Losing My Flapdoodle

 

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I wrote the following after receiving a rejection. 

Then moi conceived a magnificent plan.

Here’s my ‘brilliant’ plan!!

I’ll write some stream of consciousness, totally woke prosepoemsmear and submit that to X submission opportunity! It will be lacking in actual grammar, structure and paternal literary merits! It will have no merit. None. Not a whiff of merit. I stayed highly aware of my own wokeness the entire time I typed that below. Did North Korea just flippin’ BOMB US?? Where is the vodka? 

If I consider ‘murica right now…I’ll start eating my bad hair. I won’t bother with a mustard chaser this time.

 

 

Flapdoodle sexbugs of Ganderv55

CarLISLE gives nothing and I rot like a dream as we rut in the leaves beneath the tree of his mother. She brings us old toast and new coffee her hair on fire from daddysexjuice and we smell her burning but she pours us coffee and scolds us about jesus who is meek and mild and full of corn. mother moother you are old news and mother directs us like traffic cones into the river of my lovers who slap me with morality. i screamed could not find my way but my carLISLE advised me to take three aspirin and stuff them in my sexbug and oooooh i discovered the sands of my own breasts and i wept because i am not awake.

we went on the sidewalk found a cup and a dead idea, took both back in our backpack and put them in a cage because it’s all we know of high heels. dream on screamed moother and we dreamed on

until father gave us gum that smelled like cinnamon whores at low tide which created ghosts in our intestines that we farted out as ironic statements of purpose for ivy schools that never considered us contenders. I WORE A YELLOW FLAPDOODLE and nobody told me I WORE A YELLOW FLAPDOODLE and I wondered why no one told me because i posted the bread pictures and everyone hit the yes button and told me yes yes yes and squirted yes juice into my burning eyes. I tire to be brilliant but the diamonds turn to rodents in my kneecaps where slime shops for canned meat and mark down cancer drugs. WHY WON’T U SLAP MEE mmmooother asked as she sliced smelly lettuce for the eternal meal

and sister, my sister is dead yet sits on my right hand better than god or allah because she gives me pink gummy bears for my sexbug slit and doesn’t need them back to glue in her scrapbook where she once glued a live frog that begged her to traditional marry it and she told it no, it wasn’t fresh and that she wanted a turtle to lay eggs in her vast pulsing worldwomb. My sister puts her hair out to be sliced and my mother slices it slices and my sister marries the frog and glues herself in the scrapbook that’s how she died and yet how she lives because i can cut her shape from the pages and stick them to my eyes so she stares at me as i paddle over the rainbutt and into the dirk

but CarLISLE won’t say. Theres nothing there and I MADE HIM UP because father asked me to and we all obey we all obey

except the cat but the cat lives on some other plane thats not here at all poor cat.

77 oh 5 hump my leg like naughty poodles of elves left in the jupitor rain and all the numbers confuse me with yearning

so i dig up the cat and the cat doesnt scratch me because mooother

cut off its soul and used it for a suncatcher but the sun stays captured in my father who hangs strips of his love on the wall like narrow rewards won at turkey shoots.

run brother run

u hav no bro says car and i curl up and shud at it all but the Ganderv55 invasive me so i sigh thru the orgi and use vanilla soap and my cookie smell sells stocks so great men can shit with ease

 

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Molly enjoying a snooze

 

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It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like December!

 

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The actual Malheur River, from March 2017.

Part One: In Which I Prattle A Bit

What a noisy night.

Bam! Shiver of little furry body meeting something metallic outside on a cold moonlit night! Coyotes yowling and prowling and carousing nearby! What the hell, someone was heard to mutter. It might even have been me. Window yanked open, sudden silence ensued. Whatever primal chase had been called a weird draw held its breath and went still, waiting for my intruder-like presence to withdraw. I withdrew. Returned to my not at all earned slumber.

I did promise a sliver of my November novel challenge.

I did promise that, yes? I didn’t invent that in my head just now? Hello? Is this thing on?

Part Two: In Which I Keep A Promise!

Before I descend into woe is me o woe land…here’s the unvarnished, totally rough, actual opening to Naked Farmers of the Apocalypse. Notice there’s cursing. If that offends you, eh. I am probably not the writer or friend you wish in your life if you find cursing crosses the line with you. I cuss like a motha bear, to quote, somewhat, from something my dad occasionally mutters.

The story! Always Be Selling Your Writing. ABSYW.

Candle– yes, that is her name because it leaped into my brain that Candle is the name of that girl I yanked forth from my imagination– finds a newborn baby girl alongside the banks of the Malheur River. She takes this baby to her house and her grandmother absconds with it, in a light-hearted Edwardian romp about manners, tea and the right way to steal a car to aid in your kidnapping efforts. I made myself giggle with that somewhat accurate summary of my ‘plot’. Plot! What is plot but patriarchal imperialists trying to control all women???

Okay!! Before I totally dissolve into a more bonkers version of America right now…here’s a bit from NFA!! Enjoy! Joy! Oy!

chapter one: Riverbank is kinda rank

Candle Santiago let the smell of the Malheur River soak into her nostrils. Fetid rotting carp and soft rotting cottonwood branches. She moved closer to the stank little river, sniffing back a snootful of snot. Her allergies had come back for a visit. Springtime had come to Malheur County like a sullen bride walking down an aisle covered with dog shit. Candle waited for Tiff to show up; they would smoke a joint Tiff would steal from her mom’s new boyfriend, Mike. It’s good stuff, Tiff had promised. If I let Mike touch my titties, he gives me a joint. It’s totally worth it. Considering that Mike was over forty and Tiff was way under eighteen, no, it really was not. But Candle had her own problems and Tiff seemed fine with an old pervert slapping her tiny boobs or whatever he did.

Something caught Candle’s attention. A splash. A faint little cry. Some animal caught in the act of drowning. Candle walked toward the heavy brush. There, a grungy pink bundle and yes, a tiny human hand extending from it. A baby. She bent over the filthy blanket full of a tiny child, which looked like a small wrinkled monkey. “Hey, what the hell.” A glance about but it seemed the baby had just been left there. Like that Moses baby in the Bible her grandmother loved to read. He floated down the Nile and the Pharaoh’s daughter scooped him right the bibbidy up. Except this baby didn’t look clean and cared for. It looked like shit. There was blood and goop on it. It didn’t seem hurt. Fresh born? Jesus on toast, as her dad liked to say, which made her grandmother lower her truly caterpillar-like eyebrows and mutter about Mother Mary, forgive my son. Candle picked the baby up and then nearly dropped it. It wiggled and went stiff and wiggled some more, and then sobbed. She had never held a real baby before. Her sister, Doreen, was a lesbian. Dora had told the entire family, at Christmas not two years before, that she wasn’t having no fucking kids, ever. Candle, then ten or so, had been too young to trust with Aunt Irina’s brand new baby girl. Nobody was allowed to hold the little freak, who had been born with only one arm. There was also something messed up inside and everyone had acted real sad when Kaitlyn had died in the night. Just one of those things, Esme Santiago had moaned out. Just one of those things. Candle’s mother, Cris, had not been there. She had been down in Pasadena or Thousand Oaks by then. Now and then she sent post cards to Candle. I live here now, one had said, with a picture of something pretty on the front. As Cris did not have any money, Candle assumed she lived in a shithole and took the buses to get around.

“I got it…what the fuck is that? Oh em gee, it’s a baby,” Tiff came up behind Candle, wearing her favorite pair of sweat pants, stamped with the Florida Gators and already holding out that joint, which she put behind her big ear. Tiff would have been somewhat pretty if only God hadn’t given her giant elephant ears. Tiff also had a strong stench of pot. But her mother had plants. Candle really didn’t pay attention to all that pot talk; it bored her into tears. “Whatcha doing with a baby?”

“I found it. What do we do with it? Cops? Hospital? It looks real young,” Candle let Tiff peek at the dirty, squirmy little life.

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A bovine skull I found by the Malheur River, more than likely a death caused by the incredibly harsh winter of 2016-17. 

 

Canned Holiday

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Gee, it’s time for yet another American holiday festival of festivus. 

Now I think that serving an entire ginormous dinner from a can would be…just fine. Sure, it would be hard to capture that home-made taste that some aunt or even grandma can imbue to rolls or stuffing or even that green bean casserole delight with the mushroom soup, the weird greenish beans and the crunchy onion thingies…but hey. Times change and sometimes holidays should be reduced to a simple empty a can into a bowl and call it good day. Clean up, a breeze. Taste? That’s what salt and ketchup is for. Family time? Kept to a brutal minimum. Getting to return home and pretend it all never happened? Priceless. 

The green layer up there is what actually intrigues me. What is it? Jello? Peas? Lime Jello with peas, salad, sprouts and green beans? Beneficial mold in case the other layers make you sick? An illusion created by Hilary Clinton’s crack team to lull me into…? A layer of mint frosting? 

I took a shower yesterday so I’m good that way, thanks for asking. 

The dogs are happy. It’s foggier than some old movie about Jack the Ripper out  there today. 

Happy day, however you celebrate or don’t.

You might not be American or Canadian. There are other countries and places out there!! It says so on Google. Or is Google just fake newsing me??? Oh pluck my cranberries and spank my polite scoop of that orange gunk smothered with burned marshmallows. 

I’ve heard outlandish tales that Canadians have some sort of purloined America-invented-Thanksgiving-Hello!! feast day. America also invented the cat, walls and sweaters for dogs. That was before the Illuminati stepped in, those damn globalist liberal social scumbuckets! I must prepare myself, now, for total family speaktalk. Make fun of them in my head or die a slow, awful death on a lonely liberal cross in Republicanland. Mmm….

OH!!! November novel update!!!! Almost done. Update over. 

The Day After:

I survived, I am still here and yet there’s Christmas to get through with two sets of…oh fuck me running. Anyone remember that phrase? Is it from the Eighties oeuvre of cuss words and cuss slang? Mostly the food was white. White turkey, white scalloped taters, white bread rolls, creamed corn, creamed cauliflower. All very good, by the way. The cabbage slaw had a nice green quality to it. The talk tended toward how everyone but the one holding forth was cataclysmically stupid. It never veered over into, ahem, but then again I zoned out and watched the squirrel dart back and forth on the backyard fence top. Go squirrel! 

Today I whipped up a turkey casserole, with noodles, turkey, celery and carrots, sauted onions and almonds, fake instant mashed taters and a sort of hybrid sauce/gravy. Oh and some leftover sharp cheddar already-grated cheese! And– I did a quickie pie. I feel a bit dirty. Quickie press in the pan crust and quickie butterscotch generic pudding with not-Cool-Whip dessert topping to finish that thing off in grand and goodly fashion. I put a dollop of honey in the crust I whipped up. As we have jars of honey and since it’s there, I fling honey into, well, whatever. I’m a very much whatever is in my surroundings goes into whatever I’m cooking. Tiny dab of Ranch dressing left in bottle, mystery seasoning from three years ago, is that a carrot? oooh I forgot I bought tarragon…etc and etc and etc. 

I’m also chest-deep in a Garrison Keillor book and snickering to myself at odd moments. Happy Lutherans! Dark Lutherans! Jokes about Ole and Lena! It’s all in there. I think it’s called Wobegon Boy. But don’t quote me on that. [Note: this was written before allegations of wrongdoing came out about Keillor. History, your turn.] 

Thou art now caught up and I should enjoy this oddly gorgeous day. We nearly hit seventy here in Eastern Oregon/Western Idaho yesterday! And yet fog and rain. Oh I’m visiting with myself now about the weather and some stupid ass casserole I threw together out of this, that, the other. Fudge bunnies, somebody tell me to take up the slack in my fingers!

Oh before I go and um, I dunno, stare at the wall, is anyone watching that travesty over on PBS that purports to be Anne of Green Gables?? It’s…oh. I. Oh. Why would someone deliberately write Montgomery’s characters so badly? And who did the casting??  Martin Sheen as Matthew?? NO NO NO NO!!! The girl playing Diana Barry…has golden-brown hair. Dye her fucking hair black, you nimrods. Miss Stacy?? What the hell was that?  Also…Gilbert? WTF is that about? That fight between him and Anne in the book/s…I just feel a need for massive amounts of vodka and access to that set of writers so I can both drunkenly sob that they’ve ruined Anne of Green Gables and slap the shit out of them for whatever agenda they felt they had to follow here. Was it, ahem, Satan? Did Satan personally show up and offer you happy virgins and a mountain of gold if you twisted Anne and Company into actual shreds of what they once were? Can you unsign whatever bargain here? Thanks. 

This was not the Kevin Sullivan version, which was fantastic. It’s not the one with Megan Follows. You know, the real Anne of Green Gables and the sequel, Anne of Avonlea. No no, this is some ‘new’ version! Why?? Stop mining ground that’s already been mined! There are so many stories out there! So many great books and tales that…ugh a bug a shug a rug. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

DRAGONS FOR HIRE

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I knew taking all this pics in Shenyang, China would eventually be useful for something! Dragon!

 

Now, I received a rejection for, gulp, five poems. From a place that claims it’s a feminist haven for all things feminist. That might just be me adding zest to a dry story. M’kay. Normally, I react to rejections with tears, sobbing, why me o God screamings and a cross-country search for that perfect goat to sacrifice to Satan so I can cross that little threshold from unknown, obscure, nobody reads her shit writer to WRITER WHO DOESN’T GET THE FORM REJECTION LETTERS GOD FUCKING DAMN IT ALL TO HELL AND BACK ###$$$$$%^%^^^^^77&&*^%$&.

And then. I calm down about five minutes after that, ‘get over it’ and then cross that submission off in my book o’submissions. I keep a log of what I sent where because…I can’t recall why at this point, other than it seemed important to see all the rejections gathered in one place with the one or two YES THEY PICKED ME YES entries. I’m not a bookkeeper of any kind. I can screw up filling out forms faster than a jack rabbit on a date. Ha ha, shout out to Christmas Story.

“They” are doing a LIVE VERSION of this…with brand new actors. I. Wah. Why?? WHY HAS GOD DESERTED THE ENTIRE PLANET? Why would anyone think this was a good idea?? Just make a new Christmas movie! Hallmark does. Sure, their movies all seem like the same movie, but Hallmark is too smart to take on actual Christmas icons that should never ever be tampered with. That goes for that Jim Carrey travesty of the Grinch, too. WTF?? My eyeballs have never recovered. Hallmark, now…I’ll give them props for not milking the Christmas Story goat. [That was for you, Satan]

Yes, I am watching the Hallmark sugar-heavy fare. Shut up. You are, too. It’s like downing those Peep things. It’s the same thing. I don’t have to explain that, do I? You don’t even have to chew. Hallmark Christmas movies are like Peeps– no chewing involved. I should work in advertising. Go me!

Also–that super-feminist site found my stuff not feminist enough? What the…? I’m going to start writing characters that are…well, some vague threat about labeling my characters in the newest fashions and then actually writing about nice virgingals getting with shiny werewolves. Who brood. With nice hair. They brood and have nice hair. The girl/s fall down a lot and don’t think they’re pretty until the shiny werewolf fella…

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Because that shit sells. Yeah. Because it’s a familiar tale and the reading public really seems to like familiar tales, no matter what bullshit they quiver out about wanting something ‘original’. Bwhaha ha ha!!! As if!!

Where was I before I jumped into a lake of utter self-loathing full of sarcastic catfish?

Novel. Ah. My novel is nearly finished for that November challenge thingie. I have about two more chapters, I reckon. I have NO IDEA WHAT THE ENDING IS and my inner lit professors tut at me and make those faces lit profs make. You know that face. That one.

It’s roughly forty thou words.

Which is good! I, of course, have let it ‘rest’ a couple days. I started a short story called the Antifa are Due on Maple Street, which is, yes, a shout sent toward the Twilight Zone zone. If you have no idea what I mean, then you probably need to stop being in a feminist mist all the time and watch a television show older than 2017. It’s a famous ep of a famous ole show– the Monsters are Due on Maple Street. It echoes very well the paranoia and fear of the ‘other’ that so infected American society so long ago. It’s just so quaint now!

Yes, I’m done being a sarcastic catfish. Now…catfish has some sort of meaning, too. I’m not that kind of catfish. I mean an actual catfish swimming around near the bottom of a murky river being snarky. Rather like Spongebob if written as a George Costanza or a Chandler Bing. [I’ll be there for yo–ooo—uuu….!]

I should delve into the political shitshow that has become ‘murica. I just start writing curse words. I see where people are ‘jokingly’ looking into building guillotines. You know, so the American peasants can chop off the aristocratic DC heads. We’re waiting for that whole checks and balances stuff to save us from Rapey McPussyhands and company. Yeah, except…those in power have to respect and actually follow those checks and balances for those to work effectively. So far, we’ve [also known as The Resistance] have a few marches and posted some memes. I think America, to get America back, is gonna have to take it to the next step.

Dragons.

We’re gonna have to get some dragons.

We’re also gonna have to overhaul poor ole Jesus. Maybe even invent a new, improved savior of America. Jesus is pretty malleable when it comes to makeovers, sure. But. I think we Americans can invent some sort of truly American Jesus that will unite us all when we have to band together to go after those dragons we foolishly brought in to rid us of some other stuff.

Jesus fighting dragons…that is so my next BIG WRITING PROJECT. Maybe in between the Hallmark fare and the hatewatching of the live Christmas Cash Cow AKA Christmas Story…I’ll begin an epic tale of Jesus versus dragons. Maybe a children’s story. A cute, non-threatening Jesus and cute, big-eyed, cuddly, non-threatening baby dragons that decide to not fight and have cookies instead in a show of fellowship, diversity, love and some other virtues that seem popular right now. Popular but not practiced.

 

 

 

Dreams and Dreamy Updates

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from World Maps. Note that Vale to Cottage Grove would…well. Mm.

Hey and hello. Rainy here. Rain rain rain. Rainy!

I am up around thirty thousand plus words. Whee and squee and so forth. I also managed to get some rather important and insanely detailed paperwork almost done. Almost. I just need to go back over it and write stuff in that needs to be written in. How’s that for vague?? Is it good for you, too?

All right. Here’s actually why I deigned to write a blog post today.

I had a dream.

A rather unsettling little dream of a dream.

Where I attended, with my family, including, yes, my mother, a showcase of works. The middle section featured, yes, a short play by me. Now, in my dream, I watched the rehearsal. It went smashingly! The song–I don’t write music but I am, ha ha, a poet. So my brain married song and poetry just for the purposes of that dream last night…okay, back to WHAT HAPPENED–

The song, in the rehearsal portion of said dream, went swimmingly. Gorgeous! With, as I remember it…an all-female chorus or perhaps mostly females singing it. Directed by a woman, as was my short play. It was well done and I liked the efforts. Okay! Switch to the showcase evening actual debut.

We all, me and the fam, sit through the first offering and it’s okay. It’s a very casual setting, in my dream. We’re all on folding chairs in a big lobby, watching amateurs take on this, that, the other. Okay! You’ve gone to those…right? Okay!

My mother gets up and is wandering back and forth because she needs the bathroom. I tell her, no, this is my stuff coming up and she sits down again.

Moms, amirite? They’d sit through a three-hour retelling of something from My Little Pony as told by a four-year old while experiencing the onset of explosive diarrhea without a change of pleasant expression and ‘listening face’. 

Oh dear. Because my dream…oh yes, still on the dream bit here…goes south in a hurry. I don’t know why going south would be considered, well, going south. Mm. Anyway!

Everything I saw in rehearsal has been changed. The song and short play are now being performed by high school boys who clearly have no wish to be performing. It’s painfully obvious they’d rather be elsewhere doing anything else. Also, the director of my song and play has changed. It’s now a very defensive man who keeps showing up to yell at all of us watching that we ‘don’t get it’ and then he stomped around, making the debacle we watched that much worse.

I tried to smile and pretend everything was fine, because actors and audience alike kept glancing at me for my reactions…

My family tried to say how much they liked it but the pity! Oh!

It was then I heard the tiny steady pitter of rain, and realized I was awake. And not stuck in some Eugene O’Neill-lite nightmare. 

Why am I burdening my two or so readers with tales from my truly naughty night brain’s shift on the job? Mostly because I can. And something about sharing. Mostly some stuff about sorting through the piffle to find pearls of wisdom that will guide me in the darkness of a world gone mad.

Okay!

As this is novel month and not OMG WHAT IS WRONG WITH AMERICA month…I’ll write a bit about the actual rough little novel that’s shaping itself as I type along.

I am now in the road trip portion of my story. In case you forgot the title: NAKED FARMERS OF THE APOCALYPSE

I might change this to Candelight’s Awakening. So that people think it’s a romance novel, buy it and then scream when they find out it’s just another tale of almost-teen adventures with…ummm. As long as they buy it and leave scathing reviews. You have to make lemonade out of the  buffalo shit or something.

Road trip portion now reached, must stop veering off!

If nothing else, my dream taught me to stay on track. Or not invite family to my stuff. Maybe both?

I am having a good time tracing a slight actual journey from Vale over to Cottage Grove [that would be Oregon, in case no one got I write, a lot, about my home state…] during a spring storm. To bring granny and the stray baby home. It’s Candle and her dad. There’s some uncomfortable real life schtuff they both don’t want to face and…uh huh.

I also found myself including current political schisms and thrusts, because it’s right there.

So.

To sum up– I had a somewhat unsettling little dream and I am chugging along in the write a novel November challenge.

Thank you, as always, for glancing at this and hey, buy some of my books. Give them away as [holiday here] presents! Use them to line bird cages. What do I care what you do with them after you buy them? On that note!

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An actual November storm pic, taken this past week. Oak tree and bare hills and dark sky. Someone should write a poem. Smiley face!

 

 

11,000 Plus Words

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Mr. July. From the Oxford Mail. It’s amazing what you can find when you type in ‘naked farmers’. Amazing.

I have somehow managed to actually compose eleven thousand plus words for the Naked Farmers of the Apocalypse.

I am also channeling my inner Judy Blume apparently, which is fine. Sometimes one needs their inner Blume and she’s sold how many books so far? A LOT. You might have even read a few of them, dear darlings.

Before I step too far into pseudo-smarmy land, let me say it’s raining today and snow might be coming. Which makes me cheerful as a mouse in a wall. Perhaps as cheerful and industrious as the mouse in my wall this morning. I went from page fifteen or so to page twenty something. I’ll write more later today or not.

My tale is crafting itself.

I step out of its way and it kindly meanders as it wills for right now. I have no finale or overall theme planned at this time.

The rich rotting earth of American politics undermines my Judy Blume-ish wafflings. Hey, to ignore politics is to ignore the nose on your face, after all. No matter what ‘side’ you’re on.

FUCKING DEMOCRATS, PULL IT TOGETHER. Okay, done. Whee. Back now. If you’re not Americans, that means nothing to you or maybe it does. Maybe you’re breathlessly following America’s leap into the abyss. [Yeah, I said it. Someone had to.]

Back to Naked Farmers of the Apocalypse.

I invented a pop band of that name that Our Heroine, Candle Santiago, adores. Bands do, on occasion, have silly names only the kiddies can love. Death Cab for Cutie. The Clits. The Butthole Surfers. Puddle of Mudd. Bumsnogger. Aborted Hitler Cock. [I did not make that up, sadly.] Evil Edna’s Horror Toilet.  The Child Molesters. [An actual band. I know. It’s okay. Go to your safe place. It’s okay.] 

Everyone back now? 

I bet you’re a fan of silly-named musicians either truly bubble gum lite or so serious they poop save the world slogans instead of actual poop. [Poop is natural, pooping out slogans is not…was my labored point here.]

Anyway, where was I…

Ah yes. So! I also invented an anime show, called Piko’s Planet, with a hot anime dude that the tweens go squee for…and will no doubt ‘disguise’ current political, entertainment and other wise famous or not figures for my own fun and hardly any profit. Because, let’s face the music and dance, it’s fun.

And isn’t writing, other than being about changing the very warp and weft of society itself, supposed to be fun? Yes. Yes, it is, in case you were not sure.

An excerpt?? Not yet. I’ll tease you all a bit and wait until the end of November. I’ll copy and paste something near the end of this jam-packed and turkey-flavored month, where I’ll, no doubt and is that not a silly name for a band, hello…where I’ll no doubt delve into the journey my heroine has had to take.

So, I’m not only tapping into my inner Blume, I’m scraping the hero’s journey barrel. I have many inner rooms, apparently. What a cheerful realization.

 

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from Pinterest

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHALLENGES CHALLENGES

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O hello, November! It’s write a novel month. Or maybe it’s think about writing a novel month. Where you write about twenty thousand words and then have to steel yourself for Family FREAKING Holidays. Where you gargle turkey and listen to talk about…well, you know. Most of you have families. And those that don’t, well. 

Hallmark started their syrupy parade of holiday movie treats October 27th. How do I know?? Ah, because I’ve been viewing those holiday treats, unable to help myself. I do feel a bit ashamed as I scarf down Halloween candy…I really do. 

Okay!

I did start a new novel. And it’s titled Naked Farmers of the Apocalypse. 

What’s it about? 

No idea. So far, there’s two teen girls, Candle and Tiff, near a tiny river, who find an abandoned newborn. The two take this baby home and Candle’s grandmother, Esme, decides she’s keeping it. So far, no zombies or weird people who live in the walls. And that click-baity title will be the name of Candle’s favorite band. Because kids have shitty taste in music, come on. 

I’m just writing it. I haven’t mapped out the chapters or story in any way. I’m going on a very much ‘what comes next’ basis here. Which seems to work for my latest form of writing novels. I’m doing that for, yes, my zombies run the world novel, so far called Aftermath. 

Oh. Yeah. New York City. Terror attack. We don’t have any ‘answers’ after Vegas but we can ban…fuckadoodle doo. Christmas movies, Halloween candy! “We mustn’t give in to fear!” Uh, we always give in to fear here in ‘murica. Christmas movies and Halloween candy will take that edge off that one…

That’s as political as I’ll get right now before I go off into Scream With Words land. 

So!! 

NAKED FARMERS OF THE APOCALYPSE is on the front burner. I really like what’s pouring out. I really enjoy revisiting my main character, who lives in such interesting times.

Yes, I’m mining the rich tapestry of bullshit, lies, fake news, the deep state, Hilary is the devil, Obama works with the Illuminati, white people are the real victims of racism, liberals want to erase Christmas, Christians in America are the most persecuted group, Hilary Hilary Hilary, some more Hilary, uh being mad at God for making you a sexual predator [Bile O’Reilly– not a typo] and…yeah.

It’s fun here in ‘murica! It’s gonna inspire our own Kafkas and those Russian writers no one outside of elitist, out of touch colleges read. 

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I don’t know who made this but I like it!