Thread: A Writing Challenge - will it sell?

Could you write a personal anecdote? You might like to consider that you are writing your autobiography for submission to a publisher and that the anecdote forms a chapter. If you prefer, change names/locations. Perhaps up to two thousand words, although that’s flexible..

Twelve days and nary a nibble? Seems like anecdotes just aren't within writers' capabilities.

Or...
It could be the challenge just doesn't interest anyone.

Personally I would rather make something up than base it on a real event that has happened to me.

Yes, my life just really isn't interesting enough. Plus, it feels strange to tell people all about myself. Seems like I'm infringing on my own privacy...

I honestly don't care to share information about myself, but I do feel odd telling stuff that really happened to me. Now sometimes I write fictionalizations(is that a real word)of what has happened either to me or someone I know. Basically somethings are as Hollywood says "Inspired by a true story" but not always based on it.

Well maybe it's as mamma wrote in another thread - most people's lives aren't sufficiently interesting for them to write their autobiographies. But I DO like the idea of fictionalising real life; after all, who's to know what's real and what's made up?

The last time I wrote a personal anecdote was in my college creative writing class.




I failed that class.

Lost

Here goes ... part of something I am writing for fun...

The plan had been a simple one. Returning from the World Cup 2006 in the Fatherland, we had vowed to travel to South Africa, but four years without any Paraguay action was going to be dull. Travelling to Copa America needed little thought. Mrs C and the Brother's other half would come along for the ride; we'd leave them on Isla Margarita. They could sunbathe and swim and drink fine wines and talk about periods all they wanted, while the Brother and I headed inland.

Because the Brother is a lazy bollocks and less organised than an anarchist's wild party, I decided to deal with the plane tickets. There I was on Travelocity, about to enter my credit card details, when a nagging doubt stopped me. I wanted to double check with the Brother, but he had gone away on business, and was somewhere in the Philippines! For some reason I can't explain, I decided to wait until he got back.

It took him a week after he returned to answer his mobile. When he did the slurring and giggling told me all I needed to know.
"Where have you been?"
"Pete, is that you?"
"Where have you been?"
"I've been on a drunk. Jesus Christ, it's dark outside!"
"That's because it's midnight."
"Come to the pub, see you there in ten minutes."
Then he put the phone down. I went to bed, and finally got him on the phone and sober three days later.

My hunch had been right. He was still up for the trip, but his other half wasn't, mainly because she wasn't his other half any more. On returning from Manilla, he had hit the sack. She had decided to unpack for him, and being bored she took a look at the photos on his digital camera. One of a young Filipino girl, dressed as Wonderwoman and being slightly intimate, was enough to end their love/hate relationship. The Brother would be travelling alone. The news was not a surprise to Mrs C, who also declared herself out, preferring a trip to italy to visit an old friend.

It was just the Brother and I, then.
Things had worked out quite nicely.

Now I sat in Heathrow at 7.30am, nursing a cold Kronenbourg and watching the clock. I had checked in but hadn't gone airside. If the idiot didn't show, it was just me in Venezuela. I figured he wouldn’t make the connection in Miami if he missed this flight. Check-in was about to close and I stopped caring. It was time to leave.

The last chilled drops of beer were still nestling in my throat when I heard a shout; a fat man was lumbering towards me, obviously in distress. It was the Brother. He had arrived, albeit somewhat the worse for wear.

The girl at the counter repeated her words, the venom obvious in her tone.
"I'm sorry sir, you are intoxicated and therefore I cannot permit you to travel."
"Listen sweetheart, what do you know, eh? Now, be a good girl, give me a seat and let me get on the plane."
The Brother was certainly intoxicated, and things were going from bad to worse. A duty manager was summoned, a sallow bitch with a bad attitude. She and the Brother bandied words. It was going nowhere. Unless something changed, we were going to miss the flight.

I took Mrs Sallow Cow to one side and calmly explained: "Listen sweetheart, we have to get to Miami. It's imperative. Do you know what imperative means? Good. Then you'll understand why I need you to let the Brother on the plane. Our mother is in a casket. Do you understand that? A fucking casket. Sorry for the language, but please understand, we’re grief-stricken. How would like your mother to be in a casket? She died a few years ago? Okay, then you understand his pain, eh? Yes, he's been drinking ... to forget. Now, it is imperative, say it, go on, imperative, okay, don't say it, but it is imperative that we get on the flight. I am a doctor, and I'll give him a valium once we're on the plane, and he'll sleep, so you need not worry. My mother, my poor mother cold and gone, and it's imperative..."

We were running for the gate. I found running easy, I was nimble on my feet. I even waved to a few people who got out of our way. The Brother barrelled along, out of control and laughing. We arrived at the gate, and it wasn't even open. I went to the toilet and the Brother followed me in.
"Pete, you bloody nutcase."
"What? I got you on the plane."
"She was terrified. You freaked her right out. Jesus Christ, what was all that about? Look at yourself for God's sake."

I looked in the mirror. Staring back at me was a mental case; crazy dark eyes, grinding teeth, twitching, intense ... too intense.

I laughed and said: "I had to get up early and drive. Mrs C’s special slimming tablets seemed like a good idea at the time."
The Brother laughed again and splashed water on his face, then we headed to the plane.

As we boarded I muttered: "I hope they serve drinks quickly, I need to slow down a bit."
Somehow, against all odds, we were on our way.

The stewardess was in her late 30s; she had something about her, but her eyes were tired. There was something vacant in there, something that hinted at a lost dream, a life never fully lived, missed opportunities and a tad of resentment about it all. The Brother was grinning as she searched the trolley for beer. I tried to look down her top. Her bra was plain and white, her tits saggy. I didn't get see a glimpse of nipple, but I guessed it would have been sad and unloved. She didn't really want to serve us. In fact, I doubt many people on the plane who were aware of our existence wanted anything to do with us.

We'd played the game during the safety demonstration. Both of us were regular fliers, but we neither did the arrogant thing of blatantly ignoring the flight crews' best efforts, nor did we snigger like children. We delivered enough interest to make the staff feel we were responsible.

Take off was smooth as I flicked through the in-flight pamphlet, although the Brother kept fidgeting and looking around. We were up, the clouds kissing the windows, but the Seat-Belt sign was still lit. The Brother, however, had unfastened his and was trying to climb over me into the aisle. I pushed him back and told him to sit down, but he just hissed: "Pete, I'm going to shit myself, straight up".
A steward appeared and said: "Please sir, the fasten Seat-Belt sign is still on."
The Brother looked him in the eye and said: "Listen, I need to go..."
I intervened, pushing him back into his seat while apologising to the steward.
The brother snarled: "Great, between you and Gay Gordon, I'll be sitting in my own pooh for the next nine hours!"

Before I could answer, the Seat-Belt light went off, and the Brother was over me and in the aisle. As he padded toward the toilet, each foot-fall was echoed by a small bubbly-sounding fart. A chain of small wet farts, synchronised with his motion; it was desperate! The entire cabin watched him go, stony faced and glaring with contempt. I was laughing like a schoolboy as he squeezed through the door of the tiny cubicle.

The laughter turned to fear for a few seconds. I had a memory of being on a rush-hour Underground train with him one morning, a few years ago. It was packed with commuters heading to work. We were on our way back to North London from Vauxhall, having spent the night in a seedy back-street drinking club we used after all the pubs closed.

Drunk and stinking, we were jammed in with the workaday Johnnies, and all was well until the Brother dropped his guts. A spate of heavy drinking and a dodgy curry had created a noxious and fume-heavy gas; you could almost taste the shit in the air. I knew the stench; it was the Brothers own intestinal disease. One girl gagged, seriously gagged. The Brother turned, unphased by the stench he had created, and fixed some bright young lad in a suit with his callous eye. Then he snapped: "You dirty bastard!"

That was that. Not only did the man exit, red-faced, at the next station, but he probably had to forever change his route to work to avoid embarrassment. The Brother told me as we left the train a few stations later: "He needed blaming. Did you see him? A grade A example of a Pharisee if I ever clapped eyes on one."

I dreaded the moment he emerged from the plane's cubicle. Would he blame someone else, or just growl at them for being disgusted by his bowels. However, he was grinning as he exited, and as he headed back to his seat he shouted: "Pete, what a waste, all wind and no substance!"
It seemed that he couldn't have waited to get back to the seat to tell me that.

After that the service had been slow. Gay Gordon treated us like we were tramps, and the young black stewardess acted as if we were sat there in Glory Suits with our crosses ablazing. We took to visiting the galley, and they grudgingly handed over beer. The Brother was teetering on the edge of a hangover, and my teeth were grinding slower. The beer was keeping up just the right side of human, and the cabin staff accepted this.

So where was I? Oh yes, we were in the galley and the stewardess with the tired eyes and sad nipples was trying to get us some beer as quickly as possible when the Brother pipes up.
"So, do you get harassed quite a lot?"
She looked up, and her eyes seemed more resentful than before.
He winked at her and said: "Y'know, like, sexually harassed, being an air stewardess and all?"
She softened slightly, although kept the right side of a smile, and replied: "Not really, why?"
The Brother explained: "Well, it's like air stewardesses are .. well, sought after. They're gorgeous, sexy, elegant ... that's the image. I was wondering if people want to try and pull you just because you're a stewardess?"
She finally smiled; it looked false. Then she said: "Most people are interested because they think they'll get free flights."
I interjected, feeling the conversation needed steering towards safer ground.
"Maybe they don't try and pull stewardesses because they're pilot's meat. It's like dental nurses; painted whores in short skirts. But we know that unless we're a dentist with an Aston Martin, an orange tan and perfect teeth, we're on to a loser. Stewardesses and pilots, they go together in the same way."
Her smile had gone.

As she handed the Brother the beers, he said: "Maybe it's because in the 1960s and 1970s, stewardesses were young and sexy, but now it's like flying with your Mum and her washed-up mates!"
He was still grinning, but the insult was clear and hung in the air. I tried to change the tone, adding: "Still, it's not like you need to worry about the stewards, sausage jockeys to a man."
I turned, and Gay Gordon was waiting to get into the galley.

We were back in the seats when a fat and bald man identified himself as the Purser, and explained that we would not be served any more alcohol during the flight, and if there were any more insults delivered to his staff, the police would be waiting in Miami. Luckily, he didn't try to take the beers we were holding.

After he walked away the brother looked at me, and in between his fits of laughter he said: "You silly twat. Pilot's meat? You really fucked that up, eh sunshine?"

Originally Posted by Pete_C

Here goes ... part of something I am writing for fun...

I really enjoyed that. It’s ecaxtly – sorry, I’m dsyelxic – exactly, what I had in mind. Who knows how much truth there was in that gem? And it’s given me new heart. I have wanted to write similarly, however some of my efforts have been less than brilliant, and your example has stirred something in me.

Not only that, but I’ve learned summat at the academic level too. I always thought to drop one’s guts was to vomit. Now, I’ve back-tracked through that wonderful compendium of knowledge, the Internet, and confirmed your usage. You live and learn. Here’s just one example of what the Net had to offer:

“This one happened a little while ago at that great institution known as the Rockhampton B&S Ball.

No single event has inspired more truly disgusting acts of human depravity and hardcore piss drinking than this.

Our man was just beginning his day at the Recovery - which is the day after the main Ball and entails drinking as much beer as you can between the hours of 11am and 4pm.

As he walked in the gate around 11am, this bloke decided to drop his guts but in doing so, he drew mud.

But instead of wasting valuable drinking time to go clean up, he just started drinking while his arse cheeks were full of brown smelly liquid.

84 beers and eight hours later and our gallant hero still hadn't washed up but, as you can imagine, he had chafe worse than a Roman centurion on a 40km march through the Sahara.

His problems were compounded by the fact the stomach acids contained in the vile liquid had actually eaten away around his butthole and his inner butt cheeks.

Things eventually got so bad, bouncers later found our hero washing his arse out under one of those taps you find on urinals in pubs.

That was fuggin funny”

And on a similar note to your rush-hour Tube trip, and also on an entirely true note – Scout’s honour, it’s as true as saying that the leader of the most powerful nation on Earth is the greatest idiot God ever breathed life into - as teenagers, me and my best mate took a ferry ride on Sydney Harbour, in peak hours, on a day of wild and stormy weather with high seas and gale force winds. The commuters were packed in like kippers in a tin, not even arm movement was possible, the waves were up level with the gunwales, the ferry was going up, and over, and down, like a roller-coaster, and my mate suddenly croaked “I’m gunna spew!” As if by magic a circle of empty space appeared around us. It was all a scam to obtain more room, but the punters kept a wary eye on us for the remainder of the trip.

There were one or two minor errors in your account, but seriously, I laughed so much it wasn’t the place to begin a cirtuiqe – damn, there I go again.

Hi Ox.

Don't know that I'll contribute - do have a suggestion for future challenges though.

Perhaps your requirements were too insubstantial to motivate writers - many need some sort of bounds to truely set their imaginations free.

For instance, instead of a wide open memoir challenge, tighten it up to:
"Describe your first kiss."
"What was the first funural that deeply moved you."
"Where were you on 9-11."
"What was your first day of college like."

You get the idea.

Good luck,
-Frank

Frank

Great thinking. It will also work for me personally, which is perhaps more to the point.

Thanks

XO