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Phil Nemethy
Talk About Your W.I.P.
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Spaghetti
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I love the title :) And this is very good. That dialogue is outstanding. You oughta teach a class or something, haha. I honestly don't have any critiques for this. Fantastic job, Phil. It's hard to make me speechless.

My synopsis/blurb for it is going to need some work because what I can tell you is...One hundred years after his death (and 38 years, 6 months, and 29 days after his burial), Spaghetti the mummy of Laurinburg comes back to life. Why? He doesn't know. Roger & Mike's dad gets laid off at the textile mill. Their lives come together for one weird weekend.
I'll swap you reads, sure. I only have one question.
Would you rather read "My Abigail" and review it on Amazon...
or read my all-new Fantasy novel and help me improve it?
Here's a link to My Abigail: A Psychological Thriller.
As for the Fantasy novel, all the info I can give you is that it's like Lord of the Rings but without the magic. There's a map I created, some intriguing characters, exciting battle scenes, and an action-filled plot.
Let me know which one! My email is [email protected] if you wanna send over the copy of Spaghetti.
Would you rather read "My Abigail" and review it on Amazon...
or read my all-new Fantasy novel and help me improve it?
Here's a link to My Abigail: A Psychological Thriller.
As for the Fantasy novel, all the info I can give you is that it's like Lord of the Rings but without the magic. There's a map I created, some intriguing characters, exciting battle scenes, and an action-filled plot.
Let me know which one! My email is [email protected] if you wanna send over the copy of Spaghetti.

I'm still working on Spaghetti (it's done, but I have to type up two more chapters and finish my preliminary edits), but I will email you once it's done.
Alright awesome. I'd prefer you take the Fantasy one. It's gonna be pretty rough, let me warn you. I've been so busy not much editing has been done, but hopefully the story is good. That's more what I'm interested in knowing about.
Cancetto Farmica wiped the sweat and the gnats from his brow. He resented having to put up tents, he was a trumpeter and calliope player, an artiste. He resented that it was a humorous sight to watch little Cancetto swing a sledgehammer that weighed almost as much as he did, and that the other carnies let him know it. He may have been small, but he refused to take a joke. At 23 years old, he’d already lost two jobs for fighting.
He dipped his old tin cup into the bucket, poured the water over his black, curly hair.
“Farmica! Cancetto Farmica!” Then a harsh string of Italian.
Cancetto turned. It was Giovanni, billed as the Italian Hercules.
“Yeah, you, you little pipsqueak!” Giovanni stomped up, shirtless and sweaty. Cancetto stood eye-to-eye with the eagle tattoo peering through the big man’s chest hair.
“Pipsqueak?” asked Cancetto. “That’s a new one.”
“Formica! You little ant! You mess with my woman!”
“Can I help it? The women they love me.” Cancetto put his hands on his hips and gave a wry smile. “You may be a big muscle man, but I’ve got the strong, passionate lips of a trumpet-player!”