Robert Kelly Orchard Park Golf Superintendent

Chapter 7 (last part)

; Andrea folded the paper and sat down.

Mark was staring at him. With fingers drummed on the table a tune. He looked back at Francis, who did not mind the whole thing. He decided to break the ice: "So Andrew, what does this threatening letter to a psychopath with our problem?". He returned to fix it.

"Then just do not understand," Andrea kept her head slightly tilted to one side, the look on the floor.

"There's a war in place. We're no longer talking about style or another. Here is a sharp-toothed monster that is emerging in all its squalor. "

"Ah," Frank nodded, "Here the only problem is the sales peak, the sabotage of a cultural industry at the outset. You're not taking too seriously a simple quarrel and a couple of letters from fans psychopaths? "

" No, "replied Andrea. "Luana was just the beginning. These people were in dire need of show. They were to emerge from the darkness of consumerism. What we want is action. What seeking and decision-making. We are living in our area. But this trend is general. "

"Boom! The end of the world, "said Francis.

"Francesco you pretend not to understand. Here is our future at stake. They want to be the power, the fulcrum, the centralization of culture. Become the only option. "

"But what the hell has this to do with the accusations of syntax, wrong views, recommendations, and other crap? "

" Luana, unbeknownst to him, is a Trojan horse. She has organized, gave the reasons, broadcast of ideas, has created a community. He gathered the energies of people who were bored to death. And someone else knows how to exploit them. "

"Andrea, you ..."

"Crazy?"

"I did not say, but ..." Francis tried to defend themselves.

Marco got up, took his whiskey glass and emptied it. "What do you propose to do? We could contradict them on their own ground, to improve our works, bring down their charges. "

"Useless, their castle is built on solid foundations. The only alternative is to defend our castle from the assault and start to prepare for the worst. "

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Chapter 7 (Part II, 12:00)

" Dear writer of a major publishing house, I'm your admirer. You could define a very jealous person. You know, I admire the writers really good, but to you only feel a fierce envy. Because you are not good, capable, and nor have the talent.

let's face it all: you posted because you made some friends.

I know you're thinking that I can choose not to read.

So you're thinking I'm a fool.

I know you're thinking that's not my business

But here is where you're wrong, because throughout the whole thing is my deal.

you, you and your buddies, you have polluted the literature, and killed the dreams and hopes of aspirants like me who put their heads and study, and not as you say, the heart.

you, you and your buddies, you helped to create a system in which the publication is a sort of divine concession to his acolytes by bosses and barons.

you, you and your buddies, you are allowed beyond friendship and the law of the market there are no other selection criteria.

Thanks to you, the Cartesian coordinates of this system can only be paraculaggine values. Meritocracy, the quality can only be considered if it falls within the two criteria mentioned above.

Now, we know, you and I, who not only your writing, you and your buddies , is sloppy, boring, meaningless, silly, dog shit, but is also a writing that kills the thought, imagination. It's a style that tries to atrophy the brain and mind. To interrupt the work of the synapse. To create links between different areas of the mind.

you, you and your buddies, tell summarizing, generalizing, rivers of words which preclude the use of sight. You, you and your buddies, you know only conceptualize. But a concept that has no form is invisible and empty.

Now, we know, you and I, that the stakes do not play on the "show, do not tell," I'm not one of those idiots following a poor demented Mrs. Luana in her, let's call it, crusade. I'm not one of those idiots in search of relief.

I'm not one of those idiots looking for a community that gives meaning to my existence.

I am one of those to whom they were shown endless possibilities.

I am one of those who have been promised the keys to the future.

I am one of those who have been leading a life foretold.

Instead, today, after numerous attempts, I find myself living and passively yours, you and your friends both repulsive stories, your grudge and insolence.

Well, Mr. author of a major publishing house I found a solution to the problem.

I and my cronies (four very different from those poor fools who follow the Luana, whose only aspiration is to teach them to write) we found the final solution.

'll get the eyes, cutting off the hands, and will reduce the brain to a pulp. To you and your buddies.

So, for fun. A small reward for these years so terribly boring.

Sincerely, a fan of his.

Paul Glowatski Philadelphia

Chapter 7 (Part One, Ore 11:00)

The idea that there was someone who could not write his pleasure, and even wanted to delete it from a hypothetical register as a writer had never, not even remotely touched the brain. The idea itself was ridiculous. How could anyone think of a capacity to eradicate a human being.

He had dreamed of literary cafes in which to discuss the great masters, surrounded by the best Italian and foreign writers. Invitations, galas, ceremonies, awards and considerations. Academic awards, a primary role in the Italian culture. The great pioneer of the new Italian. In the limit use the fantastic as a Trojan horse.

But, other than literary cafes, was meeting with other colleagues in a cold room with no windows around a round table. A discussion be taken against the counter-Luana and his acolytes. A search for some sort of protection from potted letters arrived at his address.

"The situation got out of hand. We are doing the ass "Frank broke the silence of the room. "The situation is crazy. We are competing with a neurotic schoolteacher and exalted, who spends his time looking for a pen with red blood all our mistakes. "

"Speak for yourself Francesco. I do not make mistakes. I follow my own style. "

"Yeah, right, Andrea," Mark put down his glass of whiskey on the table. He ran his tongue between his lips thin. "Let's face it, is telling us exactly the truth. Many of us consider the plot a goddess and supreme style and technique ... "

" Mark, you are diverting the main issue. All of us are aware of our limitations. This is not the problem. "

"So, enlighten us of immense Andrea!" Mark smiled, taking his glass of whiskey.

Andrea got up and ran his hand trembling on thinning hair. He took from his jeans pocket a slip of paper and unfolded it. He watched all of these before starting to read in low tone and hard.

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Interlude No. 1 Interlude No. 2

"The suburbs dream of violence. Sleepy asleep in their houses, sheltered by benevolent shopping malls, waiting patiently for the arrival of the nightmares that have them awaken in a world more full of passion ..."

JG Ballard, Kingdom Come

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I can no longer see fascists, communists, blacks, Jews, Palestinians, American imperialists and anti-globalization advocates. I see only men. Sometimes, often, I fear.

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The key word of the rebellion: awareness. The verb forged on the thin membrane of his brain. Like an old black and white film in his mind echoed the words of Burroughs: " A writer can write only one thing: what's in front of his senses at the time of writing ... I'm not a recording instrument ... I presume to impose a "theory", a "plot", a "continuity" ... As long as I can record directly to certain areas of psychic process I have limited features ... my goal is not to entertain ... ".

unacceptable.

had been aware from the outset of his goal. Educating for good writing. With good stories. Writers like Burroughs were the enemies. The other species. Those who technique is the enemy.

See what's on the tip of the fork: shit passes for a good meal. Their writing is bare, only capable of producing excrement.

"You had to have more awareness. You have underestimated your disciples. " Martin put his glass of rum on the table.

Luana returned to focus on the speech of his guest "There are always risks. There are always people over the top. I figured everything. "

Martin motioned to the waiter, "Another."

watched the local level. His disciples were bent over their notebooks. Groups of five persons intent to apply rules and words to be chained to their queen.

His writing workshop.

Martin leaned forward, a few inches from the face of Luana: "Perhaps you did not understand the problem well. Your fierce irony gave head to someone. You know who you are. If I'm not wrong your project was to reveal some altars and giving advice to aspiring. But ... from a certain point of view, someone Sbrocco.

She took the pineapple juice and took a sip.

"I mean, this is not ... well more 'I have the impression that it has crossed the threshold."

Luana put the glass down, rubbed his lip: "You are experiencing the influence of the enemy, Martin. Here there is no war in progress. This is just text. There are only good intentions to save money and advice to readers. "

Martin took a cigarette from the table. He lit it. A deep breath. Dense exhalation of awe.

"No, Luana. You're wrong. I have been a great supporter and your also a supporter of freedom of choice is that the writer of the reader. On my blog I was able to discern between a good criticism, suggestions for readings and personal attacks and targeted. I learned to differentiate between the souls of good will and damned souls. I, at least, recommended deployment does not impose. Instead, your brand has become a sword of Damocles on the head writers. And your blog has become a haven for aspiring writers and readers looking for interesting and useful reading for a destination for writers and pseudo Executioner failed. We are creating factions and even racist resentment toward certain types of readers. "

Luana closed hands. Squeezed. The long nails to scratch his skin. He slammed his fists on the table. Aspiring stopped writing and the place is blocked pending the smoke opacity lighting.

"Enough is enough. I can not deny any interest in what I do. Do not you dare to accuse me of any kind of frustration. Your paranoia is only dictated by your failure as a blogger. Are your reviews, peppered with crap to annoy the readers. Are you aspiring. If I remember correctly, you're the one who once wrote stories in the hope of publication. I never had aspirations to do so. "

Martin stood up. He moved the chair and picked up his pack of cigarettes. He finished his rum.

"Luana, I'm sorry. I understand that you've made your choice. I was hoping for one ... your patience. I want to clarify that you come down to same level as your enemy diversity is envy. "

She pushed the table hitting Martin in the thigh.

"Enough! Do not you dare insult me \u200b\u200bin my house. Get out. "

Martin while pawing the injured leg, bowed and disappeared, leaving behind a string of beads pixels.

Luana glanced at the tables. His disciples watched with eyes wide and shining. The Queen put his hand to his heart. " Show, do not tell!" . They reach into the heart and reciprocated in unison: " Show, do not tell!" .

Vincent, with his hand to the heart, along with some loyalists, smiled, closing his eyes. " Show, do not tell or die." the tip of the fork is just shit.

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Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 4

Avalon

"Extrapolate phrases from a broader context does not do justice to the quality of the text. This only serves to context and bring water to their mill. "

Everton:

"@ Avalon

You do not want just understand. It is not just expressions of bad taste as "The boy was old," "Lara was beautiful, a beauty all women, who do not show anything and they want to vomit, but also of logic. Because the main character did not kill the bad guy when he had a chance under the bridge Taur? And we are tired of the same stories. Enough of these ogres and orcs.

Avalon

"@ Everton:

You see that you have not read My novel, but you stop to the review of Loris, because there is no ogre in my story. Then if the protagonist has lashed the decisive blow to the enemy can be understood only by following the course of history. But then you always know how things go, right? You have your manual and your stupid rules. Do you know where you get your ridiculous comments? You're just whipping people and envious. "

Vincent:

@ Avalon

" You're an established author whose mastery of writing techniques is certified by the publication by a major publishing house, so do not listen well to criticism, say clearly, 99% are the result of envy passes for competence. "

disconnect in place.

Too easy. Yes, all too simple.

Thanks to this last shot, Vincenzo, had managed to inflict upon the enemy's yet another defeat. His arrogance and his vanity was too obvious a target. The rest of his enemy felt a rockstar literature.

The only viable alternative that his enemy was able to take was the display of erudition in the service of an improbable and his few faithful readers. A screen to save the crippling embarrassment of his style. Could not write, he knew well. So, he decided to invent intellectual . Result: in a pathetic post on the proliferation of historical research of the setting of his next novel seal of his dedication and authority. As if that served to improve his writing and his artistic talent. As if the information could claim a divine right to the narrative capacity of any brilliant craftsman.

A history of Nazism is the shit that is still a history of shit. A wonderful story that speaks of Nazism is still a wonderful story. Shit, do not have the same chemistry.

Yet these results did not lead to anything. There were still many readers who followed him and who were willing to keep reading so much other shit.

Two possibilities on the horizon for Vincent: let it go and focus on the potential of his writing or persuade the queen to go to Plan C. But the queen would never have supported this choice. Perhaps someone else, however, would be convinced. After all, a bit 'of terror would have shaken the real environment.

Vincent raised his helmet to chess and took off his helmet. He put the laptop on the floor. He rose from the sofa and went to the wall plastered the pictures of his enemy . He stretched his gaze to a picture that portrayed him with a smiling face. He put his hand next to the white face of his enemy .

"How much money have you fooled, eh? How many of you have pocketed my money? You've stolen the dream. You took my place. Should I be there for you. Me with my big novel, "Vincent shook the hand of the photo. The sides began to break away from the wall, the eyes of the enemy were lost in the palm of Vincent.

"You'll pay dearly. You pay with your buddies. This is the time of redemption. The time of redemption of the verb submerged and forgotten. Our words become weapons. Our words become meat. Our flesh will devour your flesh. You will be consumed, eaten and vomited. "

tore the pictures off the wall, rolling it.

He approached the small ball to his mouth and began to devour it.