Well, what to write this week. If anything to write this week. The world slumbers in the dog days of summer and nuthin’ is going on. Except the threat of nuclear annihilation and some other stuff, but hey…
I did write a very Mean Girls post but my better angels punched me in the face. So.
I’ve been doing submissions. Always a fun time. [That was sarcasm.] I did two this morn! Two. An excerpt from a novel entitled The Adventures of Grumpy Odin and Sexy Jesus. A one-act play about two star-crossed lovers at a Las Vegas bus stop, called Free Range Chickens. That one place did say you could submit excerpts from novels…and hey, I took them at their word.
It’s been a rather smoky caul over my tiny corner of the universe lately. Rather like being back in Shenyang City, China. That was heavy industrial pollution, this is just wildfire smoke. Or being in Beijing, which is even worse than Shenyang! I know! They are trying to ‘clean’ that all up now, that pollution over there in China. We here in America are prepared to take up the pollution slack, however! Yay! Can’t wait! I’m not bitter at all.
What have I been writing? Oh? Um. well, let’s kindly call it ‘crap’, shall we?
Yeah, don’t worry. I will not be smearing that clear-the-head writing here. It’s bad, trust me. Note: maybe I will. I have tons of it. It might be the next ripoff of Games of Thrones meets LOTR with a splash of Story of O. Intrigued???
Ahem, anyway!! It has the depth of My Pretty Pony fanfiction. Not that I’ve read any. I’m assuming most of that is unreadable claptrap. I’m also taking a break from politics, life and life’s politics via said Claptrap Crap, which helps yours truly do some very minor coping.
I also now have Ibuprofin and have resorted to using the morning’s old coffee to make iced coffee in the afternoon, because I’m a resourceful little kitty-cat. And, poured over onion-flavored ice [don’t ask], leftover morning iced coffee treat is…well, something I can drink that’s not water-flavored. It’s the little things, baby. I’m jonesing for black cherry Kool-Aid, by the way. Yes, I made some sun tea! Geez! I found some ancient tea bags I got at the Dollar Store. Yum.
Now for a Serious Writer Gal update: I went back into the third book of my trilogy wannabe and let the chips fall where they wished. I’ve got the ending [note– it’s a sad ending for right now. I am letting that soak in the inner crock-pot gravy, don’t worry!], so where was I? I have the ending, more or less, and now just need the beginning and middle! [As the ‘story’ keeps shifting about like a damn Garden of Eden snake. Eve couldn’t have crucified that damn snake and…anyway.] Whee!! Woot woot!
Saint Lysette and Bloody Alicecooks in my inner crock-pot. It heats up slowly, I can leave it all day, come back in the evening and viola, meal. If you don’t know what a crock-pot is or why you can leave it all day…Google is your friend. [Not if you have a vagina, though…tee hee.]
It will be cooler. Hopefully, we won’t be fighting for scraps in the bomb shelters. [I don’t even have mine dug yet!!! Fuck. Sonofabitch!]
Football, and pumpkins, and dying leaves, oh yes! The blankets come back out. Rain returns. We’re supposed to get another bad winter. I should dig out my mittens and scarves right now! Or go dig a bomb shelter. And find some, what, lead? Maybe line it with mangina juice scraped off King Magical Pumpkincunt? I had to get one shot in, come on.
Hey, if anyone wants to read Free Range Chickens or, um, like, produce it…HERE YA GO!!
PART ONE: IN WHICH I DECIDE TO TAKE ON UNICORNS AND RAINBOWS
It’s hot. It’s smoky. There’s wildfires burning merrily away. Merrily for the fire, not so much for the men and women fighting said merry wildfire/s. Clownstick von Pumpkincunt lied about the Boy Scouts calling It to tell It what a goodly, bigly speech It gave to the Boy Scouts. Woot woot!
Um, Pumpkincunt and Racist Elfboy [Sessions]now say it’s white folks who are the real victim of discrimination. They are diverting money from actual programs set up to fight racism and segregation and etc, etc…to investigate the real victims of America’s racist climes–WHITE FOLKS! Oh my! I wish I had made that up; I’d win some goddamn writing prizes, for sure, for sure. Or maybe not. I’d have to use a different name, maybe Sally Houswifelady. Or Jellytits McFly.
I mentioned, casually and off the cuff, that I should write a happy post about…wait for it…wait….wait for it…
Unicorns and rainbows. Mostly because my last few posts have been in the Debbie Downer column. Politics. Depression. Writing about writing. Ugh! Gross me out the door already, right?
PART TWO: ECLIPSE, NEW MONTH, NOT YET TO THE UNICORN OR RAINBOW GOOD BITS
And it’s a new month.
A brand spanking new month. Where anything can happen. Like an eclipse. I have no actual interest in the moon eating the sun — science is a liberal plot to get free government cheese and free cell phones for illegal pretty-girl dismemberment teams. The eclipse– is that even an ENGLISH WORD???— is a sign that Jesus doesn’t want anyone to get gay married, that women should become livestock and that tax cuts for the wealthiest is one of the Beatitudes.
Apparently, if you say ‘just kidding’ after whatever batshit statement you make…it absolves you of all blame and responsibility for whatever happens/doesn’t happen. Yay!
PART THREE: BIG PHALLIC HORNED VIRGIN FINDERS
Unicorns. Mostly what I know about them is that they’re virgin-finders. A white horse with a big phallic ‘horn’ sticking out of its forehead goes about finding pure gals…yeah, can you say fragile male fanfiction about their own genitals? Weee.
I remember a tale about how to capture a unicorn– you find a virgin [good luck with that, eh, boys??] female and the unicorn will find her and put its head in her lap. Um. I guess if the girl is not a virgin, you find that out, too, when no unicorn shows up. A version of Medieval slut shaming, weeeee. Though, they didn’t have social media back then to slut shame, they had other methods. Like oh, burning them alive for witchcraft, woot woot, for one. We all know witches are sluts and should be burned alive, that’s just a given.
And unicorns are pretty! Big, pretty, white or golden [I’ve seen unicorns featured in other colors, with lion tails, etc.] horse-like creatures that have magical virgin-finding powers, among other gifts. What girl, with some mild or actual artistic talent, has not drawn herself an entire portfolio of unicorns? Are there any tales of evil unicorns? Mm…
PART FOUR: GOD VERSUS EVERYONE ELSE OR THE HAPPY RAINBOW
Rainbows! God’s promise, in the Old Testies, to NOT KILL NEARLY EVERYONE ON THE PLANET BECAUSE THEY WERE ICKY. Sinning. Whatever.
It’s the symbol of God saying, hey, I won’t destroy my own creation anymore but hey, I’m still gonna keep score, you fucks.That’s my own interpretation of those dusty verses, anyway. Ahem.
The rainbow is also the symbol of Gay Pride. We’re queer, we’re here! Love trumps hate! Love wins! Love love love! All of that celebration, parading and legislation to make ‘those’ into actual ‘citizens’. Which sets the Christian Right’s teeth on edge; not only on edge but shatters those teeth. [And to be fair…no, no, I don’t have to be fair. I don’t have to say Not All Christians blurgh blag bluk. They go low, I give them wedgies.]
That rainbow flag waving about versus some dusty verses in the Old Testies…that’s just good old-fashioned fun right there. If you’re sitting on the sidelines with no dog in this here hunt, that is. [That’s an American idiom– no dog in this hunt. I understand it instantly, but I am from an actual hunting/farming/hillbilly/poor folks background.]
The rainbow is also some scientific thingie
to do with weather…or something.
But hey, let’s not bring anything so liberal elitist social justice warrior feminazi victimize the white folks into this here discussion on how the poor rainbow has been used to take down Jesus. Amen.
PART FIVE: CONCLUSIONS, MEANDERINGS AND GENERAL SMARTASS-NESS
Purity and visible evidence that God won’t take us out again for being sinners. Unicorns and rainbows. Cute fantasy figure and using the visible spectrum of colors to fight for inclusion of LGBTQ folks in all walks of life. An equine symbol of purity [sorry, gals, not even Mother Teresa can out-pure a unicorn. Even the Virgin Mary looks like a grubby pole dancer next to a one-horned horse.] and a symbol of God’s divine decree that even if we’re down here lining up puppies to debauch, God won’t send a heavy rain.
God didn’t say anything about earthquakes or other natural disasters. As people, to this day, equate a local/not local earthquake or some other fun Mother Nature-ish event, with some judgment they just know is being delivered on the heads of the local/global sinners. God punishes everyone they hate —It’s just great that God hates everyone I hate, ain’t it??– with a tornado.
It’s very convenient, random punishment by random earthquake or other disaster natural or otherwise, and such conclusions of divine justice involve no actual work or use of brain tissue. Earthquake equals suffering and death for sinners. And a few innocent bystanders who probably deserved it.
Yeah. I once had a carload of elderly ladies try to tell me that earthquake in Fukushima, Japan was God’s judgment on Japan for being atheists. My my my. We humans never seem to get away from branding all happenings, good or horrible or in between, with some sort of divine agency. Yes, I came to that conclusion all on my own…I amz smartie.
Back to the divine symbol of God’s forgiveness--I forgive you motherfuckers for being shitbirds, even though I designed you, but I ain’t taking any responsibility for how you fuckwads turned out, no way, no how! Have a goddamn rainbow, you sunsabitches!
So, God is reduced to striking small areas along fault zones or in tornado alley or in the path of hurricanes or…yeah, instead of punishing us all at once and just starting over with new models.
PART SIX: TEQUILA!
Why didn’t God just wipe out Noah and company, too, and start over? Other mythologies have just this– where the gods and goddesses had to start over and over and over again with humanity. So why didn’t the God in the Old Testies just do that with the obviously fatally flawed shits it created from dirt and probably a truly gargantuan cosmic-wide tequila bender? Yes, God created tequila before he created the sun. I know it, you know it, let’s get over it together, fellow babies.
Having been the victim of that truly evil liquid myself, I can well sympathize with God cataclysmically messing up humanity and forming them into such imperfect little shitwads of hatred, nastiness and so forth. Who hasn’t done stupid things while buzzed on tequila?? Hands? Hands? Yeah, okay then!!
Am I actually blaming the faults of humanity on God having one too many shots of demon juice AKA tequila? Yes. Yes, I am.
Oh that note!! August, it promises to be a super-hot crap-smeared slide into madness and further obscurity for yours truly. Hoooray!! If I start low, all I can go is high, right? Shhh. I think I hear a unicorn…nope, just my hopes and dreams being stomped to death by an angry horse with a plastic horn duct taped to its face.
Yep, I started Book Three of my [some name] trilogy. I’m about six thou words in. Started it, like, two days ago. I’m going back and forth in narrative, a dueling banjos sorta cacophony. Two sisters, one story, everything finally explained. Intrigued?? Well, pull up a chair, friend. Let me walk you through this!
I was all bopping along, project-free, with misty ideas of writing an American-heavy dirge on the, gulp, probably real life scenario of–OMG Why Is the Velveeta Twatwaffle Nuking Canada?Only, I’d have those I find politically repugnant as the Main Characters saying patriotic schtuff and things. Just so I can ‘understand’ and ‘give them a voice’ and…yeah, I just fucking can’t summon up enough demonic power to fuel a short play handling that, let alone a full length musical. [Yes, it would have to be a musical. I just saw Royal Wedding last night and now, must write a musical where someone tap dances while singing vaguely racists lyrics and pinching girls in tight costumes. It’s on my bucket list.] When, as projects do, a terrible, awful, maybe somewhat okay idea birthed itself from the birth canal of my creativity. [Eww, gross!! My idea is all covered in icky creative birth fluids!! Ewwww!!]
That WHAT IF dragon uncurling its loathsome body. Breathing in my ear. What if Lysette…the mute sister who got her voice back…what if she and Alice and Nancy get a showdown or have to team up to fight the forces of darkness or have to take on the devil or…oooooooh. Mmmmm. Wheels spinning. The wheels on the writer go round and round, round and round, round and round. Nancy, of course, our main gal from House on Clark Boulevard, and her daughter Alice, who has her own turn in Alice of Oregonlandia and Lysette…who’s a big girl now in the mythical grunge smear of the late 90′s. And since I’m dealing with ghosts and death and the devil and…those that have died can return for a bit of a cameo and some clean up batting.
Storyline?? Bwha ha ha ha.
Right now, it’s a vague mess about Alice being accused of…oh, let’s say, a crime, a big one. And she’s broken, battered and broken all over again by life, by what the devil…yeah. It ain’t pretty, but do we want characters who barely break a sweat and then win the lottery? After four hundred pages where the worst thing that happened to them was a broken fingernail and a bad haircut? NO, OF COURSE NOT. Lysette, now, she’s a tough cookie, in the mold of all tough cookies everywhere. Hey, fluck you, I’m like ten pages in, if that. She’s DEVELOPING. No, I’m not defensive or bitter. YOU ARE. Are we done fighting? M’kay. I’m letting whatever wishes to be free be free on the page for now. If Lysette comes out like a cross between Buffy and one of those femme fatale broads from film noir, hey, for right now…I’m gonna let her be who she wishes to be. Is that so wrong? [As long as something gets on a page, is that not the whole point of writing?? I read that somewhere. Maybe one of those super-positive slogans people post over pictures of fuzzy baby ducks. Fuzzy baby ducks!]
Okay, so Saint Lysette-– which is the working title I have right now for Book Three in my [name here] trilogy…like I stated earlier, it’s told from both Alice’s end and Lysette’s. I might even add…a third viewpoint to this heady feminine mix. Might. Considering it. It’s being percolated and bottle fed in my creativity nursery. [It would be Nancy. Nancy!! Yes, do it. Maybe. We’ll see.] I forgot where this paragraph was going. I’ve got MST3K pulled up and it’s DISTRACTING me from this obligatory blog post about latest vague project that’s oozing from my creativity nursery like a sullen mythical lizard on heroin.
I feel totally vindicated now. Yep. Totally. [Fuck you, you Velveeta Stalin Wannabe! At least I didn’t call you a piece of shit or show you sans head. Yay for me!]
Oh, before I jump off the cliff, um…my favorite bit of news out of the UK elections. Lord Buckethead. I have no idea what his political views were or are. I am not endorsing said Lord Buckethead. But. Someone went around with a bucket on their head and got three hundred or so votes in that quickdraw election that May called for. It’s the little things that cheer you up and make you grin ear to ear and realize you can badly survive another day on Planet Shitball. Lord Buckethead, well done, sir. Well done.
If LBH was some British version of a KKK…ugh. Must now go look up politics of LBH. Sigh! No sigh needed!! AWESOME POSSUM APPLESAUCE. Next time I have to vote in ‘murica, I am writing Lord Buckethead in for ‘write-in candidate’ slot. My mother used to write Snoopy. She’d write Snoopy in as her candidate of choice. Because in America, we’d rather vote for cartoon characters than the actual…yeah, anyway.
OH WAIT!! A bit more of your precious browsing time!! Here’s, yes, the dreaded writing sample that must, of course, be included in a post about um, a novel. It’s the opening salvo! Mr. Peepers is still with us!! Who’s Mr. Peepers?? You’ll have to wait for the FIRST BOOK OF MY [some catchy, social media friendly name here] TRILOGY TO FIND OUT. Yay!! Oh. This is first draft-ish. It’s rough, bold and will probably leave a rash. Enjoy!!!
Mr. Peepers had gotten on my last cotton-pickin’ nerve. I pulled into the Deadman’s rest stop, outside of Pendleton, with the idea that I should shag my ass back to Seattle. I yanked a pack of Luckies out of my cleavage and noticed a young man watching me as he slithered out of his Ford 4by4 two-tone. Young, dark blond hair a bit too long, a scruffy face like he’d forgotten to shave or he was trying to look like Cobain, who was fucking dead as Reaganomics. Mr. Peepers made a schmoan sound, a sigh and a moan conbined. “We don’t have time for this, Missie Lysette!”
I got out of my old Dodge, stretched, made sure lover boy saw it, made sure lover boy got a real good look at my charms. He came right over. His plates had that Idaho tinge, and he was from Ada county. Was he headed toward Portland or back home? Like I gave a rat in a blender. “Hey, stranger.” I purred at the man, who stopped, his somewhat homely face lighting up like one of those Christmas decorations you buy at Wal-Mart, a cheap decoration you hope doesn’t kill you when you plug it in that first time. The closer Prince Charming got, the more fun I wanted to have with him. Just a young farm boy meeting up with a femme fatale. I had a knife, coated with salt, stuffed in my sock. I’d spill his guts if he tried anything funky. I had before. “You got a light?”
That is my goal today. I have no other goals. I don’t even have a list of goals of things I need to have goals about.
Let’s see. A single subject that I can prettily explore in about a thousand words because attention spans are not what they were. That’s not a slam. That’s just a hasty observation. About you. If the shoe fits, walk around in it. Shoes are awesome. Being barefoot is awesome. Socks are awesome, too. Did I miss anyone?
After all, my pretend crack addiction is actually affecting my ability to write anything other than ‘testicle fur’ at odd moments. I pretend a lot, as I don’t have Netflix. If I had Netflix, my brain could atrophy and melt. I could become one of those secret control the world bankers and just enjoy all the cash rolling in. I applied for that job but had to admit I didn’t have Netflix. I have not heard back from them yet. See what I mean? If I had a goal listed somewhere–do not go off on tangents about Netflix or secret world banking organizations– I’d not be a the end of a small paragraph of nonsense and self-indulgent fluvering. [I made that word up. It means to meander needlessly and test the patience of patient readers.]
Oh, got a really nice rejection notice. If that makes sense. You were a finalist but we went with other plays but we loved your writing. Ah!! Hope springs eternal in the writer’s droopy soul! Someone likes my writing?? Hallelujah.
Just because it’s a leftover, sitting there in the fridge like a welfare queen, does not mean it goes into scrambled eggs. That’s the number one and only rule for this life that counts. No chicken skin, no weird rubbery green bean-ish bean thingie, no no no no.
Dang it, this has several subjects by now. Bad breakfast cooking, world bankers, absence of Netflix, imaginary crack addiction, rejections that are nice…Ugh a bug.
The toast is good from that breakfast fiasco. [I did not cook breakfast this morn. Stop right there. I would not just randomly throw shit into the eggs and call it a meal. There are things that do not go into eggs. God damn it, there are rules here. I don’t care. Yes, there are people starving and eating nuclear waste dirt right now to stay alive. I know that. I watch those miseryporn commercials same as you, you judgmental horror. You smug smuggle! Go judge yourself and eat vitamins and drink kale sweat. Bye!]
Kale sweat. My thirty-page rhyming couplet ode to my mother’s childhood pets. It starts off with a scream about nostalgia and ends with a longing for the good ole days. Arcs, people, arcs are what makes art work.
“Satanic Mafia” is going to be the title of one of my many books. It’s going to be a Christmas tale, about an animal rescue. The new title, after I get a mysterious email from the UN, will be Fluffy’s Last Stand Against the NWO, which will be a more friendly-seeming and sales-garnering title and attract a wider audience who will…Must stop torturing myself about imaginary books. Time for an imaginary hit off my imaginary crack pipe. Sometimes dreams are the only things you have left and sometimes those dreams are weird, man. Weird.
Okay, let’s end this on a positive note. +
No, just kidding. Oh, the House on Clark Boulevard has officially gone through that first round of editing. I know!! I just peed myself a little, too, in excitement and anticipation and hopeful hopes for a better tomorrow.
PS– the Orange Snowflake held its own pep rally yesterday, Saturday April 29th, because…yeah. Can’t someone send that poor Crusty Cheeto a Cheer the Fuck Up card? Maybe send him a basket of refugee children’s ears or a nice spiral cut ham? I can’t. I’m, like, totally busy, um, writing some goals down. Yeah. Goals. Mm.
I shall follow up my wildly popular and highly fluffy post, Let’s Go to the Movies, with some quote mining from yours truly. Titles with numbers in them seem to be known as ‘clickbait‘ and by Jove and by gum, I wish to be clickbaited! I know how that sounds, but I’m both needy and indifferent to the world. I am a contrary contrarian. If you repeat a word twice, you sound either Dickensian or that you have a scratch and your devices are having trouble playing you back.
Thirteen quotes. I suggest some of you make memes out of the following. Or a GIF. Or is that just ‘gif’? Ugh, modern spelling, amirite?
#1– from my short play, the Bluegrass of God,which has actually been performed!
ALITA: I buried all my things. In my backpack. I buried my past. It was nice. I said a little prayer and I think God heard me cause I found this place and the wind, it blows through like fiddle music, and it don’t care, it don’t care that I’ve been slapped by the Devil. So you see, Miss Paula…I can’t go with you. My past is buried nearby and it might, it might just burst out of the ground like a rocket. Just like a rocket.
#2– from my completed novel, The Adventures of Sexy Jesus and Grumpy Odin.That’s right, completed. I had fun writing it, even if no one ever reads it, publishes it or goes near it with a twenty-thousand foot pole:
Jesus came swanning in and women and yes, the men, too, watched him. That careless human beauty he wore as his own skin. The graceful workings of his slender frame. Loose sweatpants the color of November nights, a loose brightly printed shirt covered with abstract squiggles and squares, a forest green background, bright blue designs. It was rather like a cardinal landing among a flock of wary, admiring sparrows. That buttery dark hide had been burnished by his time in the harsh Nevada deserts. Those dark eyes held murder and rage in the center of each, twin black flames that promised a horrible, prolonged end to whatever crossed his path or even looked at him a little funny. Lights flickered. The dirt monkeys murmured, looked up, their faces open and wondering. They were moments away from asking the gods to make the lights stay on. No amount of modernity could reroute that urge to appeal to whatever forces might be listening for help, for comfort, for an ending of a torment.
#3–Ah, here’s the latest from my Wind in the Willows, American style, knockoff. I wrote this in the last couple of days, so it’s FRESH. This concerns the two sides about to have a fake war to bolster economies and get rid of the giant squids of Jesus that Luke and his side have had to take care of, since Deadlion’s End does not have a public aquarium. Meryl, by the way, is the mayor of Deadlion’s End. From my Tales of Beastface Bay, War Talk:
Or we can cobble together something ourselves, said Meryl, thinking of the expenses for hiring speech writers, then paying them extra to be quiet about the speeches they wrote. I’m sure, said the mayor, we can all write our own speeches here. I mean, how hard is it, really, to write a good, stirring patriotic barn burner of a speech? Rah rah, freedom, courage, we all have to sacrifice, liberty, they won’t beat us into the dust, we’re better than this, they can’t break us, courage, liberty, freedom, the blood of our ancestors, freedom, liberty, courage, freedom isn’t free, giant squids must go, courage, liberty, freedom, they can’t break us down and make us lose our liberty, courage or freedom. Something like that and then we all hug and cry, and go off to make sure our side wins.
#4– I shall make most of these short, don’t worry! From my massively produced and even published! short play, the Mating Season of Flying Monkeys:
BELINDA: Marjorie. You can’t tell me what to do anymore. I’m…an old woman now. You’re my sister, not…not my mother. I’ve decided to have a one night stand, if you absolutely must know.
#5– From a poem I wrote for a monthly poetic challenge, where Rattle puts up a random picture and poets of all stripes who so wish can compose a composition inspired by said artistic photo or rendering. M’kay? This is from She Enters the Forest:
She can see the cerulean hint of bluebells just there oh just there. I am not a good girl. She smiles over her shoulder toward the anxious eyes awaiting her return. Forgive me, I think I’ll need forgiving. I think this is unforgivable. I hope so.
#6–Ah, my next selection is from a short play of mine, the Man Who Went Insane From Money.A bank teller has had enough of the world. This one came from a happy, fun conversation I had with a fellow artsy sort, in Eugene, Oregon, at a party. What if bank tellers were honest about your bank account? We were laughing back and forth about what bank tellers would actually like to say to customers, and indeed, what all customer service sorts would like to say…and so I wrote a bit of a play. Inspiration sometimes comes from actually talking to other people. I know!
TYLER: Just turn on your too-high heels and totter out of here. Go get drunk and find a new man to suck dry, though you are kind of old. I’d max out your one remaining credit card for some plastic surgery, get your ass tightened up, your vajayjay, too. The boobs, goes without saying. Get those wrinkles filled in. Do some high class fucking and sucking and then presto, back in business. Just some friendly free advice
#7– Be patient, we’re more than half way through my self-induced tour of quote mining from my own stuff!! This is taken from City Full of Rain, a short story I need to rework. I think the ending…yeah. If you’re a writer [hashtag WeAreAllWriters] then you ‘get it’. You ‘get it’ so hard right now. You are ‘getting it’ with a cherry on top.
I probably am crazy, I probably made this all up to amuse myself because life is so very un-amusing. But I doubt it. I’ve been writing all this down for a year or so, hand-written in those single-subject notebooks they still sell at the supermarket. Each little scribbled word drains me. Yet I do it anyway. I want a record of what I did. Don’t we all? A record of why I did what I did and why it mattered. Don’t we all? I am not violence-minded, don’t worry. How could I hurt them? They’re angels or whatever they are. Survivors to this modern age. Nothing is that careful or cautious, nothing. Not even God. They’ve survived, Mike and Penny, because they’re impervious, not because they’re cautious. I could expose them but who, honestly but a handful of other crazies and wild-eyed breathless others, would take me seriously?
#8– Ah, from a Christmas short tale I penned. Seven Swans A Swimming Toy Store and Comic Books Emporium. Some writing challenge thingie for some vague project that might happen and so I wrote a short tale about an uncle and his niece and a ghost in a toy store. And it’s not even scary. I’m slippin’, I tell ya. Slippin’. La Grande, Oregon, by the way. Since that’s my college town and…yeah. Yep.
Allegedly, he was quite sad his older sister had died so tragically, in a giant city famous for crushing its inhabitants in traffic jams, mudslides and tales of the once-famous reduced to tiny, faded ends. The rise and fall of the famous had become Los Angeles’s gasoline of choice. But, he and Holly had never been close. He could not fathom such a nomadic sort of life. He could not fathom creating a child and dragging it around like an extra-annoying backpack…as Holly had once labeled her own offspring. La Grande had been where he had attended school and then La Grande had become his home when he got a job teaching indifferent teens elderly literature selections they could not fathom as in any way relatable to their lives. They memorized bits here and there for the tests that would open doors to elitist liberal bastions of indoctrination that they’d spend a lifetime paying for if they took out student loans. Dreams in America now seemed for the very rich or the very delusional.
#9– Hang on, Sloopy! Almost at the end! This is from a rather sweet short story I puffed out on a Sunday afternoon, about an elderly lady named Maybelle and her very special doll. The story is, of course, called Maybelle.
Judi had gone out for ‘supplies’ or rather, a lunch with her friend, Beau, a married man. Maybelle found that rather sad but said nothing. It was Judi’s life. Her own life had been a series of dead ends, heart aches, losses and quiet little deaths of her every dream and most of her hopes. The only bright spot remained Baby Cynthia. The one boy who had squired her about a bit had gone off with another, prettier, livelier girl without a backward glance and no one had stepped in to take that place. She had tried to be a nurse, had tried to be a teacher, had ended up taking odd jobs here and there when she had no talents for nursing and no backbone for teaching. She had dreamed of her own little house and times being what they were, always, for her, that had never come to pass. Sometimes life just shunts people gently or not so gently aside.
#10– Oregon Gothic gets a nod, my patient lovelies! This excerpt from Bailey, the first salvo in my OREGON GOTHICcollection, is a real treat. It’s candy corn, Peeps and Cadbury Eggs kinda special. Or a kale smoothie, organic yogurt enemas and rain water collected from one of those temples in Cambodia treat special. Hey, I try to cater to all reading and other sundry tastes here. Our plucky heroine has broken down after enjoying a meal with her grandparents…
Because it’s perfect.
How many horror movies had she watched with just this crap going on? Storm. Broken down vehicle. Girl alone. Psycho with knife, axe, gun. It was practically an American institution, an American movie classic shown every single freaking Christmas and twice at Easter. Halloween. Night of the Living Dead– the original, not the shitty remake. Friday the Thirteenth, the very first one. Carnival of Souls. Every Dracula movie ever, surely. She couldn’t think of any more movies, her mind just refusing to spit out any more examples, because she seemed too busy trying not to piss herself in fear. So where was the psycho?
Stop it, Bailey, just stop it. She scolded herself as she walked along, trying to hurry. It was not that far to town. And she had been discussing local murders with her grandparents. No wonder she was spookedy-spooked. Weiser, Boise, nowhere near here though. Nowhere near. Miles away, in a different state. Idaho was full of crazies. Oregon was not, which was not true but still comforting.
And like some malignant cue from the universe, a male voice said, “ Hey. “
#11– This is yet another tale that graces Oregon Gothic, also about a ghost at Christmastime time, that visits one of the residents at a nursing home. Tiny Rooms.
“It’s all right. I don’t mind. So you sit with a little ghost and cook things for Christmas. What’s crazy about that? That’s rather nice.” I had somehow said just the right thing. Nora smiled, that rare real smile she had.
“I think so, too…or I’d have told her to go away and leave me alone, ” Nora confessed. “One Christmas, I had a tuna sandwich and a cup of tea. It was all I had in the house. I was just grateful I didn’t have to go hungry. I couldn’t afford a tree that year, either. And. And I never bothered to buy one after that. It was just…not worth the bother. It was a relief. To be done with it all.”
#12– This is from Lady Judas, one of the first plays I ever wrote. It’s been rewritten X amount of times since then and I rather like how it’s evolved. A suicidal woman comes home to a family dinner where Jesus shows up. Now, originally, I had Jane, the protagonist, actually dying as she’s imagining a homecoming of sorts. But. What if she lived and had to face everything and everyone? Ray speaks about his wife and the mother of Jane and her sister, Lanie, toward the end of this latest rewrite, about what love is, to him.
RAY: Is that what you all think? She ripped her arms open because of me? Is that what you think, Jane? I loved her. I loved her, I love her to this day. She was a mean, bitter woman and some people are just like that, but I loved her. I cleaned her up when she had her spells, I put bandages on Lanie and you, I cleaned up the mess so nobody had to see it but me, I…I did what I had to because I loved her to pieces. I loved her to pieces.
#13– Something wildly cheerful to round up my baker’s dozen! This last long quote, ha ha ha, is taken from my soon, I hope, to be published novel, The House on Clark Boulevard, about Nancy who’s both battling the holiday cooking and family demands as well as battling the Forces of Darkness. Enjoy!!
“Is there going to be those eggs?” Art asked, as he did before all holidays. Those eggs. Deviled eggs. Mayonnaise and mustard and egg yolk, mashed together and spooned back into shiny white egg halves. That’s how he knew it was a special day.
“Yes. Mom will probably make a big batch. Anything else you want? Apple pie or cherry or maybe a chocolate pie?” She sent out and Art just smiled, he was back on familiar ground, not dealing with a crazy wife with her cracks showing.
“Apple pie is always good. Do you like apple, Alice?” Art threw an unexpected curve ball at his strangely silent daughter, who turned her eyes to her father, her mouth full of mushy egg noodles.
“Can we have lemon?”
Lemon?? Art shrugged, cast Nancy a why-are-kids-so-weird glance. “Sure.”
Oh yes, lemon. When both Art and Alice hated lemon anything. “I’m sure we can make a lemon pie,” Nancy replied very agreeably. It seemed vastly important to reassure everyone she was back to normal, that she was mama and wife again. With some stitches and blood loss, but still mama and wife, no name at all, just mama and wife. That her only interests were cooking for Christmas and cleaning up after one and all and being pleasant. Nancy quickly shoved that thought far far down, shoved it into a ghost bottle with a bit of her own fingernail in it. She was Nancy the Magnificent Mr. Blue Fighter. She had conquered an invader here in the lands of Oregon East. “A big ole lemon pie with a playing card crust!”
Whew!! Thirteen quotes! I had fun. Did you? I seem to have a real spite against Christmas. I left out most of the writing that contained adult themes or language. I tried to keep it short and snappy. Tried being the operative word. Well, goodbye until next time. I’m sure yours truly will come up with something like Five Ways to Write About Potted Plants or perhaps 16 Ways Socks Figure in the Cannon of Western Literature.
Alliteration aside…or not, that is up to you, toads of the post-modern landscape…this is going to be about me swinging back to JUST BEING ME.
I have lost my way. As a writer, as a human, as a human writer. I’m more focused on what can sell or does sell or doesn’t sell at all, fuck it god damn it fuck…than on actually writing stuff. Stuff and things. The things that catch my attention. Instead of focusing on market trends and just how much to blog and share and how to infiltrate writer’s groups and not come off as creepy or aggressive bitchy salesperson…I should instead glory in figuring out how a giant squid can devour an entire village of lesbian giraffes. [I made that up. I’m not actually working on a tale or play about a giant labial-ish squid, in the manner of Cthulhu,set to devour a village full of prickly quadrupeds who are full of the love that dare not speak its name. Mm. Mm!! I could call it–Jesus Sends a Squid, and then market it to fundie Christian markets. Or not.]
I need to stop trying to be commercial or whatever that is. Stop being hesitant. Self-censoring. Hesitant. JUST BE ME, MYSELF AND I, HELLO, SHUT THE DOOR, GET OUTTA HERE, DUH. Just fucking write. Stop worrying about how to sell it or market it or get it into the correct slot! [Except realistically I can’t do that. I don’t have a trust fund. I’m not in a Hallmark movie. Reality never bothered me much before so why start actually facing shit now?] Gosh, will this fit into the PG family-friendly horror category my publisher wants or more toward kitchen sink post-apocalyptic anti-modernist comedy stylings that seem to be trending right now? No!! Just write. Write. Let it splatter out like hot shit from a goose’s saucy backside. [As they poop a lot. A lot. As in they have lots and lots of poop and it splatters.] Stop caring about things like dragging in pennies every few years for something I’ve put out there! So what if my family has written me off as a good argument for an abortion. Just write.
If you don’t know already, I’m not talking to the collective you. I am ripping into myself in a sort of pep talk. I am trying to get some inner riptides to savage me. Yeah, I went there. I had to find a way to give that romance novel bodice ripper compound title up there some sort of legitimacy. I’m trying to rip the scabs off and let the inner infected fluids fly out as they will.Splatter and splash as they will. Yippee kye aye!! Stop trying to be something you’re not, kiddo!! Stop trying to please everyone with your bowl of limp wilted lettuce offerings. Stop trying to produce prose that slinks apologetically about like a whipped canine. Get busy writing or take up sculpting!
Gol dang it, could you be any more precious and fragile?
I could be. Oh yes, I could be.
For those of you who might be confused, this is where I pretend I pretend I don’t actually have inner voices talking to me all day long. It’s cute. It’s probably getting stale by now. It has a whiff of cutesy stale crackers by now. Okay!
Well, don’t. End this buckaroo burbling and bumble off…BINT.
Funny. Bint. Ha ha. Urr urr urr. Too bad I can’t harness you to a wagon and turn you into cash.
What? Was that a crack about how we’re not pulling our weight?
Kinda. If the shoe fits.
Maybe you should try writing something people actually want to read. Try that! Why has that not occurred to you?
Like what? I am open to suggestions. Hit me. Power point me. Note card it and do a speech at the podium.
Are we actually having this fight in public for the one person who actually bothers to read this bumblesnatching burblefluff?
Why not? Posting my actual work seems to be a real snort-and-ignore.
A snore?? Bwha ha ha ha. Bwha ha ha. There’s more laughter coming at your expense. For the rest of the day.
Thanks, as always, for your non-help. You do realize we’re all in this together?
Hey, we can migrate to other brains and infest them any time we wish. We’re imaginary!! Maybe you should get back to being precious and writing creativity checks you can’t cash.
Oh fuck you.
That’s the spirit! You go, girl!! Go write something good for once. Don’t worry, you’ll get all tough and don’t-care and then come right back to wah wah wah can’t write can’t write wah wah wah!
That was just mean.
Oh we’re sorry. Do you want a donut? Hey…
I’ll end that there. Because why be self-indulgent when you can be off writing about a giant squid attacking a village full of talking same-sex giraffes?
PS– Hi. Hi there. It’s the day after this, um, we’ll call it a post and not a mental breakdown…Yours truly has, indeed, tackled the lesbian giraffe village attacked by a giant squid possibly sent by Jesus. Apparently, Sunday afternoons is when my short story gears grind into motion. I plan to clean said short story up and submit it. I might even do a series of tales about my beloved, now, to me only at the moment, characters from Deadlion’s End, who live along Beasthead Bay. Always Be Hustling. ABH.