Slag

At least once a week I’m asked to read someone’s work. Few know I’m a writer. I must have a big ol’ target on my back that says, “Hit me! I’ve got time to read your slag.”

It gets worse: “I’ll pay you a hundred dollars to review my eighty-thousand-word novel.” I’ve learned to reply with an ego-boost but a safe out: “Send me the first ten pages and I’ll let you keep your money if I don’t want more.” I don’t want more, usually. My lunch break isn’t long enough, anyway.

So I’ve avoided collecting a pile of manuscripts for the most part but a few hardy souls persist: They leave’em on my doorstep. Sometimes, I confuse the manuscripts with the latest phone book delivery that I ignore until the next spring cleanup, or until the corners curl and I realize the yellow pages were not original, maybe from the sun or worse, dog pee.

I’m an SOB, for sure. I’m on the back nine of life so I don’t have time to look for balls in the weeds. I open up the slag to the middle and look at the page, observing how the lines recline on the page, how the paragraphs box up the words, whether the damn thing breathes to the eye. If I don’t see at least three paragraphs on the page, I toss it shut and head inside. Sometimes I give’em the benefit of the doubt and thumb a couple of more pages. If I see an entire page solid with words, I leave the mess on the porch.

If the page “looks” OK, I start with the second paragraph I find there, hoping for no more than four sentences. What does the first line claim? “Morgan started the car and drove off.” Sorry, no. “Morgan drove off.” Period. We know he had to start the car to drive off. Too many words telling me unimportant stuff.

The recycle bin is in the garage. Eight steps, nine if you count dodging the dogs happy to see me at the front door. If you left a stack at the front door, you best have me before the laundry room door. That’s six steps, seven if you count sidestepping the one dog that’s always camped out there for extra num-nums. I toss him and the recycle bin treats. Good doggy; bad writing. Hand me another ball.