Harry Splutter & the Lure of Hollyweird

Episode 9

“One Long Island Iced Tea coming up.”

Harry watched as the man pulled strangely shaped bottles from in front of a magical mirror that reflected the man’s opposite side than the one Harry could see, mixing different colored liquids together that magically changed into a blend of the colors they had been.

He set the drink in front of Harry. The surface of the glass magically misted with wetness and water trickled down the side.

“How much is it?” Harry asked quietly.

The aproned man blatantly* blew into a handkerchief, “That’ll be five quid Mac.”

“Five quid for a glass of iced tea?” Harry cried shrilly.

“Long Island Iced Tea, kid. The best tea in the world.”

Harry picked up the magically sweating glass. “Effing better be,” grumbled Harry glumly.

“Whud you say, you little twerp?”

Harry pulled out his Olivander 6000 XL wand and wiggled it. “Stupidfly!” Since it had been quite sometime since the running gag about misquoted spells had been trotted out to take a bow.

The aproned man flew into the air flapping his arms madly. “WTF, Mac?”

* * *


Harry set the magically sweating glass on the table in front of Bumblebore. “Ah, Larry—“

“Harry.”

“Harry, my boy. You’re a wonder.” Bumbelbore took an enormously big swig of the brownishly potion then smacked his lips flagrantly and trembled slightly. “G—oo—ood. Darn that’s fine as Mississippi mud on a Louisiana day.”

“What are you yammering about?”

“Horcruxii, or have you forgotten?”

* Note: See a previous post for the difference between blatant and flagrant.

Production

I took part in a writing retreat yesterday where I wrote with others in 45 minute bursts followed by 15 minute breaks. A bell announces the beginning and end of each session. It helped to have others in the room though no conversation is allowed during the writing sessions. Socializing happens at the break.

I wrote about 1900 words for The God of Trees. A good output for me. I’m not Stephen King. I don’t have the wind. Writing is like running. The more you do the better you get and the farther you can go. I think. Sounds good in theory anyway.

Harry Splutter & the Lure of Hollyweird

Episode 8

Here it is by popular demand of my reader, the continuing saga of Harry Splutter and the Never Ending Story….

“When a wizard does something bad, like jaywalking, a piece of the sole is torn away and can be placed in a container. Making the wizard, as it were, immortal…if he or she can remember his or her shoe size.”

“And, that’s a bad thing?”

“Oh yes. Who’d want to live forever? That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Harry knew that Bumblebore had now lost the screw that had been loose. Living forever sounded pretty groovy to him. If he did so, he might even be able to make some money in the stock market. Analyzing trends and such.

“Anyway,” Bumblebore continued, “I’m sure that you’re going to want to know how to destroy a Horcrux.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. sure.”

“Could I trouble you to get me an iced tea from over there?” Bumblebore pointed vaguely to a rather seedy place next to the Three Broomsticks Express. It was called The Rusty Cauldron Nail. “They make the best ones around Long Island, or so I hear.”

Harry walked toward it or towards it, he wasn’t certain. Anyway, he walked over and went inside the dark interior. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. There was a very long bar and a man behind it, wiping the wooden surface with a magical rag that left everything damp after it passed.

The man was tall and wore a spotted white apron. His black hair was combed straight back and unguentined into place. He had a sharp beaky nose and squinting eyes as
though he was always trying to focus on something. He had a toothpick that danced magically in his mouth when he spoke.

“What can I get you runt?” the man grumbled with a voice as if a well could speak. The toothpick did the rhumba.

“Do you have the iced tea like they make in Long Island?” Harry asked timidly.

“Sure. Anything else, bub?”

Harry shook his head.

The man turned and began pulling strangely shaped bottles from in front of a magical mirror that reflected the man’s opposite side than the one Harry could see and the bottles on the wall. “One Long Island Iced Tea coming up.” The man mixed different colored liquids together and the magically changed colors and became a blend of the colors they had been.

And so it goes…

Harry Splutter & the Lure of Hollyweird

Episode 7

A short riff today. A mere 270 words…

After Bumblebore magically cleared the table of detritus, Harry went off to find the boozehound something to drink. Next to a Scarf and Barf he found a Three Broomsticks Express and ordered two butterbeers.

He carried them back to the table and put one in front of the wizened wizard. “Okay, speak,” he said.

Bumblebore picked up the flagon of flavor and downed half of it with one big gulp.

“Thank you my boy.” He wiped foam from his face with an iffy sleeve. “Where were we?”

“The Horcrux, you mangy magician.” Harry twirled his wand like a light saber.

Bumblebore downed the dregs of his buterbeer. “Uh…huh. Horcrux, Horcrux…hmmm, I seem to have a faulty memory.”

“Oh, okay,” sighed Harry despondently. “I’ll get you another butter beer you olde boozehound.”

“Who you calling a boozehound?” retorted the red nosed wizard.

Harry came back with the drink and set it on the table. All the butter beers had magically emptied.

“Now,” Harry growled menacingly. “Horcruxii or I’m reporting you to AA.”

“Amalgamated Alchemists? I doubt they’ll do much.”

“Horcruxes!!!!!”

“Horcruxii, are a portion of a magical person’s sole.”

Bumblebore sipped contentedly at his drink while wondering if he could get Harry to buy him something stronger like a Sloe Gin Fizz or Long Island Iced Tea. He might be able to con a tea out of the little weenie if Harry thought it didn’t contain booze.

“When a wizard does something bad, like jaywalking, a piece of the sole is torn away and can be placed in a container. Making the wizard, as it were, immortal…if he or she can remember his or her shoe size.”

To be continued…

Harry Splutter & the Lure of Hollyweird

Episode 6

Ron trailed behind Hermione, whining as usual.

“Look who I found lurking about the little witches room.” Hermione said hooking her thumb in Ron Weasel’s direction.

“Shoot, don’t blame me, I don’t understand wha’ these funny runic symbols next to the doors mean.”

“You are such a weasel, Weasel,” shrieked Hermione.

“Please, my throat is parched from extemporaneousising upon Horcruxii,” Bumblebore blustered futilely, since the two kept up their incessant bickering.

“Would you two get on with it and snog or shag or something?” Harry yelled exasperatedly, in the way that JK uses adverbs for every bit of dialogue.

“Well, if you’re going to be that way about it,” Hermione sniffed. “Come, Weasel.”

“Now you’re talking!” exclaimed Weasel excitedly waving his wand. He scooped up Hermione and carried her off to a dark corner in the parking garage.

“Now, where were we?” asked Bumblebore. Obviously not able to scan the previous paragraphs to find his place.

“Drink, the Horcruxii,” moaned Harry.

“I know the way.” Bumblebore charged off across the street. Cars magically missed him by inches. Harry, however, was another matter. Harry had to dodge, weave, parry, and thrust to make it to the other side.

Bumblebore shoved the double doors open like a new gun coming into the saloon. (Like that? Bumblebore & double door. Get the poetry of it all? Never mind.)

They walked into a food court filled with wondrous things—Wizard King, California Pizza Wizard, a bar that served miners (no minors allowed), McWizards, Long John Wizards, Dunkin’ Dowitch, and Starbucks.

Bumblebore wiped off a table with his robe sleeve making the table dirtier than it had been though less crowded. Cups and paper plates went flying magically to the floor.

To be continued….

Harry Splutter & the Lure of Hollyweird

Episode 5


“Yeah,” said Harry, “And for purposes of plot exposition I need you to explain what Horcruxii are.”

“Horcruxii are thingamajiggies that contain the whozeewhatsis of you know who—“

“Don’t get technical on me you mangy gasbag.”

“Who are you calling mangy?” asked the disheveled wizard wearing worn robes as he played with a moth eaten hole in the robe.

“Forget it. Get back to your polysyllabic dissertation. Just put it into plain English.”

“A Horcrux contains a piece of a person’s sole.”

“You mean S-O-U-L, right?”

“Whatever,” Bumblebore said making a dismissive gesture with his wand. Four cars in the loading/unloading zone were thrown into the air.

“Whoops. better put this away,” he said sheepishly. Several sheep driving by in a Renault gave him the hoof.

“Go on, get on with it,” said Harry peevishly. Fortunately for the author, Peeves was still ensconced in the the bewitching Smogworts School of Wizarding.

“Right, where was I?” Bumblebore took a moment to read the preceding page. “So, Count Wal D’Mart has—“

“Count Wal D’Mart? I thought he was Lord Wal D’Mart.”

“He was. He needed money so he pawned his title for the needed scratch and dropped down to a Count.”

“Huh. Well okay.”

“You know my boy, all this talkifying dries out the vocalization cords.” Bumblebore made disgusting smacking sounds with his lips and tongue. “D’ya s’pose we might retire over to yon libation station for a liquefied refreshment?”

“You mean go over to the bar for a drink?”

Bumblebore put one foot behind the other and did an ‘aw shucks’ move though, since it was under his robes, this was blocked from view of anyone but the omniscient narrator and a couple of mice that fell out of an inner pocket.

“Well, yes, I would love a drink,” Bumblebore said. “I would gladly pay you Tuesday for a Harvey Wallbanger today.”

By this time Hermione had made it through the line in the little witches room and washed her hands. She walked quickly toward the two wizards, that is toward Harry and Bumblebore—a length of toilet paper trailed behind her, stuck to her foot.

To be continued…

Hey Taxi!

Harry’s taking the morning off. So here’s another of my writing yoga. I’ve cleaned up the spelling errors and a bit of the punctuation.

Blindbaby Lemon Butterbean pulled his rusting Checker cab onto the curb. Two tires bounced off and he brought the tub to a halt when his dog Butterball barked, which meant stop. He’d gotten Butterball from the pound in Queens for $30.

Blindbaby Lemon Butterbean had a thing about butter. He loved butter on everything. He used it for lubing his cab. The cab ran on rendered butter.

The 1973 Checker throbbed with anticipation as his fare got into the backseat of the cab. Butterbean hit the fare thingie and the meter started at 5 bucks and counting.

“Where to?” Butter bean asked.

“To the airport.” said his client.

Butterbean pushed the GPS navigation system on. “Which one he said.”

“La Guardia”

“La Guardia, huh?” He said La Guardia louder than huh to set the navigational system.

“Turn around, you are going the wrong way,” cooed the GPS in a sultry woman’s voice.

Butterbean loved the technology that gave him the freedom to do what he loved doing—driving. Butterball told him when to stop and when to go by barking—one bark to stop and another bark to go. Butterball also had inflection and tone in his bark that let Butterbean know how urgent the need was to go or usually stop.

Once Butterball went nuts about another dog and Butterball caused $100,000 damage. Now Butterbean had to work harder to pay off that debt.

Butterball barked once. The immense cab lurched off the curb and bounced. Butterbean turned the wheel hard to the left and kept turning until the wheel would not turn any longer. Horns blared from drivers that dodged to get out of the way.

“Get out of the way a**h*les [editor’s note: can’t have swearing now can we?]! Can’t you see I’m blind? Look at the license plates for chrissakes,” Butterbean yelled out the window.

Other drivers yelled back. Butterbean rolled up the window with the squeaky crank.

“You’re blind?” shrieked the woman in the back. “Let me out of this thing.”

“Hey don’t I know you? Your voice is familiar.”

Blindbaby Lemon Butterbean heard pounding from the rear dusty part of his cab.

“I used to be somebody before I got into this deathtrap,” she screamed. “Let me out of here!”

The pounding increased in intensity.

“There aren’t any door handles back here.”

“That’s for your own safety. Too many people threw themselves out of the cab while it was moving.”

“I shouldn’t wonder at that. I can’t roll down my window.”

“Same reason,” Butterbean said.

Butterball woofed his agreement. Either that or he meant stop. The cab bumped into something.

“Hey you idiot watch where you’re going!”

“Bite me,” yelled Blind Lemon Butterbean out through his open window. “Can’t you see the white cane on the front bumper? Are you blind too?”

Butterbean pulled his head back in the cab and leaned toward his passenger. “They’re always throwing obstacles in front of the handicapped. I tell you it’s discrimination. That’s what it is.”

“Woof.” Agreed Butterball.

Butterbean lightly goosed the gas.

Thump.

“Woof,” woofed Butterball.

The cab stopped.

“A little late on that one, furball.”

“That’s it, Mac. I’m calling the cops,” yelled the driver of the whatever Butterbean had bumped into.

“Like they’re going to get through this traffic.”

Harry Splutter and the Lure of Hollyweird

Episode 4…Back, as if by magic (because it certainly wasn’t popular demand), the latest Harry Splutter installment. Note the latest title. Still a work in progress…

Harry grabbed Hermione’s hand and yanked her down the up escalator. No matter how fast they ran, they couldn’t make any headway down. Finally, a knot of witches and wizards traveling to a seminar on Microbrewing (of potions) in Pasadena forced Harry and Hermione off the escalator.

They ducked as the now underpantsless witches attempted to grab the two young spellers. The security witches became entangled in the knot of travelers. Harry and Hermione galloped away down the stairs, which were much easier to negotiate.

Outside the terminal, they took a breather.

“I wonder what Bumblebore would do,” wondered Harry with a slight frown on his face.

A pile of newspapers rustled on a park bench. A homeless guy dressed in fraying purple robes and a moth-eaten Washington Wizard’s ball cap got up rather wobbly then fell back over.

“Bumblebore!” they shouted incredulous at their lack of good fortune.

“Huh? Wh-what do you want, you filthy urchins?” said the disheveled wizard as he shambled to his feet.

“Who you calling filthy? You swill drinking boozehound?” cried Hermione indignantly, shaking with rage. The locket with the Horcrux throbbed with contentment from its place between her bosoms.

“Tis but a silly figure of speech child from an addled old wizened wizard,” the wizened old wizard chided soothingly. “Pay me no mind.”

“That’s bloody more like it,” Hermione said sotto voce so that only Harry heard it.

“Bumblebore,” began Harry.

The ancient wizard rooted around in his robes; his tongue moving from side to side and his eyes unfocused skyward as he obviously looked for something within and rearranged something else in the front.

“Bumblebore—“

“You said that Harry,” said Bumblebore as he wrenched a lit stogie from his voluminous robes.

“Bumblebore—“

“No wonder these stories are so damned long,” sighed Bumblebore. “You want to know where to find the other Horcruxes, which in the made up Latinate that we use should be Horcruxii.” Bumblebore used the end of Hermione’s still sparking wand to re-light the cigar, which seemingly by magic, had gone out. He held her hand several heartbeats too long.

Hermione yanked her hand away and stomped off to find the little witches’ room to wash.

Bumblebore sighed. “Am I right?” he asked disinterestedly as he watched Hermione stomp away. He elbowed Harry in the ribs. “She does fill those robes out nicely, eh, Harry.”

Pitch It

Lexi asked me to say more about the “Pitch.” For those of you who don’t know, a “pitch” is a soccer (or for Lexi, a football) field. It is 90-120 meters by…. It is also what an ale brewer does with the wort….

A “pitch” is the selling of a writer and his (or her) work to an agent or publisher. The pitch is akin to speed dating for writers.

The speed dating analogy seems apt. Each of you are considering having a relationship. If there’s a good fit you will become a team. You will write and do some promotion and allow her (or him) to do her (or his) job which is trying to make the most for your writing. She (or he) will take 15% of everything you make forever.

I am not an expert. I have been only to conferences hosted by the Las Vegas Writers and the Willamette Writers. Their formats varied slightly. Willamette has non-fiction, novel, and screenplay pitching. I don’t recall what LV had beside fiction. All I can do is give my impressions and I’ll use the WWC since it’s my most recent experience. I did a bit of prep before the pitch:

  • Know the agent’s preferences and specialties. You need to know your audience for a pitch—don’t pitch a horror book to an agent specializing in children’s books.
  • What is the book about?
  • Why are you the person to write this? What makes you qualified?
  • Why now?

I took a résumé folder with my business card attached, the first five pages of my novel enclosed, the working title on the front, and no illusions about going all the way. While I had no illusions, I had hope. There are authors who have gotten book deals from these events. An agent’s want is simple: “The truth, brilliantly told.”

Before the pitch session I waited outside the meeting room along with thirty or so others. Inside, the agents sit, one to a table, waiting for the next writer. When the doors open, I was carried along through as if the dam were breached and I was a cork on the pond. Pitchers have ten minutes, from the moment the doors open, to tell the agent they’ve signed up to pitch to, why you’re the one his (or her) agency simply must sign.

After I sat down, I introduced myself, handed the folder to the agent, and gave him/her a quick synopsis of the story and why I was qualified to write the story: “The God of Trees is an eco mystery-thriller about a forester who wants to continue logging but an eco-terrorist group stands in his way. I’m a forester with thirty years of experience with the California Department of Forestry.” We chatted a bit after that about the current climate about environmental topics. One agent asked to see one hundred pages, the other requested the first three chapters.

I don’t think anyone should read too much into this. By the agents using a writing conference to screen potential writers they know that the writer is serious enough to plunk down cash for the opportunity to be listened to.

By asking to see a sample they don’t have to say no directly to the writer’s face. The chance of landing a contract with an agent and then with a publisher is slim.

After ten minutes, the doors opened and border collies nipping at my heels herded me out.

For more about pitching your work see: