Lydia woke to a muddle of sounds. Asleep at the desk again! The roar of the greasepaint and the smell of the crowd of promenading poodles from her dream mingled disappointingly with the crackly familiarity of Terrapin Station on her ipod. She waddled over to the espresso machine, bunions chiming, then eased back into the Chair of Judgment.

"Channel the Snark," she told herself again. "You ARE the Snark."

It didn't work. It never did.

She checked out galleycat and Bat Segundo, to make sure she hadn't missed anything. She hadn't.

"What I need," she thought," Are a few good writers. OK, even one. One good writer would make my day." She sighed, and clicked gmail.

"OK, Drop everything and give me ten ...books."

"Dear agent,

"Perhaps you've heard people talk about the Next Big Thing. Perhaps you've always secretly hoped to be the very person to discover it? Well sir, today is your day."

I'm a girl, doofus.

"I have decided to dispense with the formality of a query, and have sent you all 97 chapters of my oeuvre, Will of the Wisp. Will is an ordinary guy who works by day in a fast food place but writes wildly popular fan fiction and incognito love letters by night. My story builds to a climax in chapter 14 in which Will, on the point of confessing his authorship of the letters he's been writing to another man's crush, is suddenly whisked out of his Mazda Miata and carried off to the planet of the Wisp, who discovered his fan fiction tomes during his nightly podcast readings. They loved his stories so much that they brought him back home to Wisp in the hopes of using advanced tissue culture meiosis to permit him to read his stories in ten part harmony on WWISP radio. I can feel your pulse racing already at the very idea. Do you find me cruel, and wonder that I would send you such a dastardly cliffhanger?"

"That's not all I'm wondering about."

Never fear, my little agent friend."

"Yah, your mother wears Army boots."

"In consideration for your eyes dulled by dozens of terrible and doubtless handwritten manuscripts, I have also taken the liberty of sending my file in yellow 48 point text, to ease your suffering. I have also ordered that a masseur be sent to your office to rub your feet as you read, and a maid who will serve you tea as you scroll through the pages.


Just call me Will.

PS. Please find Will of the Wisp attached. Download shouldn't take more than an hour."

Lydia sat back and sighed. The intercom buzzed.

"Lydia, there's this guy down here who says.."

"Go ahead and send him up," said Lydia. "My bunions are twinkling in anticipation."

She pushed from her mind all thoughts of beverages other than tea, and turned her "What would Miss Snark Do" plaque to the wall. Then she opened the attachment.

This is hilarious. And I want one of those plaques!

This was counted wrong the first time. As far as I can tell, I forgot to take OUT my comments before I counted. Yes, Miss Snark is officially Nitwit of the Day.

Scoring to come


Anonymous said...

Too darn bad -- this was great!

Miss Snark said...

I am my own nitwit.
Thanks to a sharp eyed snarkling, the word count was rechecked: 494.

Miss Snark is calling for an audit of her abacus.

Liz Jones said...

Bummer-- I still missed it on the bunions (plural!!)

I'm working on your plaque. I misplaced the pen to my tablet PC, so work's been a bit slow. You're not the only nitwit!!