Unpublishable Sample Chapter

I would like to note that on my most recent trip to a writer's conference, I presented this to a critique group. I'll never forget the look on the leaders face when I told her I was pitching a deleted scene because I thought it was a bad idea. Every last person in that critique group told me later during the conference that they loved the idea.

Anyway, here's the sample chapter.

And of course, terribly sorry.


Chapter (Sample)

INT. LIVINGROOM SET – EVENING

The buxom strawberry blonde turns a page on the script, then turns it back. She raises an eyebrow, and looks at the director. Her mouth speaks the words her vacant eyes and absent expression broadcast.

“I don’t get it.”

“I’m with Strawberry on this one, sir,” her male co-star says. He’s balding a little bit with a patch of hair between two expansive parts. He’s not quite as tall as she is. He thumbs his suspenders.

“I mean, this is even pretty weird for you, Mr. Wylde.”

The director looks back at them both. His eyes are enormous behind the thick glasses.

The male actor raises his eyebrows the way people do when they realize they’ve made a faux pas.

“Mr. Lumpkin, I mean. Sorry sir.”

Infamous director, J. Artemis Lumpkin, looks the way Alfred Hitchcock would look if he were several pounds lighter, painfully nearsighted, and endowed with wild hair that would have made Albert Einstein jealous.

He points at the script and, with a slow, muddled, British accent that furthers his resemblance to the great director, he says, “It was Mr. Winston’s idea.”

He says this as though it settles the matter.

The man looks at his copy of the script. He flips a few pages, then closes the booklet bound by brass brads and covered in light blue cardstock. “But the dialogue…”

J. Artemis Lumpkin nods. “Remarkable, isn’t it?”

The man looks aghast. “At least.”

“Mr. Wylde,” a woman says, out of the shot.

Everyone turns to her.

Angle on a woman with horn rimmed glasses and makeup brushes. Her face is contorted by a burning question, a question heating her steps.

“Mr. Lumpkin. Sorry.” She points to the camera crew. “The guys tell me you’re planning on doing this entire thing in a single take.”

This was news to the actors.

“What?”

“That is correct,” J. Artemis Lumpkin says.

The strawberry blonde drops her jaw.

“You’re kidding,” her male counterpart says.

The director looks taken aback. “Of course not. I’m J. Artemis Lumpkin.”

The two men stare at each other for a few moments. Finally the director says, “Excuse me.”

He turns to the camera operator. “Mr. Johnson. Are we ready to start shooting?”

“In more ways than one,” he says.

“Excellent. Places everyone. Places.”

The strawberry blonde and her male counterpart exchange worried glances.

He mouths the words ‘good luck,’ before taking his place outside the front door.

She takes her place with a book behind the couch. She stashes her script, checks her sultry wraparound dress.

“Speed,” the soundman says.

“We’re rolling, sir,” the cameraman says.

“Mr. Lumpkin, I must insist…”

“It will be fine, Ms. Baylor. Just do the best you can, and the rest will take care of itself.”

“But…”

J. Artemis Lumpkin turns to the set before him, to Strawberry Muffy, to the closed door, and says, “Action.”

Angle on the monitor, showing the strawberry blonde. She’s looking through the pages of her book. The title on the cover reads, Cannibalism 101.

She hears the knock at the door and perks up. Her hand melodramatically cups over her ear.

“Blah,” she says, following Mr. Winston’s riveting dialogue. “Blah blah blah blah.”

She puts the book behind one of the cushions on the couch, then bounces her way across the room. She checks her appearance in the front mirror, then opens the door.

The man stands in the frame, smiling. He’s carrying a suitcase with the word “Salesman,” on the side.

“Blah blah,” he says, smiling. “Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.” He gestures his open hand across the bottom of the suitcase. “Blah blah, blah blah blah blah blah blah?”

Strawberry Muffy puts her hand to her chest and gives a scandalous, coquettish gasp.

From off camera, the microphones faintly pick up J. Artemis Lumpkin as he says, “I think there’s a speck on the lens.”

Strawberry Muffy says, “Blah, blah blah!”

The salesman nods, backs away and says as he prepares to leave, “Blah blah. Blah, blah blah.”

“Oh, no, don’t stop filming. I think I can take care of it.”

“Blah, blah?” Strawberry Muffy tucks her head down in a pout. Her hands go to undo the buttons securing the halves of her dress. “Blah blah, blah blah blah, blah?”

At that, she opens her dress giving the salesman a clear view of what we presume to be her pendulous breasts.

But at that same moment, Albert Einstein hair precedes the appearance of magnified eyes behind thick glasses. The director’s open mouth moves in, fogging up the lens.

“Blah,” the salesman says. He sounds happy. “Blah, blah blah blah blah blah.”

The screen goes black as the director wipes the lens clean with his tie.

The door closes.

“Blah, blah,” Strawberry Muffy moans.

“Blah,” the salesman says in a pleasurable grunt.

Enormous eyes inspect the lens.

“Yes, that should about do it.”

He walks out of the shot to the left, revealing Strawberry Muffy and the salesman. Her back is to the camera. The salesman seems to have forgotten his suitcase, having his hands in another matter.

“Blah blah,” she says, pulling away and reuniting the halves of her dress before turning back to face the camera.

She walks back toward the couch.

“Blah blah,” she says in a come-hither voice. “Blah blah, blah blah blah, blah blah blah blah, blah blah.”

Her eyes widen. She starts counting on her fingers. She regains her sultry air and adds, “Blah.”

“Blah blah,” the salesman says, removing his coat, loosening his tie.

“Blah blah blah blah?” she says, preparing a comfortable spot for him on the couch. With a coy glance over her shoulder, she walks away. Shoulders tight. An extra wiggle in her hips.

The salesman watches her go with unwavering attention. “Blah blah,” he says, as though he means every word.

He takes his prepared place on the couch and spreads out. One might think he’s just pulled the lever on the right slot machine.

His hand falls against the soft end pillow, and his face furrows.

He pulls the pillow away, to reveal the book.

He draws the book closer and reads the title.

His eyes widen.

His mouth falls open.

His face seems to flush.

“Blah blah blah?”

“BLAH!” Strawberry Muffy says, charging in with a rolling pin poised over her head.

He looks up.

The pin comes down.

The blow knocks him to the floor.

He crawls to the end of the couch.

She meets him there and readies another blow.

The shot zooms in on the murderess, her victim, and the edge of a special effects person rushing into position. He looks toward the camera and backs out of the shot.

The roller comes down on the salesman’s head as Strawberry Muffy shouts, “Blah!”

She raises it again for another strike.

The special effects person’s hand appears in the shot. It’s holding a brush dipped in fake blood.

Red droplets spatter Strawberry Muffy’s dress several beats too late.

Strike.

“Blah!”

Delayed spatter.

Strike.

“Blah!”

Delayed spatter.

She raises the weapon over her head and laughs victoriously over her murdered victim.

“Blah, blah, blah blah blah blah!”

Delayed spatter finds her dress, her face, her open mouth.

Her chortle changes to a cough, the way one would when they swallow a bug. She begins wiping off her tongue.

“Sorry! Sorry!” the effects person says somewhere out of the shot. “I got a little carried away!
Sorry!”

Strawberry Muffy tries to spit as much of the blood from her mouth as she can.

“Blah,” she says.

There’s nothing sexy or overtly attractive in her gait as she walks back to the kitchen. The camera pans right, following her to the swinging door.

She disappears through it.

The camera pans left, back to the corpse, back to the makeup artist rapidly applying a grayish hue to his skin.

The actor waves his hands toward the camera.

“Not yet. Not yet.”

The makeup artist rapidly applies a few last touches and runs out of the shot.

His skin is pink in some parts, light gray in others, dark gray in others.

He gets to his feet and, accepting the reality of his situation, slips into the character of a zombie.

He extends his arms out in front of him and staggers in an unsteady, reanimated gait.

“Blah.”

He staggers around to the far side of the couch.

The camera pans right to where Strawberry Muffy reenters the set through the swinging kitchen door. In one hand, she’s holding her open book. In the other, she’s holding a meat cleaver.

“Blah, blah blah, blah blah,” she says reading to herself.

The zombie salesman reaches for her. “Blah.”

She looks up from her book, and screams, “BLAH!!!”

One zombie hand wraps itself around her throat. The other takes hold of the wrist of the hand holding the cleaver.

She resists in vain for a few moments, but in the end, he brings her to the floor behind the couch.

The zombie raises the meat cleaver over his head, and strikes.

Blood spatters the wall by the kitchen door.

He strikes again.

Blood spatters the zombie’s partially gray face.

He raises the cleaver over his prey and holds in a dramatic pose. “Blah,” he says, preparing to strike.

Blood spatters his face in more copious amounts than before. This time the brush hits him in the face as well.

“Hey!” he says, yelling at the special effects guy off camera.

The camera pans over to see him, holding his hands over his mouth. A small bucket of fake blood sits by the side.

“Oops! Sorry, man. Sorry. It’s my first day.”

Angle on Strawberry Muffy sitting up from behind the couch. “I think I got some of that in my mouth again.” She looks at the camera. “Wait. Did he say cut? Sorry. Blah blah blah blah blah…”

Her costar knocks her in the side of the head with the bloody brush.

“Blah!” she says, affronted.

“And cut,” J. Artemis Lumpkin says, standing to his feet.

Angle on Ms. Baylor readjusting her horn rimmed glasses as she says, “Mr. Lumpkin, please tell me we’re going to re-do that scene but in smaller segments.”

His wide eyes stare at her for a moment. He looks to the side, cocks his head back.

“I don’t see why we should, Ms. Baylor.”

“You don’t…” the zombie salesman stands to his feet, his face aghast. “How could you not see that we need another take?”

“Well,” J. Artemis Lumpkin says, “it is a deleted scene.”

Angle on Ms. Baylor’s astonished expression.

Angle on the zombie salesman standing stock still, his jaw dropped, his eyes wide, his face and clothes covered in fake blood.

Angle on Strawberry Muffy, confused as usual.

“I don’t get it.”

CUT TO:


To download the rest of the book, visit Amazon.com and look for Unpublishable: The Book Isn't Always Better.

Unpublishable--published!

I went on Amazon.com today to see if my new ebook was available yet, and to my great delight, it was. So, now I'm faced with the daunting challenge of marketing the thing, so it doesn't get lost in the mass of published work lurking at Amazon.com. The synopsis my publisher posted concerns me a bit. I'm working on getting it changed to:

"When exploitation horror film director, Guy Wylde, gets tired of wasting his potential on making porn, and when his producer and brother, Larry Wylde, refuses to let him quit, he begins to sabotage his own career in an attempt to get himself fired. The subsequent z-movies—including such atrocities as Attack of the Sofa Squid, The Duct Tape Mummy, and Utterly Pointless Massacre Part 9—develop a cult following. Yet, despite the profits, Larry wishes Guy would abandon his Holy Crusade against their chosen genre. When the conflict climaxes with a horde of Zombie fans marching on the studio demanding to eat Larry’s brains, the end result is murder."

I dunno. I think it's better. But what do I know. I'm just the author.

Anyway, if you're reading this, and you have a Kindle or other e-reader, please pay a visit to Amazon.com and buy a copy of my new ebook, Unpublishable: The Book Isn't Always Better.

Also, Facebook users can join my N. Paul Williams fan page. Not terribly exciting yet, but I'm working on it.

Christmas Parties

I’m not a big fan of Christmas to begin with. It’s the time of year when the pretence of the church is accepted and adopted by secular society. No longer can people like me escape the shallow pandering and platitudes which work to water down the Christian Faith by escaping into the general population. No. It hounds us through November and December with “Happy Holidays,” and “Season’s Greeting,” and the occasional, courageous, “Merry Christmas.” Peace on earth, but not necessarily to those on whom His favor rests.

Yet, the thing that really gets me this year is the birthday party. Disciples of Jesus talk about celebrating Jesus, but the church services we attend feel as drab and traditional as any other Sunday. The Choir does their Cantata. The Congregation sits patiently waiting for the continental breakfast in the Fellowship Hall. We talk about the joy of the season, but too few of us are smiling. A pastor on the radio did a broadcast from his church in England where the liturgy talked—in language no human being would use—about “accepting with joy the gift of Christ in anticipation for the day he would return as our judge…” His tone sounded line one reading something grand that didn’t speak to the heart. The congregation, when they responded in unison to a reading, didn’t sound completely awake.

And you know what it reminded me of? The parties in those old classic slasher films. The parties where everyone pretends to be having a good time because the script calls for it. They guy with the guitar leading songs around the campfire. The girls holding a beer and singing along. They’re all smiling, because they’re being paid to smile. The parties were always lame, lame enough that a serial killer jumping out of the nearby woods wouldn’t ruin the party as much as liven things up.

It kind of makes me want to run up and down the aisles of the local churches with a hockey mask and machete yelling, “Hey, guess what! The world is seriously messed up and on its way down the tubes to hell. It’s so messed up that whenever anyone tries to impede the progress of said world down the crapper, some outspoken activist stands up and insists they have the right to be flushed!”

I’d pause here for dramatic effect, then say, “But God loved us so much that He sent His only Son down into those tubes so we could have the option of swimming against the flow. And when that gift arrived, it wasn’t announced to the great, well dressed, churchy types. It was announced to the lowest form of life available—shepherds, who were regarded the same way we view the homeless drug addicts and prostitutes. Jesus was announced to the shit of the world, because He came to save the world from its own manure pile.”

Again, I would pause. Most believers aren’t accustomed to hearing the word shit in church. In fact, most of them would be more offended that I said shit, than they would be that people are going to hell unimpeded.

Then, I would say, “You guys can sit here and party like there’s a serial killer in the woods if you want to. Smile at the lame music, drink the beer of self-righteousness, and then act surprised when the guy covered in other people’s blood shows up. But I’d rather celebrate as though the greatest King ever came to humble men in humble means; an act that the bogeyman can’t handle. Why party like there’s no tomorrow when we can rejoice in being given a future?”

You’re right. Dumb idea. But as I think about the kind of Birthday party my Savior would throw for Himself—or prefer to have thrown—I’m left with the opinion that traditional Christmas isn’t it. He wasn’t about popularity. He wasn’t about pretence. Christmas bling is anathema to Christ.

Don’t get me wrong. I do wish everyone a Merry Christmas. I just wish the celebration of something so amazing was a party worth attending.