Hello.
My short story, Jimmy’s Jar Collection, will be included in the latest Ghastling. Check it out.
It’s set in a tiny Idaho town, in a pioneer graveyard. About a teen boy who catches the local ghosts in canning jars. And how maybe the local ghosts are not so down with that.
I broke my own rules. I wrote a desperate, memory lane splattered little scream that I should have sent to the trash, not let others read at all. I should have kept my own bullshit to myself, not shared it. Nobody cares, okay. Got it. Understand that. I can’t seem to make any sort of headway professionally right now or personally. It’s frustrating.
I do want to thank people if they did read the post before this one. Thank you.
I won’t be posting anything that should have been kept private. For no one but me. I get it. I didn’t overcome anything, I didn’t learn any aggressively positive lessons. Okay.
I have a rule. To never speak of or write to others how bad it gets in my head. How bad it is all the time. To not burden my few remaining friends with the utter dreck of my thoughts, the debris-laden tides. Better not tell no one but God, as Celie’s stepfather told her in Color Purple.
Yeah. Need to remember that. Need to have that carved into my arm so I can read that before sending out anything smacking of such trite, pathetic bullshit again.
Note– I’ve trashed the Red Ryder post. No need for it to be posted at all.
Last night the winds cracked their cheeks. Probably some dead branches cracked as well, but not enough to fall onto the roof. Yay! You really can find the good, even in a wind storm. No branches fell on the roof from the incredibly ancient, rotting even as you read this, cottonwood tree.
It’s the same tree that the local owls like to use to send their owl messages back and forth to owls perching in the locust tree along the lane. There’s just the one locust tree, which draws every insect within a thousand miles when it puts forth its honey-smelling blooms. Tractors have attempted to yank that thing out but the tree won. It was quite a goodly thrill to watch a tractor nearly do flips trying to kill that old tree. Ha ha ha, take that, evil farmers!
So, yes, I am writing. I have started a new novel with the title of Vampire Bride. Where a vampire marries a human after a wild tequila-fueled night in Vegas. Have I mentioned this in the few blog posts I’ve put out since January? Anyway! I’ve also been what I call junk writing. This is just writing I do for me. I will never ever ever show it to anyone. It’s indulgent, shallow crappy tripe. Most of it, anyway. I have millions of words invested in this.
Now, my actual question is—do other writers do this? Do they have a private stash of self-indulgent, just for them, creations?
Is there a split of the ‘good’ stuff and the everything else stuff they’d not show to others? Is there a secret stash of bodice ripper historical romances versus the ‘serious’ literature produced for awards and lit mags to fawn over?
Is there an Anne Rice in all writers? Her BDSM series, based on Sleeping Beauty being woken up by a very horny dom Prince…and her other works, which don’t feature actual whips, chains, human trafficking and passages involving orgies. And were published long before 50 Shades had grown from Edward Cullen fanfic. A.N. Roquelaure is the pen name used for the Beauty series. I just found out there’s a fourth book in this series, Beauty’s Kingdom, 2015. The others were out in the 80’s.
So, honestly, just wondering if other writers keep a secret stash of words meant only to be read by themselves. It’s probably a way of coping with life, rejection, life and the slow strangulation death of any and all dreams. Yep. Drowning yet again, I pen words meant to comfort and console my dying brain that there’s still some oxygen bubbles bursting nearby. That I am writing away, just not on anything I’d show to group of other writers. Private little romances that always end in happy times or adult-themed high to very lowbrow fantasy full of dragons, shapeshifting creatures and goblins living under magical castles full of ghosts, devils and sexy dark lords…hey, not admitting anything. Nope!
Or perhaps I am ashamed that I have a need to write the secret stuff at all. That it’s rather like that ‘comical’ moment in movies when the heroine’s vibrator is found or turned on by accident so that it rattles away as she stands there with a red face. Instead of just shrugging, grabbing it up, turning it off, and admitting, yes, she likes orgasms. You got a problem with that, she should demand instead of the embarrassed horror of people discovering she’s, well, masturbating on a regular basis.
Did I mention the owls have been very busy the last couple weeks? And that I am writing, not necessarily on anything I’d let you or anyone else read. Vampire Bride, sure. It’s meant for others. Goblin Ghosts Versus the Dragon Lord’s Prisoner, no. And no, I did not write anything like that. Or did I??? Bwhahahahahaha.
No, actually I didn’t.
I swear it. On a stack of Interview With the Vampire. Oh hey, anyone else go through an Anne Rice phase?
I have four books out now. I have a short story in the next Ghastling. Go check them out.
It’s March. When the heck did that happen?? Where did February go? Time flies! I am the very first person to ever write that. Oh, sorry. Are we now in post-post whatever goes era yet? Are we all back to expecting some truth and some reality into our national discourse?? International discourse now! We’re back on the world stage as a team player, yes? My head spins at the spin so I’m not sure what the spin is right now. See what I did there? Can you explain it to me so I know that I know I didn’t fall for the spin that was spun? Thanks!
Just a week or so ago, we had WILD WINTER WEATHER. Snow. More snow. Some more snow. Bracketed by very warm weather. Spring weather. SNOW AND WHAT IS HAPPENING, WHY IS WINTER HERE ALL OF A SUDDEN. Spring weather. The unsettled border areas between the last of winter and the start of the growing season are upon us.
Joe Biden is still president, by the way. In case some of you were wondering. I am not, cannot, go into the QAnon conspiracy badger sett right now. It’s like cutting off my fingers to spite someone’s golf game that they haven’t played yet. Jewish space lasers. I, um? I think people just got tired of waiting for Obama to take their guns so they invented the New Jersey pizza parlor cannibals eating children for their hormones to worship Satan, led by Hillary Clinton, the Hollywood ‘elites’, etc, with Geoge Soros funding all this because…Jewish. March 4th was supposed to be the day pumpkincunt took the White House back and that DID NOT HAPPEN. Take it from me in Eastern Oregon, in literal nowhere at all, that did not happen.
Now, you can stroll over to Parler and Gab, whatever else, to read all this. That is if you want to submit your data and set up an account. For sites that have been repeatedly data breached. I’m bad with computers and barely understand how to turn one on and off but even I know repeated data breaches are bad, m’kay. But hey, if you want to read how Biden is dead, being played by a crisis actor or that FEMA camps are being set up right now to ‘re-educate’ patriots or that masks are a sign of the Beast and the New World Order, that the COVID vaccine is Bill Gates’s master plan to erase the earth’s population…well, you can peruse your Aunt Martha’s Facebook page. Or that guy you went to high school with, who morphed into a 2A rabid weasel who types in all caps about state’s rights, small government and why liberal women are all whores who kill then eat their own babies.
I could go on and on about the nuttiness that is American politics right now. And on and on!
So to end this brief scattershot for the start of March, I made dinner rolls yesterday. From scratch. I let them rise three times. I had a small roast in the crock pot, I let the dough simmer near that heat. Light, fluffy, airy dough, kiss noises! I baked them to perfection. Paul Hollywood would have at least given me a slight nod. I think it’s important when the globalists cut the power and start stuffing us all in camps that I have the skill set to make my own bread. I’d laugh but irony and sarcasm are dead in America, so I’m just sobbing into a pint of ice cream while waiting for the black helicopters to wing past on their way to carry out orders from the Clinton mafia.
Hello, spring. Hello!
ANN WUEHLER 