h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

Before I get going, why the Hell don't we just spell it Madam? See, I need to learn too.

Getting back to it, hello, my name is Bill. A Canadian born in Atlanta--plus I lived with the blue-hairs in Bournemouth in south England for a while. A pretty good combo what?

I don't know where to start.

First of all, I write savagely satirical advertising copy for money. Then I write a little too. Then more. Then a whole lot more. Also, not only am I a writer--I’m a metaphorical door-to-door vacuum cleaner salesman--real good too and all.

As I ask, why do they always call it the "starving artist" sale? Because writing geeks could not sell their own mother a pumpkin at Halloween and a vacuum cleaner salesman could not write a book. Combine business, logic, and writing and you will be a secret weapon. It only happens 3% of the time in real life. Otherwise you are peeing up a rope.

Anyway, here goes.

1. I am sick of ad copy--I am already an idiot-savant thereof. A "mad advertising scientist" as friends know me. They will confirm: learn a little from me about "going commercial."

2. Want to take a trip into the nether-world of possibilities? Read my latest novel at http://premier-magazines.com/novel.htm entitled “Blowgun.” Don’t! You are too young.

3. Hide your age. At your age, I used to write about chimps with computer boxes on their heads so they could speak with their friends--the dolphins. All this in 1975 before tree-huggers existed. There is nothing new under the Sun.

Anyway, these chimps etc. got together in a new world--south Florida of the 22nd century. I look at the shelves today and see nary a one.

In summary, and please understand--I did not create the current state of affairs, but:

Older people will forever on be offended when a younger person tells "us" all about life, in plaintive sad songs, moaning tales of teenaged woe--as if we actually cared, and guess-who-I-saw at the Mall stories. At age nineteen, I tried as hard as I could to sound like an adult when I wrote, but I failed. AGAIN, I wish someone had told me this then.

Back to math. The weird majority--a person who is a marketing genius AND a writer stands a 3% chance of making it--if he stands on top of Stone Mountain a thousand times in a thunderstorm--with old Aunt Polly’s iron putter raised high--the old dyke Aunt Polly--yes, old Aunt Polly--who was real easy to kill and all, but her head sure did make a horrible grinding sound as it hit the blades in the sink disposal. And then her brat kids started crying...

Anyway, I am taking a little chance--to let you and your friends see my latest novel in factory, typeset galley format--not created in a browser. A browser? What? Now you’ve challenged me. Free deal time.

Please write, and as a lark, I’ll have my flunkies, supernumeraries, syncopates, what have you, at my printing factory "novelize" your story in all of three hours to prove the point. Gee whiz. Now you can print your novel out on your computer and you’ll have a store-bought novel on your desk. But there better be some Aunt Polly parts, because I hate malls.

William J.H. Anderson

Beg pardon, I don't really understand your reason for posting here. Is there something in particular that you'd like to know or that you need help with? Or did you just want to say hi?

Hi