"Hi Evil Editor," the aspiring author said, his voice squeaking like the brakes on a '73 Plymouth Fury I once owned. "I know your time is valuable, so I'm gonna cut to the chase like a Bowie knife through a lamb spleen. I've written a novel I think you'll find as riveting as a Native American on a skyscraper I-beam. It opens with a fireworks display of ennui, progresses through a flash flood of pathos, and closes in a tsunami of tuna and salami sandwiches. Think cocaine on steroids."
"Interest...
Published on September 13, 2009 07:12