Thursday, February 7, 2013

how to write novels (part six)

Our attendee in Pennsylvania writes:

I'd like to know if there are rules for how I'm supposed to dress in order to be a successful novelist.

Finally, someone asks an appropriate question.

Proves my work is paying off.

Which reminds me:

And I think before I address today's question, I should refresh your progress with our critical checklist thus far:

A trained Suicide Prevention Pit Bull

A Drowning Victim outfit for our dress-up day

A crackerjack literary agent

A slutty cover for your novel

A name for your house

And if you've completed all the above, then you are ready for today's lesson, which is this:

RULE NUMBER SIX: Prepare yourself for the author's lifestyle by having a keenly developed sense of fashion as well as a versatile wardrobe.

Here's the deal: We writers need to present a complete package-- a cornucopia of douchery. Picking the right outfit is the icing on your gravycake of twathood.

For example:

1. What I wear to lunch with an editor:

Oh yeah.

Here I am, sporting my Anton Chigurh look, on my way to lunch with my favorite copy editor--you know, the person who makes me look smarter than I am and fixes all the shit I fuck up on--and believe me, that's a lot of shit!

An outfit like this guarantees one certainty--a seductive wink and an alluring comment like this:

I must have died and gone to Chicago, because I'm staring at the Manual of Style!

[Side note: If you laughed at that joke, I'd be entirely willing to make out with you]

Why do I lie awake at night thinking about shit like this?

Where was I?

Oh yeah, what to wear at awards presentations...

2. Me, dancing with J.K. Rowling at last year's Printz reception (I'm the one with the tie):

Who said boys can't be writers?

Yeah. That's how I roll.

Nothing says douchenozzle as eloquently as a pair of white boxing boots beneath matching miniskirt and tie tailored out of vinyl-backed blackout curtains from a Comfort Inn. This get-up also allowed me to keep my partymates spellbound with my watch-me-crush-a-Bud-lite-can-between-my-thighs act.

Who knew I should cross my legs when I sat down?