Again, congrats to Tom Sears for winning the WaOhWnisD competition.
He wins seven days worth of alcohol to help inspire his next novel.
For some reason the perspective on the picture above is a bit messed up, and the bottles look a lot smaller than they actually are. Just thought I'd mention that in case there any problems with Funt's £126.93 expense claim at the end of the month...
Funt
We have a winner! Congrats to Tom Sears whose novel is reprinted below. And could everyone who voted for him chuck me a quid and I'll pop down the off licence tonight. His prize is your hands. ;)
Thanks to everyone else who entered. Don't forget November is NaNoWriMo - it should be a walkover after this.
Though his dialect remained crude, Tim understood from the chief’s broad grin that today was ‘important day’. His initiation as tribesman?
Up in the tree hut, he thumbed his journal: memories of how he’d taught them to use handkerchiefs and play bridge. They’d been reticent; but now they wanted to thank him!
A happy chorus rose from below. Tim donned his headdress and started climbing down. The whooping crowd caught him on their shoulders and carried him like a king. If National Geographic could see him now!
Then the tribespeople rubbed sweet marinade on Tim’s thighs. And roasted the motherfucker.
And a late entry...
“Its these damn fingays.”
Stunned, Jazz Fusion’s Lance Mincen began to trimble like tender mutton.
His form was free from freeform.
He arrived in Tibet, donned a robe and began to slip into a trance.
Vivid images of Jazz Fusion flickered around the room and through the haze of the 4/3 signature swing beat Old Man Fingers Syndrome appeared.
He pronounced “Sheeet blaaaads, it’s da man dem puritay o lough’ve that’s gotsta flow tru dem fingays. You see blaaad?”
He paused… “Sheeeeeeeeeeeet.” And with that the vision was over.
Mincen came too, lit a joss stick and made love to his oboe in an improvised A minor.
Here are the entries to the 'Write A Novel In A Week' competition.
If you thought it would be dominated by the copywriters amongst us, you'd be wrong. A designer and account manager took part. Who knew so many would rise to the Herculean task set before them? Nietzsche would weep at the supermen that walk amongst us.
So take a couple of minutes out of your hectic schedules to read what a week of furious creativity has produced, and then vote for your favourite. And feel free to vote for your own entry - you deserve some some recognition. And I'm voting for mine (might save me having to buy a prize).
Funt - practicing dentistry on gift horses in a kennel full of sleeping dogs
Entry 1
Derek the daddy-long legs was the most frustrated creature of all. He desperately wanted to make an impact on the household like the others - Matthew and Michaela the mice who had wreaked havoc in the larder, Elaine the earwig who had scuttling down to a tee and Walter the wasp who’s buzzing irritated the hell out of the human residents. But Derek was just too wimpy, and when he changed his name to Dirk to try and sound harder, the others just laughed. One day Poppy the dog swallowed him by mistake. And that was the end of that.
Entry 2
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Aliquam tempus. Nunc sit amet dui. Suspendisse nonummy augue at nunc. Donec consectetuer, tellus eu mattis pretium, mauris tortor sollicitudin est, euismod malesuada ligula ipsum vel massa. Morbi sapien tortor, fringilla eget, sagittis nec, varius quis, massa. Phasellus et neque. Curabitur lacus. Duis convallis ipsum. Sed sed massa. Nam nec urna eget erat dictum lacinia. Aenean ipsum. Integer lobortis diam a nibh. Mauris placerat urna sit amet arcu. Aliquam nonummy magna non dui. Mauris congue nisi eget purus. Curabitur elit magna, tristique sed, pretium in, sagittis nec, neque. Ut risus. Sed eu.
Entry 3
Though his dialect remained crude, Tim understood from the chief’s broad grin that today was ‘important day’. His initiation as tribesman?
Up in the tree hut, he thumbed his journal: memories of how he’d taught them to use handkerchiefs and play bridge. They’d been reticent; but now they wanted to thank him!
A happy chorus rose from below. Tim donned his headdress and started climbing down. The whooping crowd caught him on their shoulders and carried him like a king. If National Geographic could see him now!
Then the tribespeople rubbed sweet marinade on Tim’s thighs. And roasted the motherfucker.
Entry 4
In the bowels of the government headquarters, Faitherful-Servant-1 eyed the Funster suspiciously, his eye bulging like a worm squeezed through the eye of a needle.
“Fun is ruining the order of our perfectly oiled city,” FS1 barked. “It’s war. On fun, silliness and pointlessness. Surrender, or the missile launches.”
“Never. Life without fun is like a donut with no jam, like a…-“
“RIGHT. The Pointless War begins!” he screeched, pressing the silver button.
The Faithful Servant burst into flames, rules erupted and regulation briefcases exploded. The Funster grinned unharmed. The government had realised too late - sensibleness would eat itself.
Entry 5
I spat sandwich into my hand.
'Go back?' I asked. 'Why would we go back?'
'We have no choice,’ she said. ‘Everything is there for people to find. We have to go back.'
I flicked away the sandwich. Nothing to say.
Off we went.
Place deserted, doors open. Our sculpture started on ground and rose up through the floors we had knocked through. We grabbed up tools, wiped down door handles, gathered up dust sheets.
'Wait.' She dashed back, and took a shot of our work with her phone.
'Not our best...'
'True.'
'Now?'
'I'm thinking a carrot. KFC.'
'Cool.'
In November there is a competition to write a 50,000 word novel in a month. But that's November.
What we would like you to do now is write a 100 word novel in a week. Entries in by Friday 12th October.
So dig out your hundred favouritest words, and bash them out.
There's a prize, obviously, and while we can't tell you what it is, think a weeks holiday in Ibiza, then scale back a bit (massively).
Start writing. 100 words - it's less than this email (101 words)!
Funt - we love you like your mother, and your mother too!
small print (that doesn't count in the word count of the email above because I've only just thought to mention it):
We might stick the novels up on a website (if we get more than none), so sending your plot synopsis for a TV series you plan to sell to TV and retire on might not be the cleverest thing in the world. But then again, maybe you're cool with that :)
I knew it was a mistake, but it was a mistake I liked making, and making mistakes was my middle name - when I didn't get it wrong (on purpose).
You know how it is when you wake up hung-over and handcuffed in the back of a car with no driver bouncing down the side of a hill to certain oblivion below, and you have a cigarette between your lips but no way of lighting it? 'No,' she whispered.
