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The other day I received an email titled "BAD NEWS."

When I forwarded it to my husband, he thought someone had died. No. Not even close.

Months ago I'd had this sudden terrible feeling in my stomach, and I said to him, "Do you really think they'll publish her novel?"

"No," he said. Just flat out, no sugar, n-o. There was no way Sunbury Press would publish the author's novel.

He and I had joked that at some point the publisher would have to realize that the Second Worst Novel ever—the tale of a writer who whines a lot and refuses to make changes—was written in first person because it is our dear Author's story. And we would shout, "Soilent Green is people!" and laugh, but at that moment—that "no"—was without humor.

Months passed. I was extremely skeptical of Sunbury. Why were they putting off sending the author notes? The publication date would be pushed back and still no edits arrived. Was their editing process simply going to be a list of typos she needed to change before they hit "print"? They didn't seem to be allowing any time for a real revision. If they didn't understand how badly the manuscript needed to be revised, what was wrong with them?

When the edits finally arrived, the author was categorically opposed to every last one of them—everything from "move the period to the outside of the parentheses" to "put the names of books insides quotes." The solution to the author's jarring tone was to change everything from present to past tense and remove every simile.

When these "edits" were recounted to me, I imagine that the manuscript was passed from person to person—from editor to assistant to janitor to someone's 7th grader—until they found a willing "editor," all the while never knowing that they could just negate the contract because the author had grown so frustrated with Sunbury's lack of attention that she had been shopping the novel around to other publishers.

After some back and forth over email, Sunbury finally told the author they cannot publish her novel at this time. Somehow this was a surprise. This was "BAD NEWS."

I wasn't sure what to say to the author. I mean, I hadn't told her any of my previous thoughts about the situation (e.g. Your manuscript is lousy; if your publisher doesn't ask for sweeping changes, readers ought to demand their money back; your publisher is a joke...), and it's not like I was rooting against her. I hate the manuscript, but I didn't want them to cancel her book deal.

A Deal Has Been Struck!

Apparently the author has "sold" the second worst novel ever (see posts labeled "the one about the idiot writer") to Sunbury Press. I was shocked, but maybe they didn't read the whole manuscript yet. That or they believed they could still do something with it. (In which case, they have no idea how opposed the author is to revisions (let alone the sweeping changes to plot and characters that would need to take place).)

Rather than re-open the second worst novel ever, I re-read my posts. I had been trying to remember what it is that just doesn't work about that story--especially now that House of Lies in on TV and completely amazing. The main character of the second worst novel ever does the "afterwork" that the characters in House of Lies are trying to secure. House of Lies is riveting. The second worst novel ever is terribly boring. According to my posts here, it is not simply because the main character whines about every last thing without ever DOING something but because she runs away from her problems (the House of Lies company) too quickly. Does Sunbury Press know that? How far did they get into this story? Did the author do such a terrible job of describing what Project Managers and Partners do that Sunbury Press has no idea what kind of story they could have?

Man. I can't believe she "sold" this story. Isn't that so ridiculously uplifting to anyone with a dream of becoming a successful artist?

She's Still At It

Now that her favorite soap opera has officially gone off the air, the author has resolved to write and sell a new novel. Something based on a book that's already been published and turned into a movie. In the meantime, though, she is fielding offers like "If you pay us $20,000, our company will... do something." What on earth is a "publisher" going to do with $20k that is any different than what Lulu did for $350? I will state right now that anyone can go to the bank, ask for cash, and then set it on fire. You do not need a middle man.

Back to the point, I believe that she is still working to find a "real" publisher for her "first" novel—the Worst Novel Ever. Ten minutes ago I decided to pick the book back up (because she has never reclaimed her copy), and couldn't get farther than a page and a half into it. It's so bad. So, here we are again...

Dear Author,

Before approaching publishing companies, you really ought to revise your writing. I don't trust any of the offers you've received thus far because I've read your novel. Who in their right mind is excited to represent this? Within the first 24 lines it's clear that you aren't depicting the story you claim to have written. (I've inserted numbers in order to help save space here...)

From the beginning, Angela knew the Jasper-Teasdale wedding would be one of her worst. They were simply too pretty. (1) The bride and groom, that is. Like, GQ ties the knot with Cosmo. All blond and blue eyed and big through the chest. (2) No doubt these kids never suffered the problems of commoners; zits, bad breath, split ends. (3) And their fingers looked worn to the bone from helping count the family money. (4)

Heir to the Municipal Oil fortune, Brandy Jasper wore a brand new outfit each time she visited Angela's office. (5) Today she dressed in a linen jumper, peach colored, with matching, leather heels. (6) Her hair lay knotted atop her head like a biscuit on a plate (7), several gentle curls bound by a wide, gold barrette. Her flawless look could put a beauty queen to shame. Angela could hardly begin to guess how many hours Brandy might devote to the mirror when her big wedding day finally arrived. (8)

Trevor Teasdale, meanwhile, focused on smelling like a prince. (9) Today it amounted to a combination of oils that reeked of fresh hay mixed with wet towels. While Brandy didn't seem to mind the odor a bit, Angela wanted to crack a window (10) within ten minutes of inviting them to take a seat. Like Brandy, Trevor appeared well dressed, though Angela had seen his Perry Ellis shirt before. (11) He saved his best outfits for his hockey, polo, and tennis games. (12)

(I guess saying I got "a page and a half into it" was an exaggeration.)

1. This narrator is upset that she's getting paid to plan a wedding for a rich, beautiful couple...?
2. Have you seen a cover of either of those magazines in the last 20 years?
3. I don't like your use of punctuation. Why a semicolon? Why are there so many commas in the next paragraph?
4. This is what I'm talking about. Your sarcasm is off. We have no reason to believe you're switching tones from oddly phrased observations to stinging wit. They sound like pretty people with ugly hands.
5. "Municipal Oil" doesn't sound exclusive. "A brand new outfit each time" sounds simply hygienic.
6. I highly doubt Cosmo-incarnate would be wearing something she found in the handbook for good Christian wives.
7.  "A biscuit on a plate"? Seriously?
8. No, seriously? "A biscuit on a plate"? Oh, wait. This is supposed to be referencing your use of "big wedding day." The narrator is in the wedding industry. There is no bigger day.
9. At first read, it sounds like he is sitting in his chair, concentrating very hard on the way he smells.
10. Maybe you ought to show and not tell...
11. This is so wrong on so many levels. The narrator seems to detest the couple for being materialistic, but then turns around and seems insulted that he is wearing a Perry Ellis shirt she's seen before. I'm not sure if the narrator if she's more offended that it's Perry Ellis or just that she's seen it before.
12. "Games"? Within three paragraphs I have enough evidence to conclude that either the narrator or the author is clueless. Possibly both.

Now that you say you have this extra hour a day, Dear Author, to focus on your writing, could you please focus on your writing. It needs your attention.

Thanks.

Rumpshaker: A Terrible Screenplay

Dear Reader,

I know it's been a really long time since I've added anything to this blog (and that last new post (about the tabs) was really unfocused and lacking any sort of bite), but I'm back with a script. It's completely ridiculous. Over Christmas, I stayed with our dear author who inspires this blog. (I forgot to bring her copy of the worst novel ever and she forgot to ask for it, so, oh joy, you can look forward to future installments dissecting the worst novel ever.) I decided to look around for any of my old things that I might like to take back home with me. Somehow I decided I needed to make room for a script from 2001, a rough draft with my notes scrawled all over it in purple ink.

Let's ballpark this as the 25th screenplay written by our dear author. Let's assume that by now she really knows how to write a feature length screenplay—structure, character development, etc.—because she's read all about how to make a fortune as a screenwriter. After completing the first dozen, dear author should find it easy to move the story along from Page 1 to 120—especially when it's an idea she's really jazzed about.

Our dear author took the idea for this screenplay from a joke I relayed to her. My best friend and I were speeding down an empty interstate one morning and happened to pass a construction crew. They were maybe a hundred yards off the road and we were flying along, but my friend rolled down the window to scream a catcall at them. Then we laughed too hard. Mostly, it was hysterical to me because this was the only way I was ever going to be outgoing enough to hit on someone—racing by at a distance, hidden in a car, never saying a word. So, obviously, the idea of a couple of Amish girls trying to pull the same stunt instantly popped into my head. My friend and I continued laughing as we thought of two girls acting out, but then being stuck on the scene in their slow buggy. Just picture it...

Our dear author latched onto this! She saw it all! A couple of Amish girls sneaking off to Spring Break! It would be a blockbuster! She would be famous!

I asked for a first crack at it (I mean, sneaking off to Spring Break was my idea), but she was on fire! I would be allowed to revise edit read it. (Come on. These purple edits never made it into a Word file.)

Our dear author did some research. Apparently the Amish need to make sure they really want to be Amish, so they go out and experience rumspringa (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rumspringa). She read young adult novels about groups of Amish kids sitting around smoking, drinking, watching TV, and driving muscle cars. The script seemed D.O.A. to me, but she was still sure this would be great. She took me for walks and blathered on about her ideas for who the characters would be and what would happen to them. My god... That sentence reads like I'm her pet dog or something. And with the state this script is in, I think the pet dog could have done just as solid a job. I mean, that's all she wanted from me—pant and run in circles because it's all just so exciting.

So, here we go. There's no title page or header on this document, therefore we shall call it "Rumpshaker." We know from the get-go that Rumpshaker is terrible because it's only 97 pages, a sure sign that the author is missing a whole act. (If the actual title had been Rumpshaker and someone anywhere in these 97 pages had said, "All I wanna do is zoom zoom zoom in your boom boom," the lack of story might have been forgivable. (Also, if our dear author had listened to "Rump Shaker" and stopped dwelling on "Where the Fun Is" and other Spring Break movies from the '60s for which I cannot track down, maybe this story would have had a fighting chance.))

Rumpshaker opens with scenes of Sarah the 17-year-old main character's quiet life. She works hard on the farm and loves her big Amish family. Her best friend, Rebeccah, 17, however, dreams of running away to become a movie star. (Guess where dear author's sympathies lie...) By Page 4 they have hit the road. By the end of Page 4, they have ditched the horse. (Yes, four pages into this story and our dear author has already abandoned the core inspirational visual. "EXT. - COUNTRY HIGHWAY - NIGHT / A horse draws a carriage as the sun begins to set" is the only appearance of a horse and buggy. No construction crew. No Amish Girls Gone Wild and dealing with the ramifications.) Rebeccah bullies Sarah into taking a Greyhound to Pittsburgh. At the bus station they meet an angry "Krishna convert" before being rescued from a farting homeless man by Jenny, 17, a feisty piece of white trash. We are 10 pages into this script now. This is it. This is our big set up. The main characters make a decision that will send us down the rabbit hole...

Jenny invites the girls to come home with her. She gives them new clothes to wear, takes them to a club, introduces them to other degenerates. Sarah, our good girl, finds herself attracted to Jake, one of the degenerates. Our Amish girls head to Florida to stay with Jenny and her friends. They smoke and drink their way through 30 or 40 boring-ass pages of driving. A love triangle is established: Jenny used to date Jake, but now he's way into Sarah, who will bend Amish will smoke and drink to impress him.

They arrive in Miami where Jenny's aunt lives. Everyone goes to the beach. The aspiring movie star immediately dons a bikini, but Cassie, the aunt, gives the good girl a "tasteful sundress" to wear. Too many pages are devoted to furthering the anti-climactic love triangle. Then they all go get themselves fake IDs. They go to a club for one page. They go back to the beach for another page. They go to dinner with Cassie, who reports that a movie is being filmed right now in Miami—"some teen flick, and they're looking for extras." Jenny, who can't wait for Sara to hit the road, tells Rebeccah that she has to go get herself a job as an extra so she can stay in Florida. Sarah decides (on the next page) that she will hit the road. In very much the fashion of our dear author, Rebeccah begs her to stay: "Please. One more day. I need you with me when I try out. You'll give me confidence."

We are now three-quarters of the way through this script... Rebeccah auditions, the group goes to celebrate Sarah's last night in town. The love triangle comes to a head (sort of) when a stranger at the club hits on Sarah. Jake rescues her. They get flirty. Jenny gets angry. Jake denies he has any feelings at all for Sarah. Sarah is crushed. The next morning everyone is shocked (for three seconds--seriously) that Sarah is missing. Sarah says she doesn't have enough money to take a bus home. No one offers her the cash, but Jenny continues to say she can't wait for Sarah to get lost. Rebeccah is offered two days of work as an extra—there's no going back now! "REBECCAH: Sarah. Don't you see? I'm on my way. After this it's Hollywood!"

We are now ten pages from the end of this script. "Cassie and the kids have dinner." The aunt suggests they all go to the county fair. There (where we lose all sense that this should be the Miami-Dade County fair) the aunt encourages Sarah to enter a milking contest. She wins first prize—$100. Now she can get on the bus and go back home.

But what to do about her never-really-got-off-the-ground-relationship with Jake? Sarah says she is going home to tell her family that she plans to never ever leave them again. Not unless it was for something—or someone—very special. The next day she kisses Jake twice before boarding the bus. The last thing we see is the bus rolling past a sign greeting travelers to God's country. The end. Barf.

And I know what you're thinking: Maybe it's not that bad. Maybe it's just the way the story is summarized here. I assure you, this story is awful. When you skim it, you get the full effect. Seeing as I created the idea, I will always look at it as a writer first. I want to immerse myself in each sentence and nitpick every last syllable. But normal people don't read scripts that way. What's happening here? Nothing. Five 17-year-olds stand around, flirting in a very non-committal way, saying nothing shocking, doing nothing extraordinary. They kind of flirt. They complain about being hungover. The end. No one's faith is tested. There is no journey of self-discovery. This is like a really tame documentary about an uneventful road trip. Aside from that, here are some reasons to hate this script:

1) The author obviously only likes three of the characters—none of whom are the main character. She seems to be relying on the fact that we will root for the main character because she is the main character. She seems to put more time into wanting the audience to like the aunt than anything else.
2) The author did not do nearly enough of the right kind of research (brushing up on "humor" would have been a start, not to mention "teens" and "Amish"). If she had wanted to be really cool (like the cool aunt), she should have said, "Hey, we should do this drive. Let's go to Miami!"
3) Nothing happens. And I don't like any of these characters enough to want to watch them do nothing.

When I first nabbed this script to critique here, I was excited to show off my rewrites. But, come on. This is a piece that's meant to be performed—every last word could change but the time filming wrapped. What matters is do we know who the characters are? Do we know what they want? Do we care?

Oh, okay. Let's just laugh at our dear author.

First we have Sarah, who wants nothing more than to be meek and pleasant. She has no memorable lines.

Then we have Rebecca. "Rebeccah sits up, faces Sarah. / REBECCAH: Don't tell me I can't. You hear? I want to be an actress. I'm going to be a star."

They meet...

JENNY, 17, steps between the girls and the homeless man.

JENNY: Beat it asshole.

The homeless man sizes her up.

JENNY: I said beat it, kumquat. Or do you need me to kick your balls from here to China?

We briefly meet Jenny's mother.

JENNY'S MOTHER: You bitch.

She throws a plate on the floor.

JENNY'S MOTHER (cont.): You sit on your ass, listening to music, snapping your gum and smoking all day. Why can't you do the dishes?

Jenny picks up a coffee mug, throws it on the floor.

JENNY: Whore.

Sarah and Rebeccah stand in awe as they watch this ridiculous fight unfold.

Somehow I think Sarah should have bolted for the door and broken out a Bible. But the three girls are fast friends, so they change clothes and hit a bar. They sneak through the window because they are, after all, only 17. There they meet Eric, 18.

ERIC: Aren't you going to introduce us?

JENNY: Sarah, Rebeccah, meet Eric.

Eric slides into the booth.

ERIC: Hey there. What're you drinkin'?

REBECCAH: Sloe Gin Fizz!

ERIC: Sloe Gin. Some of us call it Slow Sin. Makes you want to dance naked. With everyone in the room. (to Sarah) And what have you got?

This will be the height of Eric's humor. He is an aspiring comedian. It would be okay for him to be totally unfunny for 90 minutes if the rest of the ensemble were funny or anything funny happened to them. But Eric is it. He lobs joke after meticulously written joke.

Jake, 18, arrives a short time later. He works at the bar. It's his last night before he prepares to head off to MIT. "Jake spots Sarah, likes what he sees. They stare briefly, then Sarah ducks her head, blushing." This would have been a fine mismatch—the guy who aspires to create technology falls in love with the girl who's only used a phone once in 17 years—but Page 19 is the only place where MIT is ever mentioned. Jake could be Eric, but with fewer lines.

Oh, now we're on Page 24. It's time to be funny again...

JENNY: Come on, Jake. You and me... and two Amish girls. You'll have so much fun. I promise.

JAKE: I was thinking Colorado. Or maybe California.

JENNY: My aunt is a blast. Miami is wild.

JAKE: I don't know. Florida. All those people with mouse ears. Kind of creepy.

(Wait for it... If you know our dear author, if you know her idea of funny, it's coming...)

...Next thing you know, you're talking like Minnie Mouse.

ERIC (Minnie voice): Come on, Jakey. Let's party. This is Miami. We'll ditch that Mick Mouse (sic) and chase each other's tail.

The biggest distinction between Sarah and everyone else is that she's supposed to speak properly. All that amounts to is her lack of contractions. In the writing process (way back in 2001 or whenever), I decided this needed to be called out as a joke. It falls completely flat. Because it was lame? Maybe. Because we were trying to mash two different senses of humor? Maybe. Again, though, it should have been Sarah's devotion to her faith that set her apart, not her use of "I shall."

Eric is extremely obnoxious. Someone in this group needs to be obnoxious and he serves that purpose. It could be funny. What could be much funnier is the reactions to him. It's an easy opening to conflict, problems, drama, memorable scenes... That might have led to a better script.

Hmm... Nothing seems that awful or that brilliant as I scan this again. When you're looking at it as a poorly researched rough draft. When you think of it as a major blockbuster... Well, that's just completely absurd. No one was going to pay to produce this script. Even with all my brilliant running jokes. (Jenny's birth name is "Moon Beam" and somehow the author never revisited that! Where are the references to rumspringa?) So, I'll leave you with this... (Quick, get yourself a tissue first.)

JAKE: Rebeccah's not the only one who'll miss you.

SARAH: No?

JAKE: I'll write you, too.

SARAH: That would be good.

JAKE: And one day I'll come see you.

SARAH: Will you?

JAKE: As soon as I can. But I know you have no telephone, so I'll have to write to let you know when that will be.

SARAH: Yes, write.

He takes her hands.

JAKE: Will you write back?

SARAH: Of course.

JAKE: And do you want to see me?

She blushes.

SARAH: Yes.

JAKE: I know you're Amish and I'm not, but I have to believe there's hope.

SARAH: Maybe.

So moving. I take it all back. Rumpshaker is amazing!

Because this needs further commentary

[I wrote this months ago, but only saved it as a draft until now...]

Hopefully you've read the previous post (click here), otherwise this might not make a whole lot of sense.

That's the excerpt you send out? Seriously? Brandy is not the main character. Trevor is not the main character. That fight has little to do with the story. If I read that excerpt, I would assume you are a poor man's Candace Bushnell. I would also assume the rest of the story to be about an engaged couple working through some issues—not a "tender, sensitive" tale of two sisters learning to say good-bye to their mother or learning to embrace their new lives as caretakers. In fact, it sounds like Angela is supposed to be a therapist, not a wedding coordinator.

When Brandy and Trevor appeared for their next regularly scheduled appointment with Angela, no one said a thing about the way their last visit to Angela’s office had ended.

And then we launch into dialogue...

“We’re ready,” Brandy said.

“Speak for yourself,” said Trevor.

“Is the carriage all set?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Did they say who the driver will be?”

“I think the name they gave me was Marcia Somebody. Do you mind having a female driver?”

“She minds not having Jason show up at the church.”

“Stop it, Trevor.”

Wait. Who's talking?

“There she was, for everyone to see, with her nipples aimed like two happy astronauts—straight at the moon.”

Brandy roared with delight at that comment. “Two happy astronauts! That’s just so Trevor!”

Trevor likes weird analogies?

Trevor sat back in his chair, fixed his eyes on Brandy. “I’ll get even. You wait.”

“I told you, there’s nothing to get even for.”

“My pals are bringing in a stripper straight from D.C. And you know about the women there. I hear she can do more with two little grapes and a pair of high heels to make a man happy than twenty women in string bikinis.”

“She’s allowed to strip, but nothing else,” said Brandy.

“We’ll see.”

“Those are my rules. No touching.”

“What you don’t know, I don’t need to tell. Those are my rules.”

Brandy leaned toward him, almost chin to chin. “No touching her, Trevor.” 

I have to admit, this is a better fight than any other than appears in the book. Because it uses words. And they sound like real people. Not people I care to read more about, but still. I have to come back to "fights" another time.

“I can’t promise anything right now,” Trevor warned Brandy.

“Then consider us divorced.”

“We’re not even married!”

Brandy grabbed her purse from the floor, turned toward the office door. 

And . . . scene.

What? That's it? You have her just turn toward the door and I'm supposed to call you up and ask for the rest of the book? Sorry. Not even for the $5 digital version.

The End is Nigh

Sadly, you plan to come to visit and take back your copy of The Worst Novel Ever. I haven't made the time to relocate my list of things to say about your novel on this blog, but even if I did have it right here next to me right now there isn't much reason anymore to explain to you what all my notes mean. You've moved on. You are looking for other ways to make money off your writing. Before I lose this copy, though, let me at least explain what all these pink Post-It tabs mean (if I can remember).

Tab 1: I have no idea what this one is marking. It's on a page where Angela's narrator voice is bitching about a card she found wherein Miss Nevada congratulates Angela's husband on his marriage but also regrets not being his wife. This sounds good. It isn't. The flames of rage that Angela supposedly feels are only lukewarm to the reader.

Tab 2: "Angela practically choked on her own saliva." For real? That sentence just about sums up how ridiculous the scene is. Angela is still narrating. She has moved in with Bev and invited her son Josh to dinner at the house. Bev's daughter pushes Josh to tell his mom what's on his mind. He says, "She's talking about . . . how we're so fucked up."Angela then "practically" chokes on "her own saliva" because she is so shocked to hear her son use the "f-word." Supposing that this were satire, the next two paragraphs would be perfect.

"Well . . . well . . .," Angela said, unable to keep the needle moving across her brain.

When the doorbell interrupted in jolly fashion a minute later, Madison leaped to her feet, hurrying to see who might be there. Angela, meanwhile, silently fondled her silverware, turning over her knife, her spoon, her fork, then starting with the knife again. She could hear Bev speaking to Josh, but she didn't pay attention to their conversation. For all she knew, they were discussing how Josh really should have run away from home long ago, before he reached this point where he found it so necessary to speak the kind of words Angela had always hoped she would never hear from him.

Absolutely brilliant if this were about a woman who learns what's really important in life—or at least demonstrates it to the readers. But this is not that story.

Tab 3: The first page of the chapter "Love Potions" is flagged. All of a sudden this novel about a woman who irrationally decides to abandon her son and husband takes a bizarre turn into romantic comedy territory when Angela interferes with Bev's love potion ceremony. Again, for real? The woman who is the full-time care giver for her ailing mother has time to brew up crazy potions that really work? It feels even more like Mama, the vegetable, must be pushing 100 and Bev has been doing this for decades rather than days. Then the potion actually works and "Tree Man" starts to throw himself at Angela. And I want to vomit.

Tab 4: Angela recounts her wedding day in the narrator's stream of consciousness. Apparently she finds the energy to deal with all the insanity of brides because she wishes she had had some guidance back when she was getting married. But it all comes off as the novelist recounting her own simple wedding and looking down her nose at people who place too much importance on picking out flowers and purchasing a veil. After three pages of this trip down memory lane, I wonder why Angela wants to be a wedding coordinator when she obviously hates weddings so much.


Tab 5: This seems to be the first of many tabs flagging the extreme violence in this novel. In this particular case, Angela debates how to stop Brandy and Trevor, her "nearly-weds," from killing each other and demolishing her office furniture shortly before the two have passionate make-up sex in front of her. At this point, we're on page 182—about a third of the way through the story—and the way the violence is written sounds out of place, out of character, and rather alarming. But it's really nothing compared to what's coming farther down the road.

Tab 6: A hundred pages later, we're now at the end of the scene you posted online to entice readers to purchase your novel. Is it a scene about Bev and Angela and Mama and Angela's husband and his possible mistress and Josh, the son we all forget about? No. It's not about any of those people—the family in this family drama. No, this is the scene where Brandy and Trevor fight about Brandy's behavior at her bachelorette party.  It's one of the few scenes in which those two characters appear. See previously published posts for more explanation on why I would flag this.

Tab 7: Bev retaliated, swung at Angela, socked her in the jaw.

"Stop it, Bev! Stop being a whore!"

Page 360. The violence and bizarre factor have escalated to new heights. We are reading this from Angela's point of view, which means we will have to read it again from Bev's point of view. The sisters have already gotten into a crazy, brawling fist fight after picking berries one morning somewhere between pages 182 and 360. And we had to read about it twice. And both times it felt strange. These are white women in a supposedly upscale suburban neighborhood. And they're punching each other? Like full-on no-hesitation punching each other in the face. The writing doesn't hide how physical their fights are, but it also doesn't revel in the pain or blood or aftermath of trading punches. So, I don't get it. You want to tell us exactly where these punches land, but it's also like it never happened. Never mind that I thought white women of the suburbs leave each other patronizing and passive-aggressive notes. They make snide remarks. One "forgets" to meet the other for coffee. Shit like that. What are these women doing socking each other in the jaw?

Angela and Bev start their own fight club to try to get their unwelcome aunt to feel so uncomfortable she has to leave the house and abandon the ailing sister she's come to check on. After this particular fight, the aunt packs her bags, calls a cab, and leaves. Angela hugs Bev, and they go on with life like nothing happened. Angela doesn't even need to ice her face. Bev goes on a date.

There is one little nugget in there that gives us some hope that you, the writer, are not completely out of touch with how these sisters might actually behave in the real world: For the longest time Bev stood there staring at Angela, looking like she had plenty on her mind. But then she shrugs her shoulders, tells Angela, "Thank you," and runs off to get ready for her date. And the readers who have made it this far into the book are scratching their heads, wondering if they will have to endure this all a second time from Bev's point of view.

Tab 8: I flagged the first page of the chapter "Pool Party." I clearly remember you being so impressed with the idea of this scorned women sneaking back into her own house to find that her husband has laid out her nightgown on her side of the bed. He sleeps with her nightgown and we are all supposed to be enchanted. I didn't get it back when you originally described it to me, and you said that was because I was too young. As an adult, I think it works even less in the context of the book. But it works for Angela. She is at peace. She drifts off to sleep, spending the whole night in the house where she no longer lives.

The next day Angela becomes a prisoner in this old house of hers, trying not to let the neighbors know she is there and then trying not to let them know she no longer lives there. All the adults from the neighborhood end up in her pool, getting trashed and having a gay old time. One particularly obnoxious character repeatedly snaps plucks her thong bathing suit from between her cheeks. Mostly she is obnoxious because it is so apparent that you wanted us to hate her for being a disgusting bimbo. But I don't really hate her. I hate reading this chapter. I hate that you wrote such a painfully long and ill-conceived chapter.

Tab 9: The last flag is a full-size Post-It. The rest were thin strips I'd cut, but this chapter, "White Trash House," was by far the worst. If Aunt Betty packed her bags and went home on page 360, why am I reading about her again for the first time on page 431. Shoot me. I hate this character. We had plenty of conflict without her, but you're going to make us all read more terribly scripted fights incited by her presence. Meanwhile, we're 60 pages from the end of the entire book and the real problems aren't anywhere near a resolution. You insist on telling this story from two perspectives? Fine. Then at least try to solve some of Angela's problems from the beginning of the book.

Oh my god. I can't even skim this chapter to accurately describe why it is the worst of the worst. But, basically, I have to relive everything that already made me puke earlier in the book. They scream, they fight, they live in some alternate reality. They are completely trashy and don't work to resolve their problems (except to scream and punch each other in the face). Personally, I can't see why Emmett should mend his marriage to Angela or why Mama shouldn't just shrivel up and die from embarrassment. Who would want to know these women?

So, there you go. That's what those Post-It's mean. Soon you'll have your copy back, but it might be another 10 years before you decide to revisit it as a possible money-making venture. By that time I might have located my notes and finished my thesis on why this is the worst novel ever.

All That Violence

Okay, I can't get it out of my head now. I need to write this post about violence that I don't think I ever got around to writing before...

In my previous post, I came to the realization that all this violence is so out of place because these are supposed to be well-to-do white suburban women. They shouldn't be throwing punches. Ever. But that's not really the shocking part. The disturbing part about reading "Bev retaliated, swung at Angela, socked her in the jaw" is how you couldn't write a fight that felt heated, so you resorted to violence. None of the people in any of the fights that take place seem to have any conviction. They are just spewing catchy phrases until someone throws something.

Even though you write the whole story from two perspectives, it's as though you didn't want to look at the screaming matches from each character's point of view. (With the exception of Brandy and Trevor's screaming match. Maybe that's why you use that as your sample? Because it's the only spicy scene where the characters are committed?) In all these fights, we never learn anything and the story doesn't progress. In fact, the sense that we're not going anywhere is exacerbated by the punching and kicking. These people must be so angry (and yet so out of touch with their feelings), so why aren't they DOING something to improve their situations?

I guess, mostly, I'm just disappointed that you took the time to choreograph the fights in your head, playing it over and over in your mind just how the fight would look so you could describe where the punches landed, but you couldn't put yourself emotionally into any the shoes of any of these characters. Did I mention the source material is your own life?