“Hubris! Ah, so pious and moral, even now! [Hoade] always thought he had all the answers. But he had none—nothing but clever ways to [write]! [Zombie books] … [stories about giant cysts] … and now, this. And his arrogance finally killed him!”
— Marcus Fenix, Gears of War
Everybody fails sometimes.
Babe Ruth didn’t hit a home run every time he stepped up to the plate. NASA couldn’t get Apollo 13 onto the moon. J.K. Rowling wrote A Casual Vacancy. And Yours Truly wrote half of a bizarro novel.
Yes, Mexican Ninjas Ate My Balls is now officially on the (s)crap pile. I was writing and writing, hitting good word count marks each day, trying to get the novella done by August 1st. The publisher even told me I could have until August 10th, which was quite nice of them.
They were so nice, in fact, that I found I could not continue the abomination that is the 17,000 words or so of Mexican Ninjas. It’s a classic case of following the advice of one’s publisher, agent, producer, or readers too exactly and ending up with a lifeless husk. (That’s redundant — few “husks” are alive, but just stay with me here.)
I said husks. With an s.
My fail shall now be your joy as you see me completely undone by trying to shoehorn something that wasn’t organic into a container that was … um …fuck it, by me trying to do what wasn’t right for me. I think it has some good stuff in it, but it’s nothing I would feel overly comfortable asking people to pay money for.
So find it below, in all its half-done glory. I would REALLY love to hear your thoughts on it in the comments or by email or any way, really.
Onward to the books I’m being paid (eventually) to write!
“What you want these for?” the fat butcher-san asked Claudio as he handed over the burlap sack, which already was starting to stain through from its juicy contents.
“I like the taste.”
“You like the taste?” the butcher sputtered. “These not from baby pigs, like what you people put in burrito or whatever. These from adult buta, they full of boar taint. Smell!”
Claudio didn’t have to open the sack to detect the armpit-dirty-socks wave of stench emanating from the thirty pounds of pork testicles, but he did, just to show the man he knew what he was doing.
“Not even inu eat boar taint. Not even starving dog!”
Without arguing further, Claudio handed over the yen for his muy repugnante bag of cojones …