Back in March, I responded to the Angry Robot Open Submission Month for un-agented authors, along with, as it turns out, 943 other authors. Each of us sent in a synopsis and five chapters of our chosen novel– in my case, The Corpse-Rat King, with the understanding that we’d probably get rejected by the first reader, and if not, then the partial that was requested would probably be rejected, and almost certainly, if we got past that hurdle, the full manuscript that was subsequently requested would be rejected. Less than 1% of all manuscripts submitted were even going to get to the editors, and even then, they might not take any on.
A big word- up to Georgie, who has spent the last six weeks soaking discoloured white lego plates in various solutions in the name of science, and who, this week, took them all out, dried them, recorded the results in her best sciency recordingy way, and took the whole lot down to the Mandurah Senior High School Science Fair, where she came in second and received all sorts of cool stuff including a certificate, medal, and seat on the next space shuttle flight.
Okay, that last one’s a lie, but the rest is true, and cool.
Okay, maybe I’m a couple of weeks early, but by God, what a glorious weekend it’s been. Sunny and 25, sunny and 25, even at midnight it’s been sunny and 25 that’s how good it’s been. And call me a sad old suburbanite if you will, but there’s something good for the soul in watching your children play on the lawn you’ve just mowed, with the smell of fresh-cut grass in your nostrils and the budgie cages going mad with tweets and twits and all manner of chirpy noises.
It’s been that sort of weekend.
Off work since Wednesday with a massive lurgi, and I’ve finally read every comic in the house and watched every episode of QI a-GAIN, so now it’s your turn.
Tell me: who is the worst writer of all time?
I’ll open with Guy N. Smith, inflicter-upon of such delights as Night of the Crabs, The Sucking Pit (not as sexy as it might sound….) and Satan’s Snowdrop.
Anyone wanna raise?