The chance to write the Great American Novel - without the sentences in between.
Monday, August 10, 2009
The World in a Nutshell by Triton Clicher
First: Under the celestial lamplight of the moon, Vernon gave the chipmunks a run for their nuts, swaggering drunkenly across the lawn, shouting non-sequiturs into the trees where they took refuge, and tripping over the turtle sandbox he had installed for his imaginary children — but something perplexed him, arrested his thoughts, came at him like a barrier: Aren't watch pockets just wisdom teeth for pants?
Last: The time for tears had passed — June missed Vernon, but the indelible stamp he had left on the bungalow made him come alive again, as if he were there with her, holding her hand and brandishing that green crayon, saying, Look what I can draw on the ceiling; as if he hadn't been the unfortunate victim of a graveyard bulldozer accident, but was still here, cherishing their memories together, adding to the banana peel collage or chucking another rock in the garbage disposal to make June laugh and laugh and laugh; as if he still played the ukulele with strings of Mardi Gras beads and brought her chrysanthemums from the neighbor's windows, or hurled the cat at an unsuspecting passer-by.
Triton Clicher was born on a stolen boat to international vagrants somewhere in the Pacific and has yet to figure out his nationality. He is the author of several children's books, including Wally the Walrus Learns CPR, Look! A Book!, Pick Out the Pigeon, Hitler's Arsenal, and Jolly Jolly Gumdrops, as well as three novels, Dalí Was A Woman, The Man From Nantucket, and Leprosy in Limerick(forthcoming from Halibut Press). He tried to write a travel book once but realized he hadn't been anywhere outside his bedroom for twenty-five cold years. He lives with his wife, Tippet, and their cat, Darjeeing, and eats lots of oatmeal.
Real Bio: Kevin Dickinson is the editor of Writers' Bloc, a literary magazine of Rutgers University. He thinks it would be wonderful if, when he died, his friends and relatives would please dump a pile of books into his grave in lieu of dirt, which is messy and unreadable. He would also like someone to devise a cranial organization system so that he can stop living his life on the little pieces of white paper that litter his work area. He drinks enough tea to float the Titanic and loves to write with the subsequent bursts of energy. He has no cats, not named anything because they do not exist.
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