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I actually have a duplicate topic of this on the OYAN Forum.
These will probably be the only writings I share on here. Unless I decide that my novel I’m thinking about outlining at some point is worthy.
Which is utterly ironic when one considers the fact that these are in no way worthy of anything. (I say these, but really, it’s just one and a half that will never be finished.)
But the reception was pretty good on OYAN, and I rather like them myself. And Daniel did too, so that’s something.
The history behind them is like this: Sometimes I feel like writing random things, in a prose style that I highly enjoy, and as I hate outlining or anything of the kind, they will all be made up as I go along. Because I can.
I dunno.
I consider them a good way to get to know me, even if none of the characters represent me. As far as you know.
So like, read if you think your life is going to be five to fifteen minutes too long. I’ve got you covered in that case.
And as there is no way to attach documents it would appear I have only one option. How crude:
Once I wrote a story that was upon a time. This was not a story that concerned time travel, and strictly speaking that’s not exactly an honest way to sum it up. I merely placed my manuscript atop a time-piece, and invented a clever way to capture people’s attention. And it worked, to an extent. My mom read the manuscript dutifully, though I’m afraid that might just be a mom thing. One can’t be certain.
I write about this story now because it is a matter of some concern to me. People have accused it of being dreadful things. A critic once suggested it was a book on puns.
I told him plain and simple, “No sir, the joke is on the reader, not on the pages.” To this day I am unaware as to whether his small smile, accompanied with a sigh, and a quick exit was in appreciation of this fact, or despair that he was acquainted with me. One would think that an author would be better at reading people. I prefer to read books. They don’t mind as much.
This story that I write at the moment however, is not about this story I have been speaking of. Unless the particular use of 1st person narrative has not succeeded in getting its point across, you should know that this story is about me. My stories being part of me, I thought one of them would be a natural place to start with. I could be very wrong; I gave up on natural things, and took offense at most of reality, back when I was eleventeen.
The obvious question any smart reader (we make up the minority, which is quite sad, but does give one a feeling of importance), is thus: “What is the point of this story?” and “Why should I read it?” This question should be answered within the first four paragraphs, which is why I waited until now to bring it up. The point of this story is to tell you my story, or part of it, because to be honest, the whole thing is rather long and boring, and the beginning consists mostly of me burping up as a baby. No one really cares about that. It shall be told from an extremely biased position; in brief: my own.
My life is not much to speak of, which is only natural, and which is why I feel compelled to. Typically you can find the most things to talk about, when you derive them from something that is cut and dry. I never did pass philosophy. I shall, however, relate to you the most interesting part of an otherwise dull (or seemingly so, to the average reader who is not me) existence. I shall open with an entry from my personal Diary of a Journal. If you do not own one, you should probably not consider yourself above average intelligence.
“June 22; In a year sometime in the A.D. section, I haven’t checked in a while: Today I spilled my coffee. Someone is going to die.”
Sometimes I wish that a millennia from now, this Diary of a Journal entry will be the only record of our society that future generations will find. I can just see what conclusions historians would come to upon finding a statement describing moderate inconvenience that leads to a dreadful murder. Such is life for me…and death for others I suppose.
However, like the aforementioned story not-about-time I mentioned above, this is not as simple as it seems. The hot coffee burned my hand, giving discomfort, enough to put me out of sorts, even to my mother. Poor woman. I must have neglected to use the word ‘Please’ at least three times that day in her presence. I am an unworthy child.
This discomfort made me want to do something drastic. I sat down, quite rapidly I assure you. Feeling slightly and understandably grumpy, I began to write from my sitting position. The story I wrote involved me killing a character with vindictive pleasure. I blame him for the coffee. Justice was served, and so was a second cup of my beloved hot beverage. I was now at peace with life once again.
And so concludes that cautionary tale of coffee and writing utensils. All very exciting I assure you. Allow me to quickly contrast it to something else, of which we’ve already spoken.
Unlike and yet very much like this story I write now, my story upon a time had a point to it. It was a silly point, and as I told the critic, the joke was on the reader. Unfortunately, only I laugh at it. Then I feel like a failure at being an author. But then I remember the joke and laugh again, and life has meaning for me once. Well, either that, or it’s my thirtytenth birthday, and I feel fulfilled. Thirtyten…what a milestone. I must be middle-aged now.
That serves as the perfect bridge into the next aspect of my life that deserves to be constructed in story form. This one will probably keep dear mother (or should I say the reader…? It is possible that dear father will give the pages a brief look in passing as he moves them off his stuff) highly engaged. Either that, or I’m making stuff up in my head again. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference, so I just write it all down.
My uncle was a middle-aged man when he died. I’m fairly certain that’s what killed him. The monotonous age of dreadful conformity. Although it is scientifically proven that this affliction typically only affects those between the age of 13 and 19, of either gender, and from stations in life where they have little to complain about, I personally think that it is a great terror to many men and women of my uncles age. I wouldn’t know. I’m thirtyten, and never was a teenager. I didn’t approve of that age. Quintessentially nonconformed child just like everyone else. I think I was special. Or chocolate chip cookies did weird things to my emotions. Like not caring about Uncle Carl dying.
One can hardly blame me for my apathy towards his death. He possessed the kind of fat body that only centers in the region of the belly, and so instead of having a Santa-esque and jolly form, he looked like a skinny man who swallowed several bowling balls on a bet. I wouldn’t have put that past him. I was also fairly certain that the amount of ear hair he had would probably have served his comb-over better than that brave last strand of greasy lock that gripped his scalp to the bitter end. Quite literally I’m afraid. He had a habit of giving large hugs upon meeting a person of any age or gender. This made the mall quite uncomfortable. That, and his breath reeked of coffee.
All things considered, I’m OK with his passing. Quite literally passing. Last I saw of him living, his walrus mustache was attached to a rather large transport truck tailgate, as the truck was shifting onto the freeway. He kind of bobbed up and down like a bouncy ball. It was a pretty funny visual. So he went out of this world contributing to humanity. I think he would have liked that.
Please readers, especially mom, do not take me for a demented fool. Fool I shall allow, but I prefer the term foolish to demented. A foolish fool I am, but never a demented one. I am, as we know, an author, and so have a great respect for human death. Life…not so much. I squash that out whenever I deem it will make little old ladies cry because the handsome hunk of the story is now dead. That seems to be a recurring theme in my writing, or so I’ve been told. I wouldn’t know, I never pay much attention.
To date I’ve never won any awards for my books, or stories. Perhaps death and steamy romance mature subjects for toddler literature. One would think that there’d be a self-help book on that.
To be fair to publishers and critics alike, I probably should have written comedy. My defense is that since my work makes people laugh either way, it doesn’t matter what I intended. The response to this ground-breaking tidbit of logic made me glad I’m not one of the little people with small brains, who gets offended when a person of greater intellect confuses them. Come to think of it, I don’t believe I’ve ever met someone, other than that lovely chap in the mirror, who isn’t one of those little people. Not even mother; she claims to enjoy my work. And any layperson who were to see what the New York Times wrote about me would know that only a fool would be willing to come in contact with my work. Poor mother; she’s a fool, and doesn’t even know it.
I actually did try my hand at comedy once. Sadly, I discovered my hand was not very funny. Left or Right. It was about that time that I experienced something my doctor called an existential crisis. I demanded a second opinion, but the internet doesn’t seem to do those things. Except in a rude manner.
To be perfectly honest, once I tried out comedy, I found that all story ideas seemed to flutter away on little wings. In fact, I ceased to think about most everything. Except time. I think I spent more time contemplating the meaning of existential crisis while staring at the second hand on dear father’s watch that I did staring at the blank paper in front of me. Comedy doesn’t seem to agree with my system.
Fortunately, my efforts were not a complete failure. I found a way to write impressive comedy, in a manner that I was quite familiar with; Treat it with utter selfishness; as long as I’m laughing, I’m happy. And I laugh a lot whenever someone reads my comedic work. And then I go on, and try to find someone else to read it. Most look at me with wrinkled eyebrows, over the tops of half-moon glasses, and mumble something about the point in my story being as sharp as the flat end of a hammer.
As of yesterday, all hammers in my possession have been filed down into points. I don’t take criticism well. It’s one of my better qualities.
That’s where I’ll end this particular story, right after I brought it to its point. There’s no particular reason why, other than that my eyes are beginning to drift back towards my dear father’s watch. I’m afraid that next I might have an existentially nihilistic crisis. So I need to use the paper I write upon to shield my virgin eyes for the purpose of protecting my mind for the benefit of future generations.
They probably owe me a few favors for that.
Oh goats. This is indeed a piece of work; art work or construction work, however, is a different matter. Ezra, this is hilarious! Ehem, but, what is it supposed to be? 😀
HC
I’m really confused about what it’s a piece of. It’s a piece o’ somethang alright.
The point? OK, long story, a friend o’ mine from OYAN had a short story contest on his blog, and I wrote this a few hours before the deadline.
Really, the entire story is a story about itself.
Other than that, there’s no point. Isn’t meant to be one. It is what it is. And that’s that.
Wow that’s creative. I’ve never heard of a story that told a story about itself. Did your story win?
HC
This is awesome! You need to write a whole collection of these and publish them in a book. At first, I thought your weakness was rambling. Now I see its your strength. Just ramble on paper.
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Wow that’s creative. I’ve never heard of a story that told a story about itself. Did your story win?
Or stupid. Depends on how you look at it.
Pfft no. But really, I would have been upset if it did. I did not deserve anything. (I did get honorable mention, but that’s cuz there weren’t enough entries.) 😛This is awesome! You need to write a whole collection of these and publish them in a book. At first, I thought your weakness was rambling. Now I see its your strength. Just ramble on paper.
Nah, you’re right. It’s a weakness. Or more like…a bad habit I always indulge. This is why I love this style so much.
I’ve thought about that…but if I ever considered doing something like publishing these…it’d really just be to make the publishers scratch their heads at my submission letter. I wouldn’t care tuppence.
I wonder how many times they’re told, “Really, I just sent this to you for kicks. Do what you want.”You should check out christiswrite.blogspot.com. they have a writing prompt contest every other week and it’s such fun.
I’m just gonna make a wild guess here. You are a homeschooler, aren’t you?
HC
If you love this style the most, than it is your best bet at doing well. And it doesn’t really matter whether you think it is publishable. What matters is if readers think it is worth reading. I thought it was worth reading. And seriously, I think this might actually sell really well. At least it would either sell really well or terribly – nothing in between. People are looking for something new and weird, but it needs to be well done too. This is all. Actually, its not entirely new. It reminds me somewhat of Amelia Badileia (How do you spell her last name anyways?) which, as you know, is quite popular. At least try, if only for your own sake. And don’t let any potential publishers know you don’t think its very impressive. People will take strange things seriously these days.
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Yeah, what Daeus said! Just act like it’s better than Shakespeare and people will believe you (though personally I think he was a nut but that’s just me )
HC
The writing style here reminds me of Gordon Korman. High compliment, coming from me. 😛
I’m just gonna make a wild guess here. You are a homeschooler, aren’t you?
Did my stellar social skills give me away?
If you love this style the most, than it is your best bet at doing well. And it doesn’t really matter whether you think it is publishable. What matters is if readers think it is worth reading. I thought it was worth reading. And seriously, I think this might actually sell really well. At least it would either sell really well or terribly – nothing in between. People are looking for something new and weird, but it needs to be well done too. This is all. Actually, its not entirely new. It reminds me somewhat of Amelia Badileia (How do you spell her last name anyways?) which, as you know, is quite popular. At least try, if only for your own sake. And don’t let any potential publishers know you don’t think its very impressive. People will take strange things seriously these days.
Actually, it’s a bit deeper than that. Quite personally, a good 99% of my enjoyment of this style, and these thingys comes from being able to not take them seriously. Actually, the vast majority of things that I like, I like because I can treat them completely lackadaisically, and off hand. Once I have to start being serious about it…it gets boring, and then I start /trying/ to make it not boring (which never ever works you know), so yeah. So regardless of what I think of it, I want to treat it as…a whatever thing. Yep.
I do like it when people say they like it though. Makes me all happy.
The writing style here reminds me of Gordon Korman. High compliment, coming from me. ?
No idea who that is, but I am highly complimented.
No idea who that is, but I am highly complimented.
Canadian humor writer. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him… wait…
*gasp* maybe you are him!Did my stellar social skills give me away?
No actually your writing style and sense of humor did. I can always tell. ?
HC
Comedy doesn’t seem to agree with my system.
Huh. Funny. At first I thought Ezra Wilkinson wrote this story in the first person. My mistake. I must have been wrong in that supposition. Yeah. I must have been wrong. Funny. All other evidence points to it.
Yes, he’s definitely a homeschooler. Only a homeschooler would write or even dream of posting something that seriously, hilariously crazy. I know. I am one.
Good work, Mr. Wilkinson!Lets have a homeschoolers convention!
I once wrote a story–which in retrospect I see was incredibly dumb–about a girl that somehow found her way into a world that was made up entirely of fairytale characters. I would probably burn it if it wasn’t on my computer but I kinda need the latter. Its the kinda thing that somebody could blackmail me with if ever I got really big in writing.
HP
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