| Back in high school I wrote a story that, as far as I can tell was supposed to be gritty. Well, since then I've experienced a lot more, and feel that I can now do a much better job of writing such a piece. So here goes. But don't think this is some sort of pompous exercise meant to display my superiority over you, mainly because I have a flashy cape and sceptre to do that for me. No, this is as much for you as it is for me, as along the way I'll give you budding writers out there tips so that you may improve your own writing style, and possibly land a publishing contact, and naturally, pay me a small fee in return for setting your lives on the right track. Well, let's begin. |
A Dark Rain on Boston (You'll notice the first improvement from my old work is that I bothered to title it. This is important because without a title you may as well be writing a damn Hallmark card.)
I pulled up a seat at the bar and ordered a scotch. Delicious aged scotch, guarenteed to put out the mid-day fires. Fires of pain. The smoke from my fires of pain must have been pouring out of my ears, because the barkeep struck up a conversation. He looked like a real ladies man; possibly a former athlete. He definitly didn't look like a child molester (A lot of people will tell you to use a spellcheck. These people are your enemies. That's because when a publisher reviews a manuscript and it has no spelling errors they assume it's a professional job and thus came from somebody who already has a publishing contract. So don't be a retard; mispell all the time.). Nope, he was all man. That's why I could trust him.
"You seem a little down, there."
"Yeah, you could say that," I said.
I chuckled. "I guess you could say that."
"Well, whatever it is, don't get too worked up about it. I have no real talents and I get mad poon. You'll be back on your feet in no time, G"
(These days tv producers like their content to be more "urban", showing both how hip and "with it" they are, while simultaneously apoligising for slavery. Thus it's advisable to use it as much as possible if you want to sell the tv rights to your story.)
He continued, "Hey, this'll cheer you up. It always works."
He started to juggle slices of lime behind the bar. It was a good show; he managed to pop limes in and out of his mouth while juggling. Then he let them drop down his shirt and shook his chest around. While squirting whipped cream into his ear he started shaking his pelvis around, and I began to get a little unsettled. When he unbuttoned his shirt and worked the whipped cream into a lather in his chest hairs I decided to head to a booth.
"You can't control me anymore," she said, tossing the hair she had left from after the accident and pointing her good eye in my direction.
"You expect me to let you leave, after throwing me to Joey Five-Nails?" I enquired, my voice full with the rightous indignation of a nun who's been tossed a string of beads at Mardi Gras. (Note the mention of a mob figure. The Mob reeks of grit, so slap in some Mobsters and grit it up!)
"You're a fine one to talk with the rightous indignation of a nun who's been tossed a string of beads at Mardi Gras!" she knew me too well. "Look at all the hell you put me though! If it wasn't for you, I'd be living in Venice with the Abassador to Cuba!"
"Don't bring the Abassador to Cuba into this! He's too sweet and cuddly for you to besmirch his good name! (Abassadors. Cubans. Gritty. 'Nuff said) Look, I just want my money and my sperm back."
Honestly, I would have settled for the sperm.
She handed me a jar of gooey cash, "Here! Just... just leave!"
She ran off to the bathroom, crying, like David Spade after a bad petticure. I had what I wanted. Yet, I felt a little twinge down in my lower gut. That woman had done a lot of damage, yet back in the day we had played a beautiful game of Magic: The Gathering Of Love, where I was a 1/1 creature with no land and she had TRAMPLE... for my heart. I went to the bathroom.
"Oh Reginald, where did we go wrong?"
"It was the videogames, Betty. They made me sick. I'm sorry." (All gritty storytelling needs a touch of realism. Everybody knows videogames turn people into sick pigfuckers, so I stuck it in there.)
We exited back out to the bar. We discovered that the bartender, who was now down to his thong and covered in honey, was being disembowled by carnivourous space ladybug robots! I looked to Betty. She knew what to do.
"Activate flying monkey powers!" said together!
"Violet Panda Ray!" making purple energy beam attack into the heart of a robot, defeating it.
"Abnormally Large Radioactive Sandwich!" I shouted as I hurled an explosive bomb into a group of robots.
Our attacks produced maximum damage! But monsters still came! We joined hands for exciting special unison attack!
"ORANGE SUBWOOFER PYLON SHANK!" exclaimed!
Monsters were brought low. For glory!
(Ok, this ending doesn't make any sense, and I admit I lifted it from the Clerks Animated series, which brings me to the final point: when you're stuck, it's perfectly acceptable to steal ideas from other sources. Publishers don't mind; it shows that you've done your research. In this case I really didn't have an ending so I threw a random anime scene in there. Not a great ending, but I felt it summed up the idea that the two main characters work better as a team, for great justice!)