David Thayer

New categories have been added to One More Bite of the Apple, categories designed to help the reader navigate. Some fiction, including some work in progress, will be posted under the category Working Fiction.

The Earl, should he be repatriated, beat the rap for the Thuringian dressmaker, and resume his previous life, is expanding into an agony column for writers. I’m not sure what his beauty tips might entail, although he is the master of The Author Photo. ‘Under the Hood’ refers to posts like this one, procedural in nature and tedious.

It’s a little strange to read about national novel writing month, since I’m always working on a novel, and now sixty thousand registrants are attempting this feat in thirty days. I like to block out the idea that so many are pursuing this goal because it is distracting to think about sixty thousand people doing anything at the same time, not only doing it, but doing it fast. What a blur of motion. I crab along at my pace, steady at best, with occassional ten page bursts, but those are less frequent now. Three pages, two pages, on average every day. By late afternoon of a zero page day, I declare that day a holiday. When I finished Ways to Die in the Congo I was working with an agent, a very different experience from previous novels which were written and then submitted. Every thirty days or so he would sent back his notes; this went on for six months. he marketed the mansuscript, asked for more rewrites, a new opening, then he marketed it some more. That was last year’s project; the new opening is posted here in the archives if you’re interested in reading it.

Right now he’s marketing a non-fiction proposal. It’s a thirty page proposal that includes a sample chapter. I wrote four chapters before he was happy with the lead; the package includes chapter summaries, author bio, notes on competing titles, marketing, and an overview. Bert blended it into one document, did all the line editing, and formatting. It’s a nice package, well organized, and clear.

He doesn’t read crime fiction, so I sent Flamingo Dawn to a NYC publisher who has read three of my manuscripts. They responded to an email query in twenty four hours, asking for the manuscript. After about three months, the editor wrote to say they weren’t doing this genre this year, they have a small list, but he enjoyed the book and suggested I contact agents. That was in June. In August, a very good agent requested the manuscript which she read in a month and turned down.

While Bert markets the proposal, I continue daily research into the topic, which is blogs. I think we’re only beginning to understand how significant this form of communication will be, how powerful an influence it has on enterprise, daily life, especially starving artists. I’m working on a non-series novel set in 1970 entitled Gone to Wentsville; not to be confused with Wentzville Missouri, Chuck Berry’s home. A young woman seeks revenge for a crime that cops committed, a crime that destroyed her life.

The Earl being unavailable in real time, we offer an archive essay written under extreme duress. During extensive sewer reconstruction ( the Roman sewers gave out after two thousand years; much of Wellington Leg and nearby Henley Hornbrook was engulfed by sulfurous liquids the origin of which is too ghastly for speculation. Only the pub, our beloved Bespeckled Lambe, remained above the flood. The Two Dials, located near the intersection of the principal roads, was spared the indignity of Chief Engineer Earnest Kenway’s vainglorious visions of gentrification.

From the Earl’s Impassioned Address to the Mob assembled outside The Bespeckled Lambe: “Should a village that once hosted Claudius, Seneca, and Virginia Woolfe now fall into the hands of this new invader, this menace with dubious credentials, this bounder, this wretch, this spurious little man? Earnest Kenway, sewer designer, man of limited vision, author of a potboiler under a nomme de plume, a potboiler so wretched that I-Universe demurred, full of dark innuendo and indirect references to Mrs. Chalfont-Smythe’s endless need for literary hegemony, and thinly disguised references to my own famed parsimony, as illustrated by my disregard for SASE? His ‘great ditch’ will lead to the disintegration of village life, life as we know it, life as picturesque minions of Yours Faithfully, a life in full? I urge you to vote No, make your will known to the East Somerset Great Ditch Commission, to the machinations of those whose sole agenda is to humiliate myself and those like minded citizens to whom I owe a duty of representation.”

The Earl was borne off on the shoulders of men crying ‘kill the witch.’ Constable Dewhurst intervened with a water cannon; sadly water pressure proved insufficient to quell the ‘riotous folke.’ Unable to locate a witch, the mob tired, and deposited the Earl under the welcoming arms of the Chestnut tree near the statue of George III on Horseback. Earnest Kenway fled the district and Wellington Leg was spared the indignity of Urbanization ( from the Wellington Leg Intelligencer.)

Judging by a few emails from readers, I thought it might be a good idea to stress that events described herein are imaginary, much like the content of a novel. If you are appalled that the Earl would use an attack helicopter to hunt grouse, you might be glad to know that stunt men were employed, stunt grouse for that matter. It’s all make believe. Although the Earl’s account of events was gripping, like the Mercury Theater of the Air, none of it actually happened. YHS, The Earl.

The Earl here. This may be the first blog transmission from outer space. If not, my deepest apologies to the pioneers who preceeded me. The aliens have left me encased in a velutinous suit reminiscent of early Elton or latter day Liberace; they want to model their civilization on the city of Las Vegas. The initial shock was theirs, not mine, as they believed me to be John Banville. A quick check of licence and registration revealed their error; one might have wished this simple precaution occurred prior to you know what ( they dislike the term abduction.) Their favorite films are the Jane Fonda workout tapes, and they are generally disappointed with my abs and delts. Six Pack Abs ran for weeks on their version of Broadway.

Infomercials aside, they are interested in blogging. I have a questionnaire to be filled out before the evening stairmaster session; they want to understand Dark Side of the Moon, a place they generally avoid. When I mentioned that I was a former Dead Head, a grim misunderstanding was narrowly averted; only a few bars of Uncle John’s Band saved the day. More as we hurtle over the Carribean…over those exotic isles, those timeless reefs, and golden sands. Vegas Night tonight. Wish me luck.

What is it about Dick Cheney that makes close associates want to write novels? That’s the question haunting The Dutchess and her Somerset Fens Critique Group. They are stirring restlestly as Coroner AJC Horton rises to his feet to read a passage from his Work in Progress, Body Parts. “Let me know if any of this drags,” he says.

Already Delphinia Cosgrove is fanning the flames of group discontent, rolling her eyes, using her copy of News of the World, with cover photo of alien spacecraft, as a fan. “He wept as he cut open the skull….”

Lovely, thank you. A weeping coroner. Too often they are depicted eating sandwiches during the autopsy. Your prose sparkles. Delphinia is next. She has progressed in her memoir from age three to her first encounter with a motorized vehicle. So much left unsaid! The weeks in Kenya, the gradual burgeoning of awareness as she explores the world, a world she never made, a world more brittle and uncaring than the world she would have made, had she been in the world making business, an artiste trapped in the body of a child, defenceless, often morose..

Is there a point to the story? AJC Horton’s blunt question rattles The Dutchess. What would The Earl do? “The head of his next door neighbor, long time friend, he wept as the saw bit through the cranial…”

No more Tess Gerritsen novels for the coroner. “Let’s have tea!” shouts the Dutchess. Her own tale of vampiric love in Edwardian Glastonbury needs work, refinement, polishing, a few tweaks, the critical eye of the earl. Why, oh why was he abducted by aliens on a Tuesday?

A busy Tuesday. The earl’s abduction has thrown this online diary into a cocked hat. Was it only yesterday that a new discipline was announced? Was it only yesterday that, moments from delivering his letter of enquiry, fecund and double spaced, equipped with SASE, rich in texture, displaying an innate understanding of this crowded marketplace, that the earl was snatched from our midst? He did manage to send an email to the Dutchess, who now estimates that her clocks will be coordinated with GMT by the weekend. The text of the message was lost in translation, however, Nigel Newton of the Druidical & Literary Press had this say: “This is a hoax. I’ll not dignify this nonsense with my presence any longer.”

Well, the man’s a Druid. He dances naked in the moonlight. In the Vale of the White Horse they gather. Speaking of things contemporary Maud Newton throws chin music at Rebecca Traister for suggesting that Lauren Weinberger is a modern day Austen. It’s good to see Maud get excited. Booksquare has a more global take on the same Traister article as well as the skinny on Britney’s inevitable foray into authordom. “It isn’t that crowded a marketplace,” observed The Dutchess, although her remark was delayed for an hour. She went on to say that Lauren Weinberger may represent a kind of ‘fin du siecle’ denouement for chick lit. The Dutchess added that Nigel Newton is a horse’s ass. She’s very much enjoying Scooter Libby’s novel. “I just want to hug him,” she said. “Chuck Colson too.”

DCI Borchardt has negotiated terms of his life story ( thus far, he adds) with ueber agent Andrew Wylie. “It’s important to the story that I solve the Thuringian Dressmaker case,” Borchardt noted. “With the Earl in the wind, this has become a cause celebre.” Borchardt has negotiated a medium term lease on a villa near Wellington Leg, a property owned by Prudentia Chalfont-Smythe. Earlier reports of sexual tension near Stoke Bayington were exaggerated, according to a spokesperson from the Torquay Book & Garden Society. “We blame the Druids,” she said.