Your favourite authors, and why?

[promethean75]

Johnny Vegas appears again just after Serge's following the chrysler. I'm not certain of his significance, but i believe he's the trustfund baby involved somehow with the dirty insurance company that Wilbur worked for.

In the first book, he's presented as a hot, sporty young italian looking chad-like guy with a Porsche and a cigar boat who patrols all the big beach parties looking for bubble headed college girls that want to go out on his boat.

But every time he gets a girl on first base, something outrageous happens that disrupts the game and he ends up not getting laid again.

I didn't finish Florida Roadkill, so i don't know how many times he failed to get laid in that one. That's his character formula though. But obviously, he lived and appeared again in Hammerhead Ranch Motel.

In the epic fail following the Serge scene above, he's got a girl in a motel room naked and ready to go and a forest fire breaks out across the street, smokes out the room and police come knocking to order a mandatory evacuation. This kid can't win for losing.

[promethean75]

Speaking of another Storm Serge in Florida, Tim Dorsey explains how a character in Shark Skin Suit was inspired by a customer who was waitressed by Tim's daughter at the restaurant she worked at. You know the type of guy; the spotless white polo shirt rich guy who subtly condescends and always makes sure everyone in the room knows he's wealthy. Fuckin guy orders a new age cookie and then pays for it with her tip money.

Also, at one point, a film script for Florida Roadkill was discussed, but nothing ever came of it.

https://youtube.com/clip/Ugkx2n4keloLFs ... X69ojpJoxf

[promethean75]

ROFL. He describes a scene when Serge, probably not on his meds, and Coleman (named after the cooler his dad put him in when he was a kid) are driving just west of Florida in Louisiana when Coleman asks Serge why he isn't getting upset and uncomfortable from leaving Florida (apparently Serge has issues with being away from florida). Serge then explains how in the nineteenth century, for a brief period of time, the western portion stretching into Louisiana was part of a territory, which was its own country.. the republic of Florida. Serge then pulls over, climbs a hill, and plants a flag on some farmer's private property, declaring the parish as part of Florida. The farmer drives up in a tractor and Serge pulls his shirt tail up revealing the handle of a pistol, then informs the farmer that he may stay if he abides by the laws of the parish as a peaceful citizen. The farmer then quickly drives off.

[promethean75]

Alright it's a creative writing project Dorsey style. Here's a scene that's open for experiment and editing by anyone. You can make any changes or additions. I'm stopping here for a minute because I've got to go to the sto.

....

Around 7:00 pm, a shelter in place order was given, and the evacuation window was closed. The dim tail-lights of the last remaining stragglers in their mini vans and station wagons could be seen moving north up 75, flickering on and off in the rain, making the northbound lanes look like a string of blinking christmas lights. Milton charged into Fort Myers as a category 3, having lost power while crossing the gulf but gaining considerable size. Now 300 miles wide, from a satellite, the hurricane looked like the gaping mouth of Galactus getting ready to take bite out of florida's east coast... or like that thing in The Fifth Element that only got bigger when you shot missles at it.

Serge and Coleman sat in the faded brown Stingray at the boardwalk's parking lot access as thirty mile an hour winds whipped and tossed the rain around the car. Large swells of gray waves smashed and curled over the cement-retaining walls as Serge held in front of him what looked like a smart tablet built in the 80s. He had built a custom-made weather monitoring device that got live feeds of all the recent meteorological data being exchanged between news networks and airports. It was what would happen if you crossed a ham radio with a laptop with a small TV. "Ten more minutes, and wind speed average will be fifty," said Serge as he fingered something on the device keyboard. He set the device on the dash, reached down, and tightened the ankle tension strap on his roller blades. Fine tuning adjustments. "After you get a couple of pictures of me, get back to the car fast and drive to the north end to be waiting for me. By my calculations, i should be there in 2.14 minutes, " informed Serge, now fastening his skier goggles around his face. "Are you listening to me, Coleman?" "What, yeah?" assured Coleman. He was trying to roll a joint with the small rolling papers, having gotten the wrong ones at the gas station. He was on his third try. Two crumpled and torn failed roll-up papers were wadded up on the small styrofoam beer cooler he had in his lap and was using as a table. His head was crained forward as he stared with determination at the joint he turned slowly in his hand. "Got it" he chirped gleefully and made what sounded like a muffled giggling sound as he held the joint up in front of him and admired his handywork. "Yeah, i got it. North end of the Palmetto Pier boardwalk," said Coleman, putting the joint behind his ear. Riding The Storm Out was in the CD player, and Serge bobbed his head as he synchronized his smart watch with the weather monitor. Coleman was squeezing into his rain parka and checking the camera. Serge leaned over the back seat and pulled a medium-sized kite over their heads, nearly poking Coleman in the eye with the wing. "I've got 175-pound test line, which should be sufficient. As long as i don't run into a trash can, bench, or light pole, it shouldn't break. Okay, we've got fifty mile an hour winds now... let's do it!" shouted Serge. Coleman shoved open his door, jumped out, and made a mad dash for the shelter over the boardwalk section in front of The Squinting Squid bar and tavern, where he would get a couple snapshots of Serge. In theory, anyway. The rain pounded him as he ran, and a sideways wind gust almost took him off his feet, but he made it, panting and out of breath. He was about fifty yards up the boardwalk from Serge in the Stingray and got the camera from the bag. Loud pinging sounds filled his ears as raindrops hit the tin roof panels like BBs or pieces of hail.

Serge's side of the car was up wind, so he could open his driver side door without the wind fighting him. He put on his gloves, finished off a bottle of Tropicana orange juice, and gathered up the spool with his right hand. With his left, he eased the kite out and, with the spool held tightly, raised the kite just above the top the Stingray. The wind snatched the kite out of Serge's hand, and the spool started whistling like a badly oiled fishing reel that just hooked a tuna. "Yippee" shrieked Serge, swinging his legs out of the car door and planting his roller blades on the ground. When the spool wound down to less than fifty feet, Serge lunged forward out of the car, kicked the door shut behind him, and launched himself down the boardwalk on his roller blades. The kite was about one hundred feet high and pulled at Serge wanting more, Serge's knuckles white from squeezing the spool bar. His calculations were right, and the kite's path led straight up the boardwalk. When finally the last of the line had been taken, Serge leaned back to counter the violent snatching force of the kite and not drop the spool. He was going ten, maybe eleven, miles an hour now, and it nearly yanked the spool out of his hand. He didn't drop it, but while leaning back, he couldn't see the parked pink golf cart with chrome wheels by the yucca plants at the edge of the astroturf patio of The Blue Collar Parrot club. Just in time, now doing maybe twenty-five miles an hour, Serge looked up and quickly doubled over to his left, just missing the cart as he wizzed by it. His roller blade wheels buzzed and knocked against the boardwalk cement, and he settled into the ride. "A straight shot up the board walk... should be doing at least forty-five by the time i pass Coleman", yelled Serge over the wailing wind and crashing waves fifty feet to his his left.

When Serge got to where Coleman was waiting for him with the camera, he was moving pretty fast. The kite was solid and strong and held together fine in the winds. Serge had the reverse two handed water skier grip on the spool bar and with his russian hat, teal blue pancho, and oversized snow goggles, he looked like a soaking wet demented olympic mascot.

[promethean75]

Some constructive criticism of my original draft.

I used the word "snatched" twice. A repetitive use of a word too soon. I also say 'as he' too much. The so and so was this as he did this and that.

"Large swells of gray waves smashed and curled over the cement-retaining walls as Serge held..."

"Ten more minutes, and wind speed average will be fifty," said Serge as he fingered..."

"Got it," he chirped gleefully and made what sounded like a muffled giggling sound as he held the"

Project contributor notes. I had said "In theory, anyway" suggesting that the whole thing does not work out. That was the lead clue that something was going to happen. But what? Does Serge hit a rock at fifty miles an hour and catapult into the air, landing head first in the beach sand like a javelin, or does he land in a boardwalk hotel hottub? Or is Coleman fiddling with his zippo trying to light a joint in fifty mile an hour wind? Finally, he pulls his shirt up over his head and sticks the lighter up into his shirt from the waist, and ducks his head down to light the joint. When he flicks the lighter, his chest hair catches on fire, he drops the lighter and breaks the joint in half, smacking at his shirt to put his chest hair out. Serge zooms by on his roller blades at forty-five miles an hour and sees a bright orange light pulsing through Coleman's shirt while Coleman jumps around in a circle, beating himself in the chest.

See what i mean? There are many good ways to make this go wonderfully wrong. It's hard to choose, man. Authors got it rough in that respect. Too many ways to develop a scene.

[accelafine]

As far as I got.


Around 7:00 pm, a shelter in place order was given, and the evacuation window was closed. The dim tail-lights of the last remaining stragglers in their mini vans and station wagons could be seen moving north up 75, flickering on and off in the rain, making the northbound lanes look like a string of blinking christmas lights. Milton charged into Fort Myers as a category 3, having lost power while crossing the gulf but gaining considerable size. Now 300 miles wide, from a satellite, the hurricane looked like the gaping mouth of Galactus getting ready to take bite out of florida's east coast... or like that thing in The Fifth Element that only got bigger when you shot missles at it.





Around 7:00 pm, a shelter in place order was given (shelter in place-order, or 'shelter-in-place order...?Meaning is unclear) comma not needed and the evacuation window was closed. The dim tail-lights of the last remaining stragglers in their mini vans and station wagons could be seen moving north up 75, flickering on and off in the rain, making the northbound lanes look like a string of blinking Christmas lights. Milton charged into Fort Myers as a category 3, having lost power while crossing the gulf but gaining considerable size. Now 300 miles wide, from a satellite (comma changes meaning) the hurricane looked like the gaping mouth of Galactus getting ready to take a bite out of Florida's east coast...(caps) or like-not needed that thing in The Fifth Element that only got bigger when you shot missles at it.

[Maia]

You might wish to consider rejigging the paragraph breaks as follows. Speech tends to start a new paragraph, setting it apart, slightly, from descriptive passages, and definitely so if it's a different person talking. Also, consider the difference between indented paragraphs and block paragraphs, with the latter suggesting more of a break in the narrative, such as a subdivision of a chapter. This is in contrast, of course, to non-fiction writing, where block paragraphs are standard. I've made no changes to the actual text, though.

Annoyingly, after editing it in a .docx file, I notice that pasting it here removes all the indents, so I've replaced them with [indent}. You can easily edit these out yourself, later.

Around 7:00 pm, a shelter in place order was given, and the evacuation window was closed. The dim tail-lights of the last remaining stragglers in their mini vans and station wagons could be seen moving north up 75, flickering on and off in the rain, making the northbound lanes look like a string of blinking christmas lights. Milton charged into Fort Myers as a category 3, having lost power while crossing the gulf but gaining considerable size. Now 300 miles wide, from a satellite, the hurricane looked like the gaping mouth of Galactus getting ready to take bite out of florida's east coast... or like that thing in The Fifth Element that only got bigger when you shot missles at it.
[indent]Serge and Coleman sat in the faded brown Stingray at the boardwalk's parking lot access as thirty mile an hour winds whipped and tossed the rain around the car. Large swells of gray waves smashed and curled over the cement-retaining walls as Serge held in front of him what looked like a smart tablet built in the 80s. He had built a custom-made weather monitoring device that got live feeds of all the recent meteorological data being exchanged between news networks and airports. It was what would happen if you crossed a ham radio with a laptop with a small TV.
[indent]"Ten more minutes, and wind speed average will be fifty," said Serge as he fingered something on the device keyboard.
[indent]He set the device on the dash, reached down, and tightened the ankle tension strap on his roller blades. Fine tuning adjustments.
[indent]"After you get a couple of pictures of me, get back to the car fast and drive to the north end to be waiting for me. By my calculations, i should be there in 2.14 minutes, " informed Serge, now fastening his skier goggles around his face. "Are you listening to me, Coleman?"
[indent]"What, yeah?" assured Coleman.
[indent]He was trying to roll a joint with the small rolling papers, having gotten the wrong ones at the gas station. He was on his third try. Two crumpled and torn failed roll-up papers were wadded up on the small styrofoam beer cooler he had in his lap and was using as a table. His head was crained forward as he stared with determination at the joint he turned slowly in his hand.
[indent]"Got it" he chirped gleefully and made what sounded like a muffled giggling sound as he held the joint up in front of him and admired his handywork. "Yeah, i got it. North end of the Palmetto Pier boardwalk," said Coleman, putting the joint behind his ear.
[indent]Riding The Storm Out was in the CD player, and Serge bobbed his head as he synchronized his smart watch with the weather monitor. Coleman was squeezing into his rain parka and checking the camera. Serge leaned over the back seat and pulled a medium-sized kite over their heads, nearly poking Coleman in the eye with the wing.
[indent]"I've got 175-pound test line, which should be sufficient. As long as i don't run into a trash can, bench, or light pole, it shouldn't break. Okay, we've got fifty mile an hour winds now... let's do it!" shouted Serge.
[indent]Coleman shoved open his door, jumped out, and made a mad dash for the shelter over the boardwalk section in front of The Squinting Squid bar and tavern, where he would get a couple snapshots of Serge. In theory, anyway. The rain pounded him as he ran, and a sideways wind gust almost took him off his feet, but he made it, panting and out of breath. He was about fifty yards up the boardwalk from Serge in the Stingray and got the camera from the bag. Loud pinging sounds filled his ears as raindrops hit the tin roof panels like BBs or pieces of hail.
[indent]Serge's side of the car was up wind, so he could open his driver side door without the wind fighting him. He put on his gloves, finished off a bottle of Tropicana orange juice, and gathered up the spool with his right hand. With his left, he eased the kite out and, with the spool held tightly, raised the kite just above the top the Stingray. The wind snatched the kite out of Serge's hand, and the spool started whistling like a badly oiled fishing reel that just hooked a tuna
[indent]"Yippee" shrieked Serge, swinging his legs out of the car door and planting his roller blades on the ground.
[indent]When the spool wound down to less than fifty feet, Serge lunged forward out of the car, kicked the door shut behind him, and launched himself down the boardwalk on his roller blades. The kite was about one hundred feet high and pulled at Serge wanting more, Serge's knuckles white from squeezing the spool bar. His calculations were right, and the kite's path led straight up the boardwalk. When finally the last of the line had been taken, Serge leaned back to counter the violent snatching force of the kite and not drop the spool. He was going ten, maybe eleven, miles an hour now, and it nearly yanked the spool out of his hand. He didn't drop it, but while leaning back, he couldn't see the parked pink golf cart with chrome wheels by the yucca plants at the edge of the astroturf patio of The Blue Collar Parrot club. Just in time, now doing maybe twenty-five miles an hour, Serge looked up and quickly doubled over to his left, just missing the cart as he wizzed by it. His roller blade wheels buzzed and knocked against the boardwalk cement, and he settled into the ride.
[indent]"A straight shot up the board walk... should be doing at least forty-five by the time i pass Coleman", yelled Serge over the wailing wind and crashing waves fifty feet to his his left.
[indent]When Serge got to where Coleman was waiting for him with the camera, he was moving pretty fast. The kite was solid and strong and held together fine in the winds. Serge had the reverse two handed water skier grip on the spool bar and with his russian hat, teal blue pancho, and oversized snow goggles, he looked like a soaking wet demented olympic mascot.

[promethean75]

Yes, thank you. When i sign the contract to write The Continuing Stories Of Serge A. Storms; A Tribute To Tim Dorsey, my publisher will proofread all the material, and such mistakes will be corrected before printing, obviously.

[Maia]

Yes, thank you. When i sign the contract to write The Continuing Stories Of Serge A. Storms; A Tribute To Tim Dorsey, my publisher will proofread all the material, and such mistakes will be corrected before printing, obviously.

Not so much a mistake, as a stylistic choice, really. Your descriptions are pretty good, though.

[accelafine]

So predictable

[Maia]

So predictable

Not sure who you were referring to there.

[Maia]

Another important genre of writing, is writing lyrics. I know there's a music thread, which I haven't read, incidentally, because it's much too long, but I'd like to highlight the word-crafting aspect of song writing, here, for a moment. One of my favourite lyricists is Sally Oldfield, specifically, for her song Nenya, one of the Songs of the Quendi, on her Water Bearer album. Although she's not named in it, the song is actually about Galadriel, and her return home after thousands of years of exile, as any fan of Tolkien will immediately recognise.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y3eSCquYRNA

Here are the lyrics, anyway, and the eagle-eyed may be able to spot why the song spoke to me so much when I was little, especially in its concluding verses.

Three rings for the elven kings under the sky!
Three rings for the elven kings under the sky!
Three rings for the elven kings under the sky!
Wrought of star-fire!

Makers of all things fair under the sky!
Bearers of the silver flame that never dies!
Mirrors of all things true wherever they lie!
Wrought of star-fire!

The strange light of the elven night shines on their faces
A charmed breeze from the elven trees rustles the grasses
Three rings for the elven kings under the sky!
Wrought of star-fire!

The light of the lady is on the land
Fear the starlight hand!

They are strangers from afar seen by the holy!
They bring secrets of the stars to the lost and the lowly!
Three rings for the elven kings under the sky!
Wrought of star-fire!

I've seen them in the darkest night
They are the makers of the light
Through wind and rain and storm they call me home.

Ella kom ye la! I cried unto these ones
I've wandered through the dark so long!
I've waited through the night for the rising sun!

They cried "We who of the earth are born
Will lead you through the healing storm,
It's time to follow the path of the ancient ones!"

It's sunrise and high tide!
In the blue endless space my eyes open wide
There's a land I can see!
There's a land I can see!
There's a land I can see!

[Maia]

All of the Songs of the Quendi have a special meaning for me, no doubt because I first heard them at just the right age, on an old cassette belonging to my mom. Here are all of them.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VptDTOVu-F8

Night Theme:
Come from the shell where you hide!
There is a starry night outside,
Let go the hands that you hold!
They'll just imprison you
Till you are old,
And you have just one moment more
Before the night takes you!
Don't be afraid,
There is nowhere you can fall
But the power of the earth,
The earth will hold you!

I did indeed often hide in my shell when I was little, but I just needed to let go, and trust that the earth would keep me safe, as it were. It's all very Pagan, of course, though I didn't know that at the time.

Ring Theme:
The part labelled as Ring Theme has no lyrics, and is a musical motif anticipating the later Nenya.

Wampum Song:
There could be living on this land!
There could be peace for every man
With a woman weaving him wampum
By the light of the crimson sun.

There could be singing beneath the sky!
There could be joy that does not fly
With the children teaching us wisdom
By the wonder in their eyes.
With the children teaching us wisdom
By the wonder in their eyes.

There could be living on this land!
There could be peace for every man
With a woman weaving him wampum
By the light of the crimson sun
Sweet wise woman weaving him wampum
By the light of the crimson sun!

The Songs of the Quendi are basically a homage to the writings of Tolkien, in particular his mythology of the elves, but here Sally incorporates Native American elements too. This is also a feature of the work of my favourite childhood author, Jane Louise Curry, who I mentioned at the beginning of the thread.

Ring Chorus:
Three rings for the elven kings! (repeated continuously)

They come from the darkness!
Moriquendi!
They come from the green lands!
Laiquendi!
They come from the clear light!
Calaquendi!

They are the makers!
They are the makers!
Of the earth and the wind and the light!

Here we are firmly back in the land of Tolkien's elves. Three types of elves are mentioned, including the Moriquendi, who come from the darkness. In Tolkien's Legendarium, they are so called because they had never seen the light of the Two Trees of the Undying Lands.

Nenya:
I reproduced the lyrics to Nenya earlier. Nenya, incidentally, was the Ring of Water, one of the three elven rings, worn by Galadriel.

Path of the Ancient Ones:
This is also part of Nenya, which I reproduced earlier.

Land of the Sun:
There is a land I can see
It's where I long to be!
Where the rivers run swiftly
And carry your soul to the farthest star.

There's a land that I know
Where I've lived long ago
Oh! strong comes the voice of the wild-hearted lover
Who is calling to me!

He says there's a land of the sun!
Where all men may come,
It's not easy to win
It can fade like the spring dew
That runs through your hands.

Come with me tonight!
Now the young moon is bright,
You can feel the earth spinning
Down pathways of starlight that dazzle your sight
There's a land I can see!

I doubt if it needs much elaboration as to why this song spoke to me. But I thought I'd share them all, anyway, since I shared Nenya. Listening to this little collection still sends tingles down my spine. The rest of the Water Bearer album is beautiful, too.

[promethean75]

I didn't include the Trapper Nelson scene that the clip is coming out of, but here's the scene when Serge was first admitted into (and breaks out of) the prison and has his first encounter with the psychiatric doctors. Lol @ the austrian psychiatrist. Serge slipped a hit of acid in his coffee before the session. In ten minutes Serge has him undressing and giving him his clothes and clipboard. You know what happens next.

https://youtube.com/clip/UgkxmqRS9OSTln ... bK5spNNfsm

You really should rewind the tape and listen to the Trapper Nelson story though.

[promethean75]

^^^ @ 3:42:00 when eight year old Serge steals a canoe and creeps through the swamp looking for the legendary Trapper Nelson.

From there more excellent Serge biographical stuff follows. His first stint in the psychiatric hospital when he was found doing synchronized water ballet in a pool, refusing to get out when authorities arrived.