Money is a leading character in this tale about flash fiction writers, just as Madame Petrushka might properly be a leading character in a tale about Russian ballet.
Once upon a time, on March 8, 2011, to be exact, there was a flash fiction writer named Rinsewater who had a novel idea — flash fiction writers whose stories were published by indie lit magazines must be paid for their work!
He believed payment was a mark of respect, and he wanted the emerging industry he was a part of to attach value to the work of its talented writers. He believed indie lit mag editors and publishers should distribute and promote flash fiction to a much larger consumer base, and not just to other indie lit writers, editors, and publishers.
He saw flash fiction as an exciting new genre and enriching literary experience that could be viably marketed to worldwide readers.
Rinsewater talked about starting a Flash Fiction Writers Guild, but flash fiction writers, editors, and publishers pooh-poohed the idea as the delusions of a dreamer. Collective action for the purpose of writers getting paid, and flash fiction writers, editors and publishers working together to boost sales and public recognition of flash fiction, they said, would not work.
Some even declared that flash fiction writers did not want to be paid. Remuneration, according to his most genteel critics, was not a holy grail; it was a large bothersome whale blocking the way to cultural cachet.
His fiercest opponent was the editor and publisher of numerous online indie lit magazines. She had moxie, vociferous-ity, and was accustomed to getting free stories from flash ficton writers, especially those with an MFA.
Her name was Pepper Spray.
Pepper had a low opinion of Rinsewater. She'd read his stories at the flash fiction web community where they both were members, Fiction Why Not. He was, in her opinion, a vile mercenary pandering to publican appetites.
It was rumoured that Rinsewater, for decades, had earned his livelihood as a professional writer who, like, really, got paid. Worse still, he ignored the cardinal rule of writing. The rule was, as Pepper often told her writing minions, “Don't think! Flow! I never think when I write.”
Rinsewater was riff-raff. It was painfully obvious he put thought into his writing.
She consulted with her F Why Not confidant, Giuseppe Percheppi, about what on earth they should do about Rinsewater.
“I don't know, Pepper. I rather like him. He sent me a nice note in praise of ads on F Why Not. As you know I am—ahem—a member of the Board in the capacity of—ahem—official spiritual advisor. Rinsewater has entrepreneurial ideas the Board can use. He has the knack of combining art with commerce.”
“Exactly my point,” snapped Pepper. “Rinsewater is a dangerous influence on unpaid writers. He's a capitalist!”
“Maybe,” said Giuseppe. “But the owners of the F Why Not Corporation need cash if our web community is to survive. One of Rinsewater's ideas—a hit with the Board—is user fees. He suggests administrators of F Why Not groups each pay an annual user fee of $5 for each group they've created.”
Pepper Spray, who was the admin of five F Why Not groups, gasped. “That's outrageous! Five times $5 is more than I've ever paid all lit magazine writers, combined, in my life! And five, as you may know, is an open, not closed, number.”
Giuseppe said, “Goodness gracious, that's interesting, Pepper! I didn't know you ever paid writers. When, and how much?”
“Never you mind,” snapped Pepper. “What's important is that we have to stop him.”
“I don't know, Pepper,” said Giuseppe. I think Rinsewater's heart is in the right place.”
Pepper kicked Giuseppe in his wooden leg. “No…it's…NOT! It's his hand in my pocket! He's infuriating. I'm going to rinse that man out of my hair. Come on, let's go see him.”
Rinsewater was in his study, reading. His writing desk was piled high with books. The names of the authors on the covers and spines read like this:
John Steinbeck, Vladimir Nabakov, Boris Pasternak, J. D. Salinger, Ernest Hemingway, James Jones, John Hersey, Harper Lee, Henry Miller, William Faulkner, Saul Bellow, Truman Capote, Bernard Malamud, Graham Greene, John Updike, Kurt Vonnegut, Gore Vidal, E.L. Doctorow, Anais Nin, William Styron, Umberto Eco, Norman Mailer, Salman Rushdie, Frank Vander Rasky, Kilgore Carp, and Joyce Carol Oates.
“See,” muttered Pepper to Giuseppe. They were standing at the open door of Rinsewater's study. “It's like I told you. Rinsewater doesn't support indie lit writers. I've never seen any of these names in any of the indie lit magazines I've read. But make a list of the names, G. Maybe I can get the authors to contribute stories to my webzines.”
Rinsewater looked up from the book he was reading — Cyprinus Carpio by Kilgore Carp. Rinsewater smiled, disarmingly, because when the occasion called for it he believed in adverbosity.
“See here, Rinsewater,” said Pepper. “We've come to talk some sense into your head. What's all this we've been hearing from you about paying indie lit writers?”
Just then Kilgore entered the room. “Oh, pardon me, Mr. Rinsewater. I didn't know you had company.”
“That's all right, Kilgore,” said Rinsewater, “let me introduce you. Pepper Spray, Giuseppe Percheppi, meet my new editorial assistant, Kilgore Carp.”
Kilgore said, “Pleased to meet you. Hope you know my name. I may be a minnow among men, but writing is my game.”
“Hmmm,” said Pepper. “Your name DOES sound familiar. By any chance are you related to the Carps of the South Hamptons?”
“No,” said Kilgore, “but I have relatives in the area — the Sturgeons of the North Hamptons.”
“Oh,” said Pepper, “the NORTH Hamptons. Wouldn't know them then. I don't swim with that crowd.”
“No,” said Kilgore, “I don't imagine you would.” Kilgore then said to Rinsewater, “We signed five more writers, boss. Just sent each of them a cheque.”
“Excellent, Kilgore. Keep at it.” Kilgore left the room.
“See here, Rinsewater. What's all this about sending money to writers?” said Pepper.
Rinsewater smiled, innocently, because when the occasion called for it he believed in adverbosity.
“Oh, haven't you heard?” he said. “I've launched a new company — CourageToGrow.com. It's an indie lit webzine and ebook publishing house. We do print versions, too.
“We pay our writers. And we package, distribute, and promote their stories to readers who are not indie lit writers, editors, or publishers. We believe in selling to a global audience, and making money for our writers and ourselves. It's a concept.”
“Hmmm,” said Pepper. “Courage to grow. The phrase sounds familiar. Wasn't it in your F Why Not story, What I Wanted?”
“Thank you Pepper. Awareness is growing,” said Rinsewater. “Now, really, you must excuse me. I have reading and writing to do, and more cheques to sign.”
“You haven't heard the last of this, Rinsewater,” said Pepper. “I'll be taking this up with the powers-that-be.”
Giuseppe said, “Goodness gracious, that's interesting, Pepper! I didn't know you consulted directly with God for indie lit advice. When did this start?”
“Never you mind,” snapped Pepper. She kicked Giuseppe in his wooden leg. “Come on. Let's go.”
Outside, Pepper said, “Damn! I forgot my purse. Wait here for me, G.”
Rinsewater was in his study. He looked up from the book he was reading — Doppelgangers by Frank Vander Rasky. Rinsewater smiled, sanguinely, because when the occasion called for it he believed in adverbosity.
“What you said about courage to grow has moved me, Mr. Rinsewater,” said Pepper. “I have a story you may like.”
“Oh,” said Rinsewater. “What's that?”
“It's about the unknown romance between Madame Petrushka, founder of Russian ballet, and her much younger lover, Rudolph Nureyev. I tell their story — or should I say a series of stories — through love letters. It's a sure-fire winner. Five publishing editors were fired because they all fell in love with it, but the unthinking powers-that-be just couldn't see it. Interested?”
Rinsewater smiled, angelically, because when the occasion called for it he believed in adverbosity.
“Yes, of course. Do send me the manuscripts. But I must warn you, Pepper, that if I publish your stories I will insist on paying you.”
“I can live with that,” said Pepper. “I'll be in touch. God bless you, Mr. Rinsewater.”
She danced out of the room.
8
favs |
3235 views
19 comments |
1569 words
All rights reserved. |
Inspired by Kurt Vonnegut’s novel
God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater.
Any resemblance to actual events or
persons in or outside of a state of grace, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Dedicated to all forward-thinking writers, editors, and publishers whose creativity and entrepreneurialism will lead to flash fiction being known and read worldwide.
“If I were to wish for anything, I should not wish for wealth and power, but for the passionate sense of the potential, for the eye which, ever young and ardent, sees the possible.” –Soren Kierkegaard
“All of life is sweetened by risk, and dough balls.” –Kilgore Carp
God Bless You, Mr. Rinsewater
Copyright © 2011 by Frank Vander Rasky at
CourageToGrow.com | All rights reserved.
About Kilgore Carp,
The World’s Greatest Living Writer.
Author: Cyprinus Carpio, Bed of Weeds, Scales of Justice.
Social Activist: Opposed to the inhumane consumption of gefilte fish.
Associates: Kilgore Trout, Felix Sturgeon, Mr. Rinsewater.
Employment: Editorial assistant at CourageToGrow.com
Web: Official fan site under construction at KilgoreCarp.com
NEW! Follow Kilgore on Twitter @KilgoreCarp
Shouldn't this come with a disclaimer? Oh, I see you threw it in with the Author's Notes. This is too hilarious, but sure to get you in trouble.
Major Fave
James, many thanks for your comment and Major Fave.
This satire is a product of the imagination. My doppelgangers and I are confident the dedicated, hard-working, editors and publishers of indie lit magazines have a sense of humor.
However, for those not entertained, we offer a most generous guarantee:
We are prepared to refund your money for whatever amount you paid to read it. ;-)
Good one. Lots of laughs and lots of sense. I've never been sure if it's worse to be paid nothing or to be paid ten dollars. That old saw,"we've established who you are, now we're just haggling over the price."
Enjoyed.
Larry, thanks! The editorial team of Rinsewater, Rasky,
and Kilgore Carp are glad you enjoyed this tale! Lots of
laughs and lots of sense are exactly what we hoped readers
would find here.
Love this!!!
*
yes.
Thanks for the love on this story, Marda. Appreciated!
Interesting subject. It's a story with legs. Money for flash fiction, a novel idea. And you've summerized that novel quite nicely: an absurd comedy, of course. Good writing. I enjoyed reading.
JMC, thanks for taking the time to read and comment!
As my doppelgangers and I are supporters of the craft of
flash fiction, we invite you to join us at our writers soup
kitchen. On the menu today are Kilgore Carp’s favourites:
honey and maple syrup dough balls, with a dash of pepper.
Hi, Frank. Your writers’ soup kitchen sounds nourishing, to a carp. Your Flash Fiction Writers Guild might have a future, in truth as well as fiction. This is a very interesting forum thread, as you obviously know, and I look forward to more on the subject.
JMC, if my satirical commentary inspires others to speak up in favour of writing flash fiction for readers who are not just other indie lit writers, editors, and publishers, and promoting flash fiction to a much larger mainstream audience, I will be delighted to shutter my writers’ soup kitchen (however nourishing it may be to a carp :-).
Hilarious. You should be PAID for this. Oh, just a minute...
I think I hear a chorus of "We Shall Overcome" in the background.
Andrew, glad you enjoyed this story. Many thanks for posting your comment! Your cheque is in the mail! ;-)
For me, writing is not about the money; money has a bearing on the size of potential readership. Money, if you are one of those fortunate few writers who gets any from webzine or print publishers, is a token sign of respect that what you’ve written has value. Payment then becomes an incentive to publishers to get a return on their writerly investment.
For savvy publishers, this means devising methods to extend their audience reach. The bigger the audience the greater the potential rewards for publishers in ad dollars, sales of ebooks and/or printed books on demand, and other revenue streams. The bigger the audience for my stories the happier I am.
I never write with money in mind. I start by writing for myself. I write what I know. I write what I dream. I write in the hope that what I have to say will enlighten and/or entertain. I write because I see the possibility of things.
I also write in the hope of connecting with an audience beyond myself. To me, a writer without a large appreciative audience is the sound of one hand clapping.
More than anything, a fav for your moxie. And for
"Rinsewater smiled, angelically, because when the occasion called for it he believed in adverbosity."
Lynn, many thanks for your comment! I am smiling, angelically.
this has after all made me think about money and writing, apart from all the other fun it brought me. so many ideas in here, too. a great satire it is, and somehow, you know the types...the guy with the wooden leg comes out of mary poppins, of course. he's the joke. "doppelganger" - i'm going to check that out at amazon right now...
ps. thank you for quoting kierkegaard & kilgore sounds like someone everyone would want to meet.
Marcus, thanks for the great feedback! Very happy that
you enjoyed my satire on the flash fiction writing scene!
Make my readers laugh – some of them in self-defence. :-)
– and then, I hoped, make them think. That was my aim here.
"I've never seen any of these names in any of the indie lit magazines I've read." :)
This story made me laugh and think. I'll be keeping an eye on Kilgore and the Carp's further adventures.
Many thanks, Berit! Mr. Rinsewater and Kilgore Carp are an inventive pair so I appreciate your keeping an eye on their every move.