“Short affair” Challenge. 7 August 2017. (Brown, Musical). What’s wrong with it?

[hypatia-66.livejournal.com]

What’s wrong with it?

“That colour really doesn’t suit you, chum,” his partner grumbled, “I don’t think you do my image any good. I’ll have to walk a pace behind you.”

“As is right and proper, my friend. Anyway, what’s wrong with it?”

“You’re blond, you’ve got blue eyes. You should wear grey or black – but not that.”

“I have a burgundy one, will that do?”

“Jeez, no!”

“Red and purple stripes?”

“!!”

His partner’s expressed anguish made him laugh. “Only kidding. I haven’t got one.”

“Listen, little renegade, there’s a tailor just around the corner. We can go there and, just for once, you can order something bespoke.”

“What? You can’t be serious.”

“Am, too. It’s time I took you in hand. You’re a mess.”

“I like me just the way I am, thanks.”

“While we’re at it, you can order a proper tux, too, and stop borrowing those ill-fitting garments from HQ.”

The blond, blue-eyed, now somewhat irritated agent threw up his hands and turned to face his dark-haired, elegantly attired, long-standing, and long-suffering partner. “You can go too far, my brown-eyed boy,” he snapped. “I don’t choose to waste my hard-earned salary on personal adornment.”

“I’m well aware of that!” They glared at each other, and it might have developed into quite a mutual snit if they hadn’t suddenly caught the little deprecating quirk in each other’s brow. There were few people around, fortunately, to see them jabbing and dodging round each other, laughing helplessly.

“Nevertheless,” said brown-eyes, as they recovered, “there is a tailor just here, and we’re going in,” and taking his friend by the arm, he marched him in.

A little round ball of a man bounced towards them beaming.

“Gentlemen, how can I be of assistance?” he cooed.

“My friend here, needs a coat and a tuxedo.”

“So I see, sir,” he said tactlessly, walking round examining the offending garment, quite unaware of the impending volcanic eruption that threatened his existence. “A very fine figure, if I may say so, sir. I’ll need to take your measurements,” he said, directing the volcano to a cubicle.

There was silence for a while, then came an angry squawk of dismay. A high-pitched, musical cry of alarm announced the eruption, and, preceded by an outpouring of hot rage, the volcano emerged flushed and furious.

“That’s it! I’m going.” And he swept out.

His friend looked at the deflating ball, and said “What happened?”

“I was taking his inside leg measurement, sir, and he seemed to take it amiss,” he said, brokenly.

“I’m sorry. Maybe he’s ticklish. Another time, perhaps.”

“Yes, sir. Anything I can do for you, sir?”

"Another time, but I'll surely be back."

"Thank you sir."

Comments

[spikesgirl58.livejournal.com]

I have a friend who desperately wants to be a fiction writer. He has a better handle on the technical aspect of writing than anyone I know, but he works so hard at trying to manipulate your feelings that all of his material is stilted and boring. Rather than just writing honestly and trusting his readers, he struggles to control every bit of the story. Then he wonder why his material keeps getting rejected. His writing professor, his reading group, even his betas have told him to let go and just write, but he can't. He has to be in total control. The sad part is, verbally he one of the best story tellers I've ever met.

Between that and coming up with an appropriate title, it's a daily struggle for me.

[hypatia-66.livejournal.com]

My mother was like that, and worse. She was a great one for long letters, pages and pages of typewritten trivia, often very entertaining, but when it came to the little bits of fiction she used to compose, she couldn't let go, let the story tell itself, and come to its own natural conclusion. She had to have a say in how people behaved in them, and why - and you can't; it doesn't work like that. Characters develop a separate existence from what you thought you'd planned for them. Her fiction could be stilted, like your friend's, but worse it was dishonest and sometimes creepily sentimental. This is a typical failing in a lot of fan fiction, where we are here. You can understand why: it fulfills a need in the writer (and perhaps some readers), but it's quite sad. I don't exclude myself in that judgement, of course.

And yet, when my mother wrote two autobiographical pieces in which you'd expect her to have wanted to manipulate the facts, she was honest, funny, sometimes spiteful and, in consequence, very readable. That's what you have to aim for - readability no matter what.

A corollary to this is the lecturer who can hold an audience in the palm of his/her hand, but whose words are leaden on paper. I'm editing someone like that now. Getting there I think...