'Never Leave Me'
A place for Buffistas to discuss, beta and otherwise deal and dish on their non-fan fiction projects.
Weren't some of the pulp series written factory style? Doc Savage or one of those series, where the head writer would outline a plot, and then a stable of writers would write the story, one chapter per writer? Then on to the next novel in the series?
And I'll bet whoever I'm thinking of did not invent the writing "factory" system.
It's not an uncommon practice, it's just that the terms of Frey's contract are outrageous. Rather than a fixed rater per-word, the writers here are basically getting paid in vague promises of future revenue.
The Stratemeyer syndicate [link] which gave us the Hardy Boys, Nancy Drew, the Happy Hollisters, ad infinitum, is the most notable example. I'll note they paid $125 flat fee per book in the 1920s, dropping to $75 for most authors during the Depression.
Legend has it that Edward Stratemeyer, who wrote hundreds of books, started each book Monday morning and finished it on Friday.
Even James Patterson's current machine is more ethical than Frey's. He at least gives his co-authors billing on the jacket covers.
I would never work for him anyway...he proved himself to be a lying sack of shit. I'd rather be *surprised* at least.Frey, not Patterson.
I think I've almost got the rules for when to use 'an' in front of a consonant and 'a' in front of a vowel. Tricksy grammar.
Drive-by Drabble ...
Bacchanal
"Kill it!" she screamed, her face fierce and her brown curls blowing back with the force of her attack.
"Cut it down!" Yelled her blonde neighbor, fingers reaching for entrails.
The group of young girls began chanting, at first jumbled, their many words for hate and destruction mingling. Soon, one word came through, "death." "Death!" "Rip its horn off!" Side chants, only, with the drumbeat of death roiling the stockade beneath the hapless victim.
It was pink, and jeweled, as unicorns must be. It stared back at them placidly, the noose tightening around its neck. The girls were screaming, their dresses twisting around their knees as they jumped and cried for murder. There was no quarter given, no moment of thought for beauty or mercy. They knew what they wanted, and they wanted to beat the fragile creature down, and see its guts spilled.
Their faces and voices were gutteral, wild and abandoned. They were sped on by sugar and desperation. They beat the pink unicorn to death, and ate its insides. Their parents looked on proudly and cheered.
wow!
totally.