Collections and Lies

Blog No. 153

How tired are you of hearing about this, so-called Collection, that Christian and I have been yammering on about for the last year and a bit? If you are as done with it as I am, get ready to be exasperated, because that book is done and ready to print! Boom! What started as a lark back is 2014 will be out before the end of 2015 and it will be spectacular. Don’t believe me? The title is No Light Tomorrow. How does that strike your fancy? Still not convinced? It’s over 30 000 words spread across six stories written by two authors! You know, a short story collection. You want more? The cover was designed by an actual graphic designer and approved by none other than the authors themselves. Even better, it will mark the first book released by the newly formed Adventure Worlds Press, a publisher in name only dedicated to printing whatever Christian and I want and nothing else. How exciting is that? If your answer was ‘very’ that this collection is right for you, and we want you to get excited.

To recap some of what has happened up till now, back in the distant era of 2014, somewhere near the beginning of that fretful year (fretful being used for dramatic purposes only) two authors, Christian Laforet and Ben Van Dongen, were sitting in a coffee shop, working on their writing and discussing the future. What you will see next is a dramatic retelling of the situation and has little to no bearing on the actual past and does a terrible job representing both the individuals included in the story and the situation as a whole.

“I’m not ready to write a novel,” said Ben, weary from all the work he hadn’t done.

“I don’t care, I’m not even talking about you. Not everything is about you,” Christian replied, sick of hearing about the things Ben was or was not prepared for.

“I think I’ll just keep writing these short stories. I like short stories and even though there is no credible fact to back up my claim, I think people are more interested in short stories that novels.”

To make is point more visceral, Ben slammed his nearly full coffee on the table, spilling much of its contents, disturbing the other patrons, frightening a small child who had been passing by with his mother, and garnering a dirty look from the employees of the establishment. Also, he spilled his coffee and was very remorseful about the whole event.

Christian, growing more weary of Ben’s existence by the moment, lifted his computer from the table, deftly avoiding the rapidly approaching coffee. “You aren’t even listening to me. I don’t care. Here I am, diligently working on several projects at once and you are scribbling in an expensive, and pointless, notebook, whining about what you are not going to do.”

“I am starting to amass quite a few short stories, some of them even readable by the average person. Short stories are the wave of the future, and besides, who wants to write a crummy old novel anyway?” His coffee mostly gone, Ben resorted to licking the spill off the table, but was stopped by an employee of the cafe, coming to wipe the table with a dirty rag. Undeterred, Ben managed to get nearly a third of the spill somewhere near his mouth (though most fell out and into his lap) before the dirty rag soaked up the rest.

“You know what?” Christian said, now firmly moved to a different table as to avoid the spill that had run over the edge on onto the place he had been sitting (and also to avoid Ben as a whole). “Why don’t you do something about those short stories? I have a collection of my own coming out, you could do the same.”

Ben had gone to the counter to get more coffee, but (to the annoyance of everyone in the building, Christian included) continued the conversation, yelling to make sure he was heard. “But I’m not ready to write a novel Christian. You simply aren’t listening.”

Eager to end the conversation, and if his luck held, the friendship, Christian waved Ben over to the new table. “Look I have some short stories too. I’ll even help you if it will make you stop talking.”

Spilling his fresh cup of coffee as he sat (as if the idea of not spilling was abhorrent to him) Ben plopped down in an open seat. “As long as you’re not tricking me into writing some dumb novel. I’m simply not ready for that.”

Now you know how the whole thing went down, as made up by a tired writer eager to get his book finished and in the hands of readers. When you pick up that glorious collection (and it is a rather lovely package) you can remember how it was made, according to a liar.