Thursday, May 29, 2008


Lunch. An agent and a publisher.
G. Mort: Yeah. I read "Viscera."
Agent: Did you like it?
G. Mort: Ed Winslow is onto something. A harrowing, intricate farm novel.
Agent: Good to hear.
G. Mort: Afraid I'll have to pass though. Unfortunately, I only enjoyed one piece of "Viscera":
"What time is it, Winslow Homer," I ask him sarcastically.

"Time to wake the chickens, my girl, and time for picking their feathers," the gritty man says, "the ones we put the knife to when the chopping block blade is dull. Have you met the girl who brings in the chickens, Jennifer? Have ya' met her yet?"

"Yes, I met her in the morning. She seemed to be moving forward, thinking of things ahead of time, and then lopping off their heads with her down-swing too low. She was awkward with her strokes, but consistent in them," I tell him.

"Yes, the chickens follow her around the grounds like she doesn't make them into giblets. They don't know she eats them," the gritty man says.

"Stupid fowl," I say.

"Yeah," he says, "those birds must be pretty dumb, not knowing she makes giblets from 'em."
Agent: It's a novel in itself; a mini-novel, if you will.
G. Mort: Won't find a publisher for it, not as it is. Maybe rewrite it like the excerpt. See how that goes.
Agent: More dialog then?
G. Mort: Oh, yes.

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