David Thayer

Near the Historic Rotunda: Towne officials unveiled the Earl’s latest industrial triumph, the “Wellbryd” a hybrid vehicle intended to replace the internal combustion engine. The unveiling ceremony proceeded without the forty third earl who was either swallowed by a blue whale or lounging at the Harvard Club, sources say.

With no carbon emissions and incredible fuel economy the Wellbryd will be at the top of everyone’s shopping list this summer predicted longtime spokesman for the earl, Lars Kierkegaard. “I plan to purchase one myself,” Lars said. This reporter noted, however, that Lars crossed his fingers behind his back as he spoke perhaps indicative of latent skepticism.

Ox and Driver: the Wellbryd is scheduled to appear on the cover of next month’s Ox and Driver Magazine an influential periodical published in Henley Hornbrook. “We like the sleek lines, the opposing mirrors, and the racing stripe along the flank of the hybrid,” said Martin Sullivan editor in chief.

Point, Counterpoint: Embittered dogsbody Urquhart Depew, switched at birth with the earl and denied a legacy of wealth and high performance cars, was quick to criticize the Wellbryd. “If you look at the Wellbryd carefully, you’ll see it’s just an ox with mirrors glued on its head. The earl did not invent the ox. He took a pre-existing design and made a few modifications.”

Test Drive? Preorders for the Wellbryd are pouring in. Marcus Sevilius, Roman commander in the New World, wants twelve hundred units pronto. “We’re having the owner’s manual translated into Latin,” said a Wellbryd spokesperson. The Romans insist on hitching wagons to their prototype.

T. Rex Love-Handles reporting for Wellington Science Tuesday.

Just a quick reminder to all and sundry that I’m not a literary agent. If you send me your novel or your plans for a novel nothing will happen. I realize that may not distinguish me from legitimate literary agents from whom a certain quiessence may be interpreted in many ways, my silence is more like the permafrost in Siberia which may or not begin melting over the coming centuries.

How to spot literary agents: I met a famous literary agent in the men’s room at a writer’s conference. We did the urinal nod that guys do, if only to acknowledge that pissing in the wind is not okay, that our momentary occupation was both necessary and fleeting, that whatever bonhommie might exist would dissipate with the zipper’s final tug, to wash our hands at identical sinks provided no long lasting bond.

After he dried his hands he bestowed a second nod, a bittersweet farewell, bittersweet because I found it difficult to make a three hundred page manuscript into a paper airplane landing gently at his feet. It can take forever to dry your hands and by the time my manuscript was ready to launch he was gone.

Miss Snark has links to agents like Rachel Vater, Jennifer Jackson, Kristen Nelson, and I have a link to Jessica Faust at Bookends. If you read their blogs you’ll get a sense of what they represent who they represent and what might pique their interest in a query.

Hello. I’m writing today from my embittered dogsbody’s battered desk. My own escritoire is in the shop. I can only hope that Lars and his crack team of mechanics can repair it before the next windstorm. Wellington Leg has battened down for another autumn storm; the hogs have fled to the relative safety of Midtown. I will, no doubt, be receiving the usual cries of outrage from shoppers.

The subject of this morning’s essay is the fake fire. During the holidays writers ( and I’m no exception) are drawn indoors for scenes that require the domestic touch. Who can forget the moment in VOLTAIRE’S MIASMA when Jules and Maude, caught in the amber glow of the artifical fire, decide to flee Paris? Throughout my epic there are no fewer than 39 fake fire scenes. Too many? Too few?

One of the problems is Jules and his constant dithering. After fleeing Paris he returns to make certain his apartment door is locked. No sooner does he escape the wrath of angry peasants, a chance encouter with his landlord results in further delay. As he is dragged to the guillotine, Jules remembers to cancel his grocery order, and of course, his subscription to Le Soir ( another fake fire moment.) He’s completely forgotten his promise to Maude, rendered on a note found by the Bailiff.

Well, I think you would agree that moderation is key. As he awaits the falling blade, Jules realizes that he is engaged to the Duchess of Lambert. What was he doing with Maude before the fake fire? Jules vows to write these things down in the future.

Dateline: The Corner of Wall and Broad, Wellington Leg. Financial reporter Stanley Morgan, who lost his shirt on the Tigers-Yankees ( why oh why didn’t the Yanks sign the Earl? Or the Duchess with her career numbers against Kenny Rogers?) reports that Google may be interested in buying Earltube a service available only to Ostrogoths at the moment.

Earltube employs the technology of the paper towel cylinder: after squinting into one end of the tube you see the face of someone else, a sibling perhaps, on the other end. “Ostrogoths have been playing earltube for a long time,” noted Professor Moriarity. “They’re known for 20-20 vision.”

Stanley is flying to Mountain View and then to Seattle. “We’re trying to get Voltaire’s Miasma into Starbucks,” he said.