I didn’t sleep well last night. Today, in the middle of a prepositional phrase check of my novel prompted by Charles’ posting about cutting fat and metaphors, I decided my head would no longer stay up on its own. I sneaked upstairs for a quick nap, and proceeded to have the weirdest dream about my manuscript.

In the dream my job is to flip through the pages of my printed manuscript, find the stick figure illustrations I let a now absentee little girl draw on carbon paper, and color them yellow. After a couple of successfully colored images, I come across a stick figure self-portrait of the girl, complete with triangle dress and swooped-up ponytails adorned with out-of-perspective bows. Above her head is scrawled some nasty message about everyone dying, including me.

As I stare at the drawing, the page begins to turn black, as if someone somewhere else is scribbling across the original carbon paper and it’s mystically transferring to my copy. After a few moments, the entire picture is covered in scrawling black strokes, except for the white outline of this child and her creepy little message. Not good. The faint sound of singing starts to come from the manuscript remaining inside the box. Even worse.

I put the entirety of my manuscript back in the box. As a brilliant afterthought for protection, I scrawl runes all over it (in the dream I was actually freaking out that the box was black and that no ink would show up on it. Then, in the magical way of dreams, I found a silver paint pen in my hand). I leave the box on the floor, covered in protective charms that are presumably supposed to hold in whatever the hell has possessed my manuscript, and head for the nearest exit. In response, the room erupts into a chorus of creepy voices. In an upbeat tempo, they sing that the only other person who can save me from them is a witch, and they’ll send her to me–starting with her head.

I woke up doing that half-jolt, half-gasping thing that would’ve been embarrassing if anyone else had been in the room with me at the time.

Now fully conscious–and sitting at my desk with the real manuscript box in uncomfortably close proximity–I’m wishing I could remember the song. It was reminiscent of that old Halloween cartoon where the deep-voiced ghosts are celebrating the fact they’re ghosts in a sing/chant manner. And the words of my song rhymed, which is weird because I’m terrible at thinking of rhyming words.

I can’t complain about being haunted in the dream, though. It seems deserved retribution for hiring a kid to illustrate a dark fantasy novel with mature themes–even though she didn’t do a very good job.

So, did this phantasmagoria stem from anxiety about not yet hearing back from the agent? Could it have been nerves about having to change part of the story at the last minute? Or, was it clearly Charles’ fault?

You decide.

What would a writer do if he or she found out a scene in their completed, yet unpublished story closely paralleled a scene in a recently released, immensely popular work of fiction? Should the unknown, untried writer run right to the keyboard and change it? Or wait and see what the professionals have to say about it all?

Part of me would want this writer to stick to his or her guns, to insist that sometimes coincidences happen in writing and that no fault can be laid with them. Shit happens. The other part (the larger, louder part) thinks that this writer is backed against a wall with no hopes of coming out looking good. After all, we’re talking about a novel by an author who’s fairly well off and reasonably well-loved. When it comes down to accusation time by critics and readers (and it will, of that I have no doubt), no one will believe that this unknown writer had the idea first (or, at the very least the same time). No, the literary masses will think the unknown writer read this novel and snatched up a touching scene (involving a character they’re already sensitive about) and bastardized it for profit, hoping to get away with a rip-off.

And why shouldn’t they?

They don’t know the unknown writer. No one does. And no one’s read the story except a veteran author, a pair of novice writers and one civilian. It’s newbie’s word against a drove of hardcore fans. It’s not going to look so good.

So, what for this writer? Defeat? Wave the white flag while running pell-mell in the opposite direction, screaming, “Sorry! Sorry!” all the way?

I suppose my sparse, untried advice is for the unknown to suck it up for now, see which way the wind blows, and then take it from there. After all, while the entire theme is eerily correlative, the resoundingly similar parts can be (if the unknown writer stops huffing, swallows a big throatful of pride and reads this with equanimity) changed with little effort. And maybe the Big Guns won’t see it as such a big deal, anyway. Maybe.

I suppose this is a first step for the unknown writer; a freshman dip into the skin-toughening baptismal font. That the unwelcome initiation came from nowhere, sneaking up in the guise of a long-anticipated read, well, I suppose that, too, can be a lesson of sorts for the unknown writer.

I finally got to see Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix last night. Instead of delving into a detailed critique of the entire movie–a topic which I am sure has been beaten to death over the internet already–I’m going to say three short things, and leave it at that.

1) I still hate the way they’ve characterized/cast Dumbledore. He snapped at the students. Dumbledore! What’s up with that? And the actor–can that man do any expression other than angry? Where’s the constant smile? The unflappability?

2) Harry’s, “I feel sorry for him,” scene. Ick. Cheesy.

3) No matter what unfocused, tiny corner of the screen they shoved Helena Bonham Carter into, I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. Lucius Malfoy might as well have not even been there.

That’s it. Three things.

Now, I’m waiting for my book. I ordered it from Amazon and chose the free shipping, so I’ll be getting my copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows a couple days later than the rest of the world’s population. Yes. I’m cheap when it comes to paying for shipping. At least my weekend is booked, so I wouldn’t be able to read it if i had it, anyway. And being somewhere else, knowing it’s sitting on my desk, waiting for me, is probably worse than not having it at all. At least that’s what I’m telling myself.

I’m having a lot of geek-outs this week, aren’t I?

For a total geek-out. I haven’t been this excited since Alias.

Christina adorably felt I had eight things interesting enough about myself to share with the rest of you and tagged me for this:

The Rules

1. We have to post these rules before we give you the facts. 2. Players start with eight random facts/habits about themselves. 3. People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their eight things and post these rules. 4. At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names. 5. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.

If you’ve not already moved on to a more interesting blog (what’s wrong with you?), here are my eight random facts:

1) I took four years of French and never understood any of it.

2) Whenever I go to a zoo, I’m torn between interest and guilt.

3) I can’t stand people I don’t know being in my personal space. It’s torture for me to have to sit next to a stranger. That’s part of the reason I don’t fly, and all of the reason why I won’t go see a movie until its been out for two weeks and its a ten o’clock showing.

4) I have a collection of Ouija boards. The cheapest is the 1970’s Parker Brothers one everybody is familiar with. The most expensive is a 1917 William Fuld board. The rarest is a pre-WWII J.M. Simmons board that has a swastika (a symbol of luck before Hitler commandeered it) on one corner. I own many others that are neither rare nor particularly pricey. I have no desire to mess around with any of them.

5) My imagination and my tendency to obsess are pretty much evenly distributed, and I let them both run away with me more often than is probably healthy.

6) I’m the worst video game player you’d ever have the misfortune to see.

7) I’d eat sushi every day of the week, and damn the mercury poisoning.

8) I spent years waiting for something to happen with my life before figuring out that I needed to make it happen.

That’s it. More than you ever needed to know about Avery. Now, go find something better to do.

“Pennywise Office Supply, they all float down here.”

That’s how I was tempted to answer the phone the entire three months I worked as a telephone customer service representative at Pennywise Office Supply when I was twenty. It was a depressing job — think along the lines of The Office, but with less lighting, more mildew, and a lot sketchier neighborhood. Even better were the Saturdays I was required to work ten-to-six, fielding maybe three phone calls the entire day while the warehouse below me loomed vast and dark (they didn’t turn those lights on, despite the fact that it was a solo shift, and no other workers were ever in the labyrinth-like building the long hours I sat there). The only breaks in the monotony were bouts of violence from the packs of junior thugs outside who’d, on occasion, beat the snot out of someone passing by — which only reminded me that I would have to take my chances with them in another few hours, as well.

Like I said, it was a great gig.

All this comes up because on the way back from Hershey Park on Saturday, my brother-in-law played It on the DVD player in his spaceship/car for his three kids — none of whom were impressed. I’d forgotten how bad that movie was. The only redeeming factor was Tim Curry playing Pennywise, but even my favorite line, “They all float down here,” was beaten to death by the end. And the big space turtle, well, we won’t even go there.

There’s something about Stephen King’s stories that just don’t translate well to celluloid. I think it has to do with his style, how he can make the most ridiculous things seem terrifying. But, when someone attempts to translate that imagery to film, it all falls apart. I think his exact words, his exact descriptions are necessary — which, of course, can’t happen when turning a manuscript into a film script. Even my favorite, The Shining wouldn’t have been very good if not for Jack Nicholson’s plastic face and rasping voice. The special effects were marginal, at best, and the essence of the story was mostly lost. This is especially true of Danny’s gift, and his relationship with the caretaker. There was just enough of his Shining mentioned in the movie to enable them to wrap up the ending. The real feel for what his gift was and what it meant to Danny was gone. By the time Hollywood was done with it, there wasn’t much Shine left to it at all.

Still, this reunion with Pennywise left me nostalgic for my teenage years when I plowed through every one of King’s books with a zealot’s fervor. I think I might have to find my old copy of It once more. After all, that’s the book that confirmed my long-held belief that clowns are seriously messed up.

As for Pennywise the office supply store, I don’t know of its fate. Maybe the entire building finally succumbed to dampness and gravity. Maybe Staples ran them out of business. Or, maybe there’s an unfortunate twenty year-old sitting in my former desk right now, suppressing with every shrill ring of the phone the urge to pick up and say, “Pennywise Office Supply, they all float down here.”

My web-hunting friend, X, has managed once again to surface with a winner. From the good people over at Something Awful comes a review for a movie that insists — and I quote — “Where Buffy leaves off, Avia Richards the vampire huntress begins.” This is just about the funniest review ever. It’s so damn amusing, I even feel compelled to procure this video and see for myself.

The review is three pages long, but well worth it, I assure you. My favorite quotes are, in order of hilarity:

1) “Passing by this nefarious killer’s Titanic poster, the detectives head up into the attic in search of their suspect.“

2) “Nothing like seeing two virtual strangers dry hump while their teeth glow Chernobyl blue.”

3) “Vampires are the misplaced keys of the monster world.”

4) And the best of all, a direct quote from the film itself. “Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe I’m killing innocent people. But the fact is that I am Avia, Vampire Hunter, and I will not stop until all vampires are dead.”

That last one sets the tone nicely, doesn’t it?

So without further ado, Ben ‘Greasnin” Platt’s Review of Avia Vampire Hunter

Oh. And a video of the trailer. God bless YouTube.

…it’s out there. Three years after I started this novel, my first query package has left my desk and zipped through cyberspace to the first agent’s inbox. Knowing that it’s there right now, waiting to be opened, makes me feel–quite honestly–violently ill.

Have you ever seen the movie Office Space? There’s a part where an employee who’d been embezzling funds from his company puts a letter admitting his guilt under his boss’ door. The letter slips from his hands and slides far into the room. He stands, enjoying a brief instant of satisfaction, and then dives back down in a panic, stretching his fingers under the door crack in a vain attempt to retrieve it. That’s how I felt when I hit the ‘Send’ button. Like I’d have done anything at that moment to pull it back. It’s not that I didn’t do my best, or feel that it wasn’t ready, it was just a knee-jerk reaction to finally stepping up and letting someone who could possibly alter my future have a look at it. It’s pretty scary, and I admire those of you who’ve already done it.

I’m having mini-daymares about the possible mistakes I overlooked. Earlier, when I went to make a minor correction and tried to write, ‘its,’ I ended up writing, ‘tits.’ Now I’m sitting here imagining an entire document peppered with the word ‘tits’ in random places. Very professional.

Since this is a firm that takes only online submissions placed in the body of an e-mail, I had to grapple with the loss of formatting, as well. I nagged a tech friend, I e-mailed him drafts saved in HTML, RTF, DOC and TXT. None would save my indents or my line spacing. At least TXT got rid of the strange line breaks. Then again, who knows what has happened to the submission on their end? Green text? A mishmash of lines without any breaks at all? Gibberish symbols in the place of em-dashes? I really cringe to think about what happened the minute my Mac tried to play nice with a PC. Then again, if online submissions are all they’ll accept, then they must have seen pretty much everything go wrong with formatting before, anyway.

As soon as I banish this bout of queasiness, I think I’ll go ahead and write up the full plot outlines of my next two books. It’ll take my mind off of things, and prepare me for my future — which now hangs in the hands of someone other than myself (Did you hear that? It was my stomach rumbling again). Plus, the final Harry Potter will be out next month — a welcome distraction for my obsessive mind.

It’s a weird feeling, this is. One that’s both elating and panic-inducing. But, at least I did it. I took my novel-in-progress, and, with a click, turned it into a novel under consideration.

That’s got to be worth something, right?

Even we writers — who are by trade a blessedly reclusive lot — are forced at times to get out there in society, clink glasses and make polite chitchat. Many of us, however, are so used to directing our little worlds and making conversations go the way we want them that we sometimes drop the ball when speaking to someone who didn’t spring from our own frenzied minds. We not only forget the social world isn’t ours to control, but oftentimes forget there is another world out there, at all.

If at social events you sit in the farthest corner and pray to become invisible, or if you circulate parties like a shark, knowing with deep and unwavering certainty the moment you pause by the chip bowl that inevitable annoying person will corner you and proceed to fire all sorts of boring, nonsensical, or offensive small talk your way, then I have a few tools to help you survive (and maybe even enjoy) your next event.

PLAYING NICE 101***

Before getting to the Do’s, I’d like to address a few amateur tactics that fall under the widely accepted category of ‘Don’ts.’

1) Don’t stare at the floor, ceiling or a thousand yards ahead of you without proper eye-disguise (detailed below). People are largely of the opinion that writers are a spacey lot. We don’t need to give them fuel for the fire.

2) Don’t run in the opposite direction when someone approaches. It makes you appear cowardly, and a fitting target for later on when the party kicks in and that individual makes his way back around to you.

3) Don’t act like you’ve got major attitude, unless you do. In which case, no one will want to talk to you, anyway.

4) Don’t drown in alcohol. It’ll take the edge off the social discomfort, but will also take the edge off your mind, and you’ll suddenly find yourself in a circle of people talking at great lengths about the newest adventures of Paris Hilton. And you don’t want that, do you?

Okay. Now that we’ve dispelled some of the wrong ways to survive a party, we’ll move on to the right ones.

TO AVOID SPEAKING TO ANYONE AT ALL:

1) HOLD COURT. You’ll need to find a chair, preferably one that’s higher than all the others. Position it under a light source — spotlights are great, recessed lighting will do (fluorescents should be avoided; you’re trying to look regal, not like death incarnate). Make sure your back is to the wall. If you can manage it so that all available aisle-space leads directly to you, all the better. Sit upon your new throne with a rigid back and an expression of apathy. The darker your overall look, the better this technique works. Do not hunch! If you have a drink, hold it away from you as if the condensation droplets are unfitting to touch your royal skin. No one will come near, because approaching you will be like approaching someone of a higher rank, and you’re just that dipshit writer who’s not all that interesting, anyway.

2) CRAZY GUY. This one is a little more reputation destroying, and shouldn’t be used if you care at all about what those in attendance will think of you. My father took me to the shooting range last year. One of the other shooters was this old guy who was alternating firing off rounds from an assault rifle with eating Fudge Stripe cookies. When he approached me, the last thing I wanted to do was talk to him. It wasn’t the fact that he was in possession of a high-powered firearm, or even that he was pretty damn good at hitting the center of the target from many yards away. It was the twin lines of chocolately cookie drool etched into the corners of his mouth that he seemed blissfully oblivious to that told me conversing with this man would be the equivalent of having hot nails inserted into my eye. I was right. So, if you don’t care that you look like crazy-cookie-gunman to everyone in attendance, chomp away on whatever brightly hued snacks are available and let the drool machine go to work.

TO GET OUT OF SPEAKING WITH SOMEONE WHO HAS ALREADY CORNERED YOU:

1) BE NEEDY. Ask the person to get you a drink. When they return, ask them to hold it for you while you dig in your pockets or purse. If you’re a man, empty your pockets in the person’s free hand while muttering about, “It has to be here somewhere.” If you’re a woman, even better. Make the person hold your purse while you dig in it for some random object. If the individual that approached you is a man, he’s guaranteed to split.

2) BE AGGRESSIVE. I don’t want you to be mean, just — proactive. For every one stupid question asked of you, fire back ten in return. But, be careful of your target. If the person is an egomaniac, he won’t care how idiotic your queries are, just as long as they’re aimed at — and are all about — him. If that unfortunate event does transpire, immediately switch to talking about yourself. Make sure the topics are inane and boring — such as why you prefer opening your cereal packages with scissors rather than by hand and how much fresher that cereal tastes if a rubber band is used to secure it again, rather than one of those pedestrian chip clips. Then, proceed to detail every cereal in your pantry, and every cereal you’ve ever eaten. Be sure to include key specifics about the texture of generic corn flakes versus the brand name, and the subtle changes in hue you’ve noted in the red colored Fruit Loops in the past twelve to fifteen months. Stand back and enjoy the glazed look in your prey’s eyes.

WHEN YOU JUST HAVE TO PLAY NICE:

We all know the people — bosses, higher-ups, distinguished members of the community, and your spouses’ co-workers. No matter what a dullard, fool or jackass they may be, sometimes you just have to suck it up and prepare for twenty minutes of PLAYING NICE. But, don’t worry; you can still have some fun doing it:

1) DARK SUNGLASSES. No one can tell you’re rolling your eyes or staring at the ceiling if you’re wearing these puppies (cyber goggles are an excellent choice for this situation). However, I cannot emphasize enough the need for advance preparation when employing this method. Before attempting the sunglasses technique in a dreaded social setting, it is crucial that you take them into a room with the brightest light possible and examine your eye movements in the mirror. If you can see your irises take a circuitous trip around your sockets, you can be damn sure everyone else can, too. But, if your glasses pass the bright light test, slap ’em on and feel free to cross, roll, and even shut your eyes during that insanely interesting conversation about the merits of owning a Lexus SUV.

2) ‘HOW NICE.’ The joke goes: Two southern women are talking. The first is bragging about the various expensive gifts her husband has bestowed upon her. The second responds to each boastful claim with, “How nice.” Finally finished detailing her recent acquisitions, the first lady asks the second what her husband bought for her. The second woman replies, “Charm school lessons.” The first blinks incredulously and repeats, “Charm school lessons? Why on earth would you need charm school lessons?” The second lady responds to the question without pause, saying, “I used to say, ‘Fuck you,’ but now I say, ‘How nice.'” And that, my friend, is the entirety of the ‘How Nice’ technique. They act like a self-possessed jerk, you reply, “How nice.” Try and leave out the southern drawl, though. I know it’s tempting, but it’ll give you away a lot faster.

AND, IF THE CONVERSATION TAKES A TURN FOR THE WORST (which it shouldn’t, if you’ve followed my above techniques):

3) BE ULTRA NICE. No. Matter. What. If they disagree with you, smile. If they call you every name in the book, blink benignly and keep smiling. If they insist you’re the most uneducated person they’ve ever had the misfortune to lay eyes upon, agree with them. They’ll get angrier, and you’ll get a big ol’ helpin’ of fiendish satisfaction.

So, the next time the spouse insists that the outside is better than the in, and that if you don’t move from your computer chair it will root to your backside, just go along. It’ll make the one you love happy, and you’ll be more than prepared to deal with whatever comes your way.

***Disclaimer — Avery is, in all manner of speaking, a socially maladjusted individual not certified, qualified or even bright enough to give anyone advice on how to survive in a social situation. Use the above techniques at your own peril.