John Robinson

Okay, so now we’re into July and amusement park season. I’ve found people are of two minds about the places: they love them or are indifferent. Nobody, of course, hates an amusement park; what’s the point?

Kids fall into the first category. Most people under the age of eighteen love rides, the higher and faster the better. That keeps the designers and engineers gainfully employed as they constantly try to add to the “gee whiz” factor. Most of the time it works; there are those times where it kills people. Roll the bones, friend, and keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times.

Some rides, though, never seem to go out of fashion. Here in Cincinnati, once upon a time we had a Coney Island (as did NYC), and my soon-to-be wife and I enjoyed the Tunnel of Love ride there. Basically the thing was a boat trip through a dark, twisting, utterly black tunnel (it was best, I suppose, not to be able to see what was floating in the water), and lasted about four minutes.

The voyage of l'amour would then abruptly end in a bumpy ride up a ramp—still in complete blackness—where you’d burst through a couple doors and hang on tight as your boat hauled arse down a long slide to a splashdown in a big pool. However amorous a couple had gotten during those four minutes in the dark, it was effectively extinguished when they got drenched at the end of the ride.

As Mr. Vonnegut put it, “and so it goes.”

I got to thinking about movies the other day (I do that a lot), and the market for sequels and remakes. Some films, of course, don’t require a remake. Citizen Kane comes to mind, as does The Day the Earth Stood Still (although that didn’t keep ‘em from doing it … and failing miserably).

Sequels are bit different. A few movies beg for one, like Iron Man, while others, such as Casablanca, are perfect in their singularity (yes, I know that’s an astronomical term; I’m stealing it anyway).

And then there are the sequels that simply tick me off (I’m talking to you, Alien franchise). For me there are only two Alien films: the first one, and Aliens. The third installment ragged me off to no end. I simply didn’t buy the fact that Newt and Hicks (and poor old Bishop) croaked with no reason, so in my universe I changed it. Ripley made it back to Earth, she and Hicks got married, and they adopted Newt.

Oh yeah, they’re both instructors at Starfleet Academy (I said this is my universe!), and Bishop the android is their wisecracking next-door neighbor. And Vicki from Small Wonder is Newt’s best pal.

So there.

For my maiden voyage blog, I'm going to address something near and dear to me, that being scam houses and shady agents. Here is a true and incontrovertible fact: unless someone is already a household name (and maybe not even then), publishers won't come looking for a writer. They don't need to. They already have more on their plates "than they can say grace over," as my Granny used to say.

No, getting an "offer" from a slick talking, pay-to-play yard-ape--especially if it's unsolicited-- is worse than worthless, because many times it's worded in such a way as to play on a writer's vanity. "Your prose is superb"! the mustache-twirling Oil Can Harry crows. "Priceless! Golden! Why waste time with other houses? We'll put you on the fast track to publication!"

Why indeed? At the end of the experience the scribe so taken will find the only thing "fast-tracked" is the emptying of their wallet and the shame of being rooked.

A second good indicator is the placing of Google ads. Right now, even as I type this, on another site are two side-by-side come-ons from the worst scammers in the business. One's a supposed "publisher" (actually a reverse-vanity printer who charges on the back end, and offers a contract on literally everything they recieve before close of business on a given day). The other's an erstwhile "agent" who's continuing to post his slow winking come-hithers even as the Florida attorney general is squaring him up in her sights. That's indicative of a man in possession of either steel balls, utter cluelessness, or hubris on a breathtaking scale.

However you want to put it, these guys deserve a go-around. A big go-around. A serious writer does deserve better than a short road to oblivion. "Here there be dragons," and all that.