The item you were looking for was deleted.
Novel Treatments / Shawn Essler Must Die (Forward & Chapter One)
FORWARD
by Shawn M. Essler
Just for the record, I’m not a very good writer.
I’m sorry if you bought this piece of crap book, thinking that it would be some irreverent gem by a yet undiscovered voice, but would not be the case. Truth is, I just have all this free time on my hands, and what I happen to be looking for is the money that comes from publishing a book. Writing is one of the few projects that you can take on that involves no real monetary cost to upstart. I already had a few pens that I stole from work, and a ream of loose leaf paper that I stole from my mom, so I’m not investing any money into writing this book.
Yes, I know. Some writers invest years and thousands of dollars researching their topics. I am not one of those types of writers. I’m not going to bother fact checking. If I want to say that George Jefferson was our third president, or that the medical term for heartburn is an inverted queef, you’re just going to have to deal with it. Don’t bother writing back to me, either. I have already admitted that this book is junk. I don’t care how you feel about it.
As for my writing, I don’t think about what I’m going to write before I put it down onto the page. I sometimes go off on subjects that aren’t essential to plot development, so I lose my reader. I don’t have a vast array of knowledge on any particular subject, like the military or basket weaving or something, that I can revolve my stories around.
My female characters are lame, one-dimensional ploys that add nothing to the story. You never find out why they’re hot for the protagonist, but, alas, somehow they are. I get shy and puss out on sex and romance in my writing. All of my supporting characters are just a bunch of clichéd stereotypes.
I can’t suspend disbelief for my readers, because I admit everything I’m doing right away.
For writers, the protagonist is supposed to be some variation on the author himself, as he would like to be thought of. And the antagonist is supposed to represent one whom the author hates, making the exact opposite choices and decisions that he would make. I don’t really care to describe the deeper psychological meaning behind all of that. I am not writing this to play a bunch of head games.
That is why my protagonist is going to be some guy named Shawn Essler, and I am going to write in the first person.
So, for another record, I want to let my readers know that this book is not some autobiography. I’m not really sure where my story is going or what it will end up becoming, as I have not put in any effort to come up with one yet. But, rest assured that none of the events that the character of Shawn Essler goes through in this book actually happened. Like, if I happen to get a handjob from some nineteen year old blond whose jugs bounce when she giggles, trust me, I didn’t. If I end up saving the world from some penultimate evil force, it never happened. I have never done anything of substance or value with my life, and I have already given up on trying.
But, I’m going to try not to burden you with all of that. I just didn’t want anybody thinking that the events of this book are fact. They’re not. That’s why you found this book in the fiction section, retard.
With these admissions, I am sure that you can figure out for yourselves why I had to write my own forward, or why I could not find anyone who wanted to say anything esteeming about me or my writing.
Anyway, I got a bunch of writing ahead of me before I have filled enough pages for anybody to think it is thick enough to be called a novel. Just don’t expect anything great here. I’m not writing this for your enjoyment. I am writing this book solely to get paid.
Snuggles and nubbins,
Shawn
CHAPTER ONE – GETTING TO KNOW YOUR PROTAGONIST
Today is Tuesday, June Twenty Eighth, 2005. Well, it probably isn’t for you, unless I finish this book, get it sold, then somebody else edits it, prints it and gets it shipped to the bookstore, where you yourself bought it and started reading it, all in one day. Not that the given circumstance is impossible, it’s just not very probable. So, for me, writing right now, today is June Twenty Eighth, 2005.
The time is two twenty six am, Eastern Standard Time. Why am I writing at such an early hour? Do I go to bed and wake up early to get my writing done before the sun comes up? If that’s what you think, you must be pretty stupid. Put the book down, go back to the bookstore, and buy something from the self-help section.
I work as a night auditor for a piece of crap, economy class hotel. That’s not my career of trade, just my job for the time being. I work from midnight to eight in the morning, and it only takes me about an hour or so to do all of the bookkeeping. Yeah, I have to check out a lot of whiny guests in the last hour or two of my shift, but I still have a lot of free time from one until seven in the morning. That is why I decided to write this book: I have nothing else to do.
I was born on August Thirteenth, 1976. I tell you that, so you can do the math… Come on, how old am I? Remember, today is the twenty eighth of June, 2005. I’m twenty eight years old right now. I hope you didn’t say that aloud, though. Even if you are alone while reading this, it’s still pretty goofy to be talking to a book.
Probably, by the time you read this, I’ll be much older. More than likely, I’m already dead by this point in your life, unless you rushed out to buy it when it was initially released, while it was still on the mediocre seller’s list. If you picked this up in some library during Thanksgiving 2027, rest assured, I am already dead.
Thanksgiving of 2027… Do the math… How old would I be if I were still alive? The correct answer would be fifty one, if I were still around, but I’m not, so the answer is moot. It’s not that fifty one is an old age, or even a reasonable one to be dying at. It’s just that I don’t see myself making it that far in life.
It’s not a death fixation. And I’m not suicidal. I do have juvenile diabetes, and that automatically shaves a good number of years off of the end of your life. Something like twenty five or so. Whatever it is, it wasn’t that fun for a thirteen year old Shawn Essler to receive the news of his premature demise. The news of not being able to live a full life.
What was even worse for me was when I grew up and figured out that, what life I was granted, would not be very fulfilling.
I got laid off of work two and a half years ago. I was an editor for a research company. Freakin’ boring work that paid me half of what I should have been making, but it paid me enough to survive. After I got laid off from work, I was stuck working at a gas station while I looked for employment. The reason I say “was stuck” was because I already had the gas station job before the layoff. I did it to supplement my income an additional seventy dollars a week by working nights.
The problem was that unemployment wouldn’t give me any money because I had the pump jockey job. I was mainly just ignored by the unemployment office, and then I got the answer that, in their eyes, seventy bucks a week was good enough for me to live off, and if I didn’t like that, I should get off their back and work at the gas station full time. So, I ended up running the night shift at the gas station for seven dollars an hour, while I tried, in vain, to hunt for better work during the day.
Even better, now I didn’t have insurance. And diabetes medication is pretty expensive. Needless to say, I got pretty sick. I lost about twenty five pounds, which was rough as I was only a hundred and forty to begin with. I coughed up blood a few times a week. I also had seizures all the time.
I live in Rochester, New York. For a year and a half, I hunted for work in Rochester. I applied to over sixteen hundred jobs. Nothing. Most of them were junk work, but regardless, nothing here panned out. In late 2004, Rochester, New York was rated with the worst job market in the country. I don’t think it would be anticlimactic of me to say that I wasn’t shocked by that report.
About a year ago is when I got the job at the hotel. I took it solely because they offered insurance. Of course, by then, health care coverage had gotten so bad that I could hardly afford my medication even with the insurance.
I make eight bucks an hour. I work the third shift. I don’t have a car or an apartment anymore. I am back living with my parents. I drive my mom’s Dodge Shadow to work every night. I’m still sickly and pale and skinny. My hair is graying and falling out. I cannot afford to do anything entertaining, except for the occasional movie rental or library book. I have no net worth, dead or alive. Any ambition I used to have is gone. I can’t even find some sell out job for thirty grand a year. And, if you haven’t noticed, I’ve become more than a little abrasive about my life status.
But, on the plus side, the ladies freakin’ love me.
I’d like to tell you that I stand at six foot two, with bulging muscles, long, wavy blond hair and sparkling blue eyes. Unfortunately, those jerky, a-hole book publishers always post your photo on the back flap of your novel, so that idea’s shot.
I stand at five foot six. I weigh about one twenty now. I have short brown hair, green eyes, yellow teeth and a large forehead. I’m ambidextrous, and I wear dark rimmed glasses because I can’t see distances very well. I only wear plain clothes –- jeans, khakis, t-shirts and such –- nothing that catches the eye. I’m covered with a lot of old scars and abrasions because I get banged up a lot. I also sweat quite a bit. I’m pretty hairy, but not in the manly sort of way. I’m hairy in the I-get-lint-in-my-butt-hair sort of way.
I did used to want to be a writer. I tried for years, learning the craft, experimenting with style and genre and such. What it came down to was the fact that nobody wanted to read me. I’m not really talking about you, the general public. I’m talking about publishers, producers and agents. I wasn’t getting rejected, I just wasn’t getting read. At all. I would send out queries, and I would hardly ever hear back or get a response from anyone. And, the responses that I did receive were from companies telling me to please not write to them again.
Thus, I have never have gotten the standardized, “I’m sorry, but your manuscript does not meet our needs.” No, “We do not accept submissions from unpublished authors.” No, “Thank you for your interest in our agency. Unfortunately, we are not accepting any samples at this time.”
Nothing. I was just a blow off. My work could have been complete garbage, and I could not have cared less about it, and I could have gone just as far. I think that, given the fact that you are now reading something that I wrote, is a real testament to the fact that now I have gotten published. Now that I truly don’t care anymore.
As it works out, you are probably not reading this right now. Though I would really like that book check, odds are that I did not get this published. The manuscript is probably sitting in a folder at my parents’ house, gathering dust. I really want that money, but, really, the only benefit that I am due to receive from writing this novel is to waste a couple of hours a night with the writing process.
Don’t get me wrong. I hope that this book is going to be fantastic. But, I have no pressing desire to write the next great American novel. I just want somebody to buy my book and give me money. Enough to move somewhere that has a better job market. Enough to get better health care so I don’t look like a wraith. Enough to move back out of my parents’ house. Enough to have a real life.
I no longer desire to be a great man. Or a rich man. I don’t want to leave behind something that will let my name be remembered for generations after my too short life has ended. All I want with what’s left of my time is to be comfortable.
I want the boring office job I can do in my sleep. I want the house in the suburbs. I want the wife. I want the kids. I want to be the sell out that all the teenagers hate. I want to have the meaningless, mundane life that all the movies and TV shows say that everybody else is trying to escape.
I hope I don’t sound like I’m whining. It’s just that Chapter One of a book is always supposed to be the “getting to know your protagonist” chapter. So, as your reference point, this is the life that I live. Hopelessly chasing after whatever one else seems to have gotten without striving that hard for it.
More or less, my point is that I don’t have long left in this world. I would just like to be a little more sedated and at ease during this time.
I am actually an intelligent guy. I mean, I’m not a doctor or an engineer or anything, but that is only because of the lack of education. I’m a college drop out. I went for one year, and, due to the lack of funding, the lack of challenge, the lack of a decent academic program and my pressing desire to join the work force, I left. So, I don’t have a piece of paper that says that I’m smart enough to do anything. I just have a one hundred and seventy one IQ, with no outlet for it.
That used to drive me nuts. I would see all these projects that I was more than qualified for. Jobs that I could handle with no difficulty. Stuff that would challenge me, but that I could still handle. I could never manage to even be considered for anything meaningful like that. It’s pretty frustrating when you have all the ability in the world and nothing to use it on.
Frustrating enough to make you shut down on your meaningless, failed life.
So, I’m going to wrap up this getting-to-know-me chapter now. I still do not have any story ideas for this book yet. Don’t worry, I’m not going to write some diary book or some lame, this-is-the-life-of-Shawn crap. It will be some made up stuff. I’ll try to throw in some car chases or explosions or robots or dinosaurs or ninjas or some huge breasted women that serve no purpose than to have hot, wild, dirty, crazy, nasty monkey sex with the fictional me.
Just remember, I am making this stuff up as I am putting it down onto the paper, and I have already given up on caring, so don’t worry about flipping the pages too quickly.
You need to log in to urbis or create an urbis account to review this writing.
Reviews
Sort Reviews by Newest | Oldest | Highest Quality | Lowest Quality | Newest Comments |
This 250 word review has not been unlocked.
One of the funniest pieces I have read in a long time. You’re style is quite unique, and your narrator’s voice is quite original, if not blantely angry. I can’t wait to read more.
- add/view comments (0)
This 165 word review has not been unlocked.
Wow.
What you have done is nailed the frustration I personally felt when I was shopping my book. You’ve created a character who is so honest and blunt, it’s onscenely cool. By admitting up front that this is a work of fiction and any kind of off-the-wall $#!* can happen actually gears up the expectations of what will happen. This is the kind of story I wish I could have thought of first, and I would love to see dinosaurs, ninjas, or huge breatsed women in this.
I’m going to make you a favorite, because I want to see more of this as it is finished, and yes, I will definitely pick this up in the bookstore and make sure you get your book check.
The synopsis helped, I guess, until I started thinking about it, but by the time you have introduced the real to the fictional you’re going to have two fictional in-novel Shawn Esslers and then who’s going to be writing? You do have a very complelling and interesting voice; the self-destructive self-effacing protagonist is pretty risky though. The whoel meta-fiction novel in novel stuff reminds me of a series I recently read by Jasper Fforde.
Before I forget there is one typo:
“Hopelessly chasing after whatever one else seems to have…” should read “what every” or “whatever everyone”.
To be honest it’s hard to judge such a substantial work by so little, and it’s the first words that might compel someone to put it down who would other wise give it a chance. It’s could be too diminuative too soon. I want to care for Essler (the character) not just pity him. Pity only sustains so much effort before it negates itself. I would read more myself, because you seem very capable of proving that first caution wrong, but I don’t know how far I’d go before I ended up throwing the book out of the window on I-90… it could be a very confusing and frusturating read. I applaud your effort.
Hehehe, this is a fun read, but it does go on a bit. You don’t have to keep saying things over and over again. The book so far is about writing the book, which works, but it does drag on a bit. Shortening the first chapter some, and making things happen in later chapters, is probably the best method for the way this is written thus far. Good job :)
This reminds me of “The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time” which has the same kind of narraration except on a dumbed down level because the narrarator is an LD student, but he often refers to him writing the book and so on. I like the idea of this but feel you are stretching at parts, repeating some things that don’t really need to be repeated. The forward and chapter one read together grow to be confusing because you don’t keep the assumed cover of the Chapter One Narrarator that you said you would in the foreword. I can see how it fits in but I think you ultimately have kinks in this that need to be fixed. Otherwise it is witty and fun to read.
Wow. It’s amazing. The writing is sharp and witty. I’m glad this is around, after some of the boring stuff I’ve read lately, I was beginning to lose hope. Something like this is a gem, purely wonderful. I like the contact with the reader, the dry sarcasm directed at those who would never read something like this, and thoughtfully placed so that those of us with a sense of humor get a small chuckle every paragraph or two. It really got me involved at the first sentence, so that I was totally absorbed in the rest of the story. You’re honest. A genius. You have a refreshing sort of cynicism. Halleluiah. Thanks.
Heh. This is a lot of fun. It works well on many levels, and after reading the concept of the book you have posted, I think it will be very exciting indeed.
I did see a couple of spots that had tense issues, but they were insignificant.
This is a great read. Very keen on being able to see the rest.
I enjoyed reading this. However, my suggestion to you is to find a way to keep things moving. I know it’s “the introductory chapter,” but it seems to move at a very, very slow pace. I did love the sentence, “I’ll try to throw in some car chases or explosions or robots or dinosaurs or ninjas or some huge breasted women that serve no purpose than to have hot, wild, dirty, crazy, nasty monkey sex with the fictional me.” It made me laugh out loud.
I think it’s a very solid start, but I think it can be refined. The narrator is a very interesting person, and the fact that he doesn’t seem to find himself interesting definitely intrigues me. I think you should explore that a bit more.
Showing 1 - 10 of 10
Review item
Add to faves
GENERAL
REVIEW QUEUE
Ratings & Rankings
