Like most creative, goal-oriented people, I want to have written a book, or several books, but have no interest in putting in the actual "writing" (what the French call "écriture") time needed to do so. Usually, around page ten-- at approximately the point when the second major character is introduced; the inciting event has ceased to be inciting anymore; or when Fifi puts her maid's outfit back on-- I hit the wall of my television-addled attention span and stop, usually to see what's on TV.
This habit may keep me up-to-date on the ever-growing field of ride-pimpery, but in has left me with multiple false starts. Rather than slap a hasty denouement on these aborted literary works and call them "novellas," I have decided to be optimistic, and look upon them as the first flowering of a varied and successful literary career. Anticipating the day when they will all be finished and collected in a handsome Modern Library edition (available in pre-order from me, now, for the price of $34.85) I present you these excerpts from my collected works. Think of it as a glance INTO THE FUTURE!
From Dorm Room/ Dorm Doom, the collegiate coming-of-age tale/ horror thriller. McSkinny's Press. Est. pub. date: February 2008.
My advisor aide was a half-Chicana girl, with lovely dark eyes and a Louise Brooks bob, a couple of years before bobs were fashionable (and, therefore, boring) again. She was pouring me a gin-and-tonic, finishing it off with a squirt from a plastic lime-shaped bottle. She handed it to me, and for a moment my brain was filled with thoughts of drunken freshman-senior making out, and other things best expressed by hyphen over-use.
"So, what do you want out of college?" she asked, settling back onto her bed.
"Oh, you know. I want to fall in love for the first time. Have sex. Be betrayed. Be forced to make a difficult decision. Realize that the woman I was in love with I wasn't really in love with. Betray a friend. Make up with the friend. Do stupid drunken things and have fun. Do stupid drunken things that have tragic consequences. Meet people different from myself. Fall in love for real. Emerge from the other side sadder but wiser. You know, the usual coming-of-age crap."
"Interesting... and how do you feel about meat cleavers?" she asked, reaching for a bloody meat cleaver, on her bedside table.
"I don't really have strong feelings about... AAAAGH!"
From The Mystery of the Guy Kevin Who Kills People, one of the 'baby's first murder mystery' series. Viper Children's. Est. pub. date: May 2010.
Inspector Balustrade delicately made his way around the crime scene. Although the body had been removed, a chalk "K" remained on the floor, a cold reminder of the corpse's unusual body alignment. An odd assortment of items were arranged ritualistically, encircling the K. These included a copy of the film "Clerks," a subway map of Brooklyn with the Nevins Street stop enlarged and the "N" blocked out, a signed poster of "Dances With Wolves," and Kevin Kline's actual Oscar for "A Fish Called Wanda," which had been reported stolen earlier that week.
Sidling over to a sergeant, the Inspector inquired, "Any idea who did this, Kevin?"
From How To Sit On a Flagpole: The Retro Guide For the Modern 1920's Hipster, the novelty how-to cash-in. Faddish Books. Est. pub. date: October 2013.
It is vitally important to wear pants.
From Get Your Rocks Off, Quick, the pornographic smash hit. Originally published in Quim Magazine, republished in The Least Embarrassing American Erotica 2015. Est. pub. date: January 2015.
As she withdrew his knish of pulchritude from her burning vermilion canyon, she felt strangely turned on, as if she'd just had sex or something.
"I'm going to clean out your pipes so hard," he whispered into her ear, managing (this time) to not drench her in saliva, in the process. "But first," he said, putting down the plumbing equipment, "Let's do it."
She breathlessly nodded her assent. Then she breathily nodded her assent. Then, she decided to nod her assent without giving much thought to her breathing at all. Finally, in case there had been any confusion, she combined a little vocal chord action with her breathiness.
"Yes. Take me five ways from Tuesday."
Taking no time to wonder why she chose Tuesday as her day of choice for him to take her five ways from, Victor yanked at his silken shirt. Buttons flew everywhere.
"Fuck. I paid sixty dollars for this shir...." He was interrupted mid-shirt by her probing tongue, probing his mouth canal like the most determined Mars probe. Her two love-moons burst from her chest-holster, in a flurry of ill-chosen imagery.
Twenty minutes later, it was all over. Fifi put her maid's outfit back on, thinking to herself, "Well, that was totally unfulfilling."
From My Memories of Memoirs, the memoir, taken from memoirs previously written but lost in a mysterious memoir-shredding incident, combined with unused material from Dorm Room/ Dorm Doom. Sedaris Knock-Off Library. Est. pub. date: June 2020.
And then, I remember, there was something really, really funny that I wrote about the way my dad combed his mustache. God, I wish I could remember it. I just know I couldn't do it justice if I tried to reproduce it here. Plus, my mom... oh, my mom, what a character! I wrote some stuff in my diary about her, I'll tell you what! Unfortunately, that diary is at home, and I can't get my mom to FedEx it to me. Well, I can, but she wants me to pay the shipping costs.
Anyway, when I went to college, my advisor aide was a half-Chicana girl, with lovely dark eyes and a Louise Brooks bob, a couple of years before bobs were fashionable (and, therefore, boring) again. She was pouring me a gin-and-tonic, finishing it off with a squirt from a plastic lime-shaped bottle. She handed it to me, and for a moment my brain was filled with thoughts of drunken freshman-senior making out, and other things best expressed by hyphen over-use.
From How I Lived So Amazingly Long, the true-life, tell-all. Originally published in Geria-tricks. Est. pub. date: August 3013.
Lots of cranberry juice, every day.