Even T. S. Eliot couldn’t get a deal

when he pitched The Wasteland limited series,

so that crazy premise based on your lame

lemonade stand verses won’t get off the ground.

You don’t even have fateful fortune tellers or

impatient barmen and your childhood characters

are trite and unreflective of grander social mores.

You should return to your drafts, have the

stand burn down, get sunk in a deep morass of

moss-draped swamp water, dissolve like a

shipwreck from the Near East and entrap

beneath its counter tokens of ill-starred scamps.

Depict distressed clients, kicking thin cups on the

sidewalk and bedraggled housemaids clinging to

some forlorn hunk of pulp, hoping for a fresh

squirt to transform their existence.

Then maybe you’ll get a second look.

Advertisements