wanna-be screen writer out of the office lobby. "Next time, don't try sticking your ideas in someone's face without at least booking an appointment."

Chantelle stood at a distance, watching what she believed to be an arrogant and unnecessarily rude display of absolute power corrupting absolutely. She casually walked outside towards the aspiring screen writer and said ...

"It was a dark and stormy night."

"What?", said Jake as he looked up from his barely touched manuscript. He'd picked it up off the ground where the security guard tossed it and was still dusting it off when he'd heard the woman's voice.

"Isn't that how they all start... "It was a dark and stormy night.."?" She said smiling and as she noticed the confused look on the guy's face, she put her hand out, "I'm Chantelle Freeman and, you are...?"

Jake was confused. "Uhhh ... I'm known as Jake of the Tiny Balls Clan. Hi."

He said it under his breath but didn't really care if she or anyone heard it. He was done, this latest incident in a long string of shitty pitches and interviews, had completely kicked his ass. He looked at her hand and didn't bother taking it but just turned and started walking. His saunter was all that was left of his ego and even that was slumped and shaky... it was more of a limp, really.

Why did he think this would be any different? No one wanted to listen to his shitty story line and even if they did, they would want to rewrite it. There was no way he would get this story into onto the screen, let alone have his name under it as screenwriter.

"Hey!", Jake heard from behind him, "Jake! I can help you because... I know you... I was you!". Jake stopped mid-stride and let himself relax before he turned around.

"Oh? Is that so?", said Jake stiffly.

Suddenly, and without warning a blinding light shone down on Jake. Gaping jaws and silence gave way to violent winds, and the sound of debris being strewn across the hallway.

A thunderous, and mighty voice spake to Jake and Chantelle. Jake stood there, dumb-founded and deadpan, in too much shock to comprehend what was being said. Chantelle cowered behind a nearby table which had blown her way, covering her ears with trembling hands and screaming blood-curdling shrieks.

"Commander, the second probe confirms contact!"
First officer Braft turned back to coms console checking the probe data for the fourth time, this on top on the first probes info burst received several days earlier which every one of the 821 crew members had replayed countless times.

Commander Jelkt abrupty left the command sphere without a word to the crew on deck, they knew her moods enough to avoid eye contact. The wall display in the conference sphere was still linked from the meeting held seven hours previous. "So its confirmed then, commander Jelkt," an elder statesman of the Radonian faction said from the wall screen with a degree of authority mixed with fear.

"Yes my elders, the destroyers of worlds are back in this galaxy,and they have a name, they call themselves Human".

That was enough.

Tray Korn thought he had read every bad manuscript ever conceived, but this one had the markings of pure ass-wipe written all over it. A story about some wanna-be writer named Jake, a woman named Chantelle, some kind of ungodly paranormal activity, and then it suddenly breaks away into a rip-off of Battlestar Gallactica?

He folded the manuscript into his breast pocket, and then headed out the door. A care worn drudge, trudging his way to the office on a chilly July morning. Grey skies overhead; specks of rain drops on the litter strewn pavements; smells of coffee and croissants waft into his cocaine befuddled nostrils – it had been a typical evening with the usual debauchery that is simply a normal part of “making-nice” with clients after a book deal.

The day begins with a caffeine injection … maybe two, before fumbling for the keys to gain access to the glorified rat-infested latrine that is the Sydney office.

Inside, it is dingy but warm. The walls are bare, apart from a few brown stains and a curling picture of the company directors from happier days when there was still hope.

“Hey babe. How’s it hanging?” snarls Mei-Mei, the doll-faced cutie / receptionist behind the bar / front desk. The roll-up hanging from her glossy lip drops ash into her gin glass.
“Been better” he mutters, shrugging off his coat and tossing it onto a pile of empty beer crates. “What’s happening?”
“Not much. You here for the meeting? There’s a few people upstairs”
“Yeah … thought I’d show my face.”

Carlo, the IT department, raises his head from his keyboard. He’s obviously been there all night; there’s an Alt-key stuck to his forehead. He belches. Anita, the bookkeeper looks up from her spreadsheets and throws him a look that would stop a runaway train.

Upstairs the air is thick with stale smoke, perfume and body odour.
“Air-con still not fixed, then.” He pulls out a chair. His hand sticks to something. He sets up his laptop and looks around at the sullen faces, grey with lack of sleep, eyes sunken, pupils dilated; hardly human, merely shades and spirits of disillusioned detritus.

The boss sits at the head of the cracked and uneven table. Something about his demeanour says: “Why am I here with these reprobates? I should be seeking enlightenment in Tibet, not sifting through crappy novels and film scripts”.

The meeting, as ever, serves no particular purpose: Sales targets and distribution of some film scripts to wade through and reject.

Note to self: "Jake and Chantelle... promising / love story / arty porn. Lose the winds and spaceships".

Towards evening; the same grey Sydney sky; the boys in their souped-up dude-mobiles unnecessarily revving their engines to impress the girls in high heels and underwear tottering into the 'dry-cleaners' that is the Commodore Hotel, to collect their 'suits' for an evening and potential marriage.

He draws a deep breath of nicotine and stumbles home alone.

Tomorrow will be the same … and the day after.

Still … could be worse … could be in Wellington.

Jake and Chantelle, he muses. Chantelle and Jake, maybe.

I wonder if Chantelle likes tiny balls, ponders Jake.

As it was in the beginning is now and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
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