The snow remains a teasing little flirt, hinting she might show up but then sending flipping rain or fog or record-breaking temperatures instead. I sigh! Wherefore art thou, snow? I needeth thou! I enjoyeth walkies in your depths.
I went outside just yesterday. Spring, allegedly, decided she wished to park her buttocks on Eastern Oregon like the unwelcome crackwhore she can be at times. Get thee gone, Spring! Blue skies, mild weather, mud. What the eff??!! I left the pavement and nearly sank to my ankles in sticky goo. What the effing eff???!!! No! NO! This cannot stand. Snow, stop teasing us here and arrive in big white pretty snowflakes that we will curse with many curses once we have to go anywhere.
An update. On Remarkable Women.
I am on Chapter Ten. Yes, go ahead and applaud and cheer and bust out the Keystone Light, Icehouse Brew edition. [I bet you think I made that up…]
Yesterday, I was fuddling about, after my abortive attempt to go for walkies, when I had an actual epiphany of a moment. What if the Snitty Ratballs already….HA HA HA HA HA. Joy. My mind threw forth a hoary old chestnut of storytelling and my heart just started singin’ arias. Wheeee. Because that hoary old chestnut works. It glides somewhat neatly into place and it won’t take much tweakage to incorporate it back into the narrative. Yay!!!
Snitty Ratballs? Wha?
I’ve set up a DYSTOPIAN afterworld, so I can yank up names from my Silly Name Generator all I wish. They’re a fable within my dark fable, so to speak. Intrigued? Mmm!
I read, in a cynical and tired bid to drum up business for my words and phrases, that one needs to advertise a book before it’s even conceived. Start banging a giant set of virtual skins well before you actually write anything. Marketing. Everyone has talent! MY imaginary iguana has talent! It’s the marketing end you need to master and dominate and tie up with its own panties.
Where was I?
Ah, snow, a hot January and my current Important and Real writing project.
I’m humming along, as they say. I’m enjoying myself as I type words. I’m giggling most foully at certain portions and then self-censoring at other portions because…cannibals. I’m challenging myself to come up with new words and such that people would toss about after some world-wide fuckitall war had happened. I’m looking up stuff about Fallon, Nevada, which, for some reason, presented itself as Ground Zero of my dark and now slightly funny and almost light-hearted romp of a tale. The Top Gun school is nearby. They have petroglyphs in the hills nearby. Farming community, small town, an hour from Reno. Cottonwoods. A bird sanctuary. Carson River. I’ve been there. Most of my hasty research won’t be tapped. But it’s there. It’s there and that’s a comforting feeling.
Okay! I need to return to Disney-fying my cannibal bikers versus the three old sisters Magnum Opus. Excerpt? I never thought you’d ask, my dears!
From Chapter One of the Remarkable Women of Brokenheart Lane:
“I don’t know. Men need things named so they can own them,” Laura said in her suddenly new restless way. “Wouldn’t it be better to be a part of the new world order than hiding from it or fighting against it? Shouldn’t we get our bottoms on the ground floor of whatever happens? I could eat some human flesh, if it had a sauce or something on it. You wouldn’t even know what it was. Some ketchup. You’d think it was pork. Long pig! That’s what human flesh is called, or was called. I think it’s just called food nowadays.”
“It’s a sin to eat other humans,” Lily said in her final, that’s it, way.
“A sin? Worse than being killed and eaten yourself? Or starving slowly to death in this darkened, dusty old house in the middle of the damn Nevada desert? Listening to two old biddies talk about birds and the Lord?? Worse than having to bite your tongue during that?”
“We are not in the middle of the Nevada desert.” Lily pointed out. “And what is wrong with you, sister? What?”
“I told you about those little blue and gold birds. I’m sure I did.” Violet studied her knitting, frowning. “Why do I keep dropping stitches? You’re an old biddy as well, Laura. You never talk, that’s not our fault.”
“I don’t want to sit here in this house anymore. And wait for them to come find us. The monsters always win in real life, Lily. They always win. There is no justice. None. Not for three old broads, not for your Jesus and not for anyone else…but monsters. Let’s be monsters. Let’s join them. We can cook their food. Wash their clothes. We’re women. We’re useful! Men think they always run the world. But women do the actual work. We could work for the monsters. What’s wrong with that?”