Monday, November 15, 2010

Here are the things that I don't like about my writing:
1. The misogyny, how come my female characters are always so shallow and useless?
2. Not enough imagery. You don't really get a sense of scene in a lot of my stories. I emote very well, but you rarely know what color things are.
3. Action, nothing ever seems to happen in the stories I write.
4. Depth, they're all so shallow. It's like I really have nothing to say. I suppose someday I will and it will be useful then to have practiced speaking, but I'm worried that the practice will ruin the later message.
5. Length, too short.
6. I can't keep a coherent plot together to save my life.

Sunday, November 14, 2010

212 B

"Of course" She answered, not even looking up from the table.

"I'm, sorry but that doesn't answer the question I asked. I asked what room Alexandria Van Plotts is staying in." Timothy wasn't sure why he had apologized. The pale complexion of the counter girl, plus the ironic pill box hat perched precariously on her head, added to the too-red lipstick, meant that he wouldn't get a straight answer or good service out of the girl, she was too concerned with the higher truths of her complexion and image in the small pocket mirror cut through with neat razor slashes she held in her left hand.

"Sir, remain calm" The dreadful girl droned "We're doing everything we can to process your request, and we'll have an answer for you shortly."

"Excuse me, but it is a simple question. Don't you have a register or a computer or anything back there? Don't you write these things down?"

"Yes, we have all those things, and yes we write them down, but sir." With the last sir the young woman looked up at the young man, and with a twisted little delight in her eyes she said "We're doing everything we can to process your request, and we'll have an answer for you shortly."

Nothing was being done in the lobby of the hotel. The elevators were not moving up or down, and the ceiling fans were not even twirling. The air was stifling and stale.

"Look, I've got to meet Ms. Van Plotts, we've an engagement for the evening. You see I'm a reporter, well sort of, anyway, like I said, we've an engagement for the evening, and you know how she is, I'm sure you've read about her in the news."

"Sir, it is the official policy of the Whitmore Hotel to know nothing about this subject. The privacy of our guests is our highest priority." The pale girl said, that same wicked smile returning to her lips.

A man in a garish Hawaiian shirt casually pushed his way through the brass and glass of the revolving door. There was a camera around his neck, it wasn't a digital camera. A camera bag was carelessly hung from his shoulder. There was nothing about this man that indicated any sort of competency. He seemed to be the sort of man who would spend his whole Sunday drinking cigars and betting on horses or dogs at the track, if you take my meaning.

The girl behind the counter reached over and pushed Timothy to one side.

"Stu, you know the drill, third floor second maintenance door on the right, and this time you better get my split before Tuesday."

After witnessing this Timothy had come to several conclusions about the moral status of the Whitmore Hotel and its employees.

"Look, I just need to see Ms. Van Plotts. She left a message on my machine asking me to come here, she didn't leave a room number, anyway, like I said, we've got plans."

"I thought you had an engagement." The girl behind the counter looked very pleased with herself.

"Yeah, whatever. Look I'll give you twenty bucks."

"For what?"

"Just give me her room number."

The girl behind the counter leaned forward, which had the effect of drawing Timothy's eyes towards her bosom, and with some impossibly perfect swagger in her voice she said "Sir, the Whitmore Hotel is doing everything we can to process your request, and we'll have an answer for you shortly."

It had been twenty minutes since Timothy had first walked up to the desk. He leaned back on his heels, left hand to chin, and looked forward into the evening, he could scrap the interview, and he could stop dealing with this ridiculous facsimile of a person in front of him. He could go out to the bars and taverns and find someone to occupy his time until sunrise. Dinner could be found at any number of convenient and agreeable places, and in the morning at the staff meeting he could say that the Alexandria Van Plotts had not been at the hotel, and that a vomit stain outside of her door in the hallway had led Timothy to the conclusion that she was "in" for the evening.

It was going to be so easy. Timothy knew that the events he had just forecasted would come true if he let them. With a little smile on his lips he leaned forward and said to the pale girl, with the too-red-lipstick, and the coquettishly perched pill box hat, and said "What Room, please, is Alexandria Van Plotts staying in?"