Emailing back and forth with a friend of mine while I'm at work. It gets awesome so fast. Background info: Christy is wrapping up work on a novel, which is thematically based on a poem, Prisoner of Chillon. Other background info: I am not nearly as good a writer as she is.
From: Christy
{unrelated preamble removed}
Funnily enough, I thought of titles for the two sequels (which is hilarious when I consider how hard it was for me to find a title for this one). I’m also going to be using a poem as the motif for the other two, so I’m currently looking for ones that are thematically appropriate (I lucked into Prisoner of Chillon).
From: Bailey
I still read that as "chillin'," ... as in "Prisoner of Chillin'." I wonder if that's like being a slave to love?
Anyways I'll be totally useless on the poetry front because I've never enjoyed poetry all that much. My poetic knowledge extends to Shell Silverstein and Dr Seuss. Though now that I'm thinking on it... should I familiarize myself with the chillin' poem to pick up on thematic symbolism or would you rather I read it as an uninitiated casual reader might?
From: Christy
lol… I <3 you.
You can read it if you like. (It’s a very cool poem and totally worth reading) There are a few references to the poem throughout the novel, but you don’t have to read it to “get it.” I just thought it was thematically appropriate.
I’m totally going to write a novel using Dr. Seuss as a theme.
“But… what was he doing on the box, Sam?”
“It’s a crazy, twisted world, kid. Now eat your eggs.”
From: Bailey
You could revolutionize a whole genre. Call it Seuss Noir.
"Mary Lou took a long drag from her who-smoke and reminisced about the days long past, when she met that bitter, cynical, and sad excuse of a man. He taught her so much about the world, and about herself, it's just too bad she couldn't have saved him from himself and a noose of Christmas lights a couple of years later when it turned out that, like always, things went back to the way they were before a scandal."
From: Christy
That is amazingly awesome.
But why stop at noir? What about epic fantasy?
“To arms, my brothers! To arms!” The field was already laden with the dead, but the rallying call of the captain pulled them forward. The Zooks followed with rapid determination, leaving the forgotten remnants of their bread, as always, butter-side down.
From: Bailey
Or a horror/thriller.
Once-ler locked himself in the grandiose office of his factory, leaning heavily against the door and panting to catch his breath as sweat poured down his brow. The light under the door was cut as the Lorax prowled the halls, breathing deeply and following the deep musky scent of Once-ler's fear.
"Your fine beaurocratic office won't protect you, Ler... where do you think they got the wood for your desk and the pulp for your paper?" Once-ler glanced nervously at his over-priced and majestic desk and wasn't sure if the stacks of paperwork sitting atop it were rustling of their own accord or if he maybe left a window open somewhere. "They came from MY forest, and heed the call of the Lorax even in death!"
From: Christy
Historical fiction:
“Burn the heretic!”
Horton’s legs shook in subtle fear as he mounted the headsman’s platform. All around him, people bearing the insignia of the Vladikoff regime. Horton placed a hand against his chest, hovering just over where they had mockingly pinned the thistle for which he was preparing to die. His gaze swept the crowd, coming to stop but briefly on Kanga. His former lover smiled when she noticed his attention, curling up beside Vladikoff himself.
“Do you have any last words?”
Horton braced himself. “A person’s a person, no matter how small.”
The executioner chuckled grimly. “So you’ve said before.” The attendants quickly moved to strip the remainders of his finery away. The thistle fell to the ground before the chopping block, and Horton kept his eyes on it as his knees were kicked out from under him and his head laid down against the block.
The small speck of dust lingered on the tip of the thistle, only falling when the jarring thump of the axe ended Horton’s blasphemous proselytizing.

