Golly, another snotblossom? [Code for an Ann Wuehler Experience blog post because that whole think positive thing hasn’t caught up with me yet]
Yes. Because. I finished. The novel. I vowed to finish. Before the end. Of November.
Okay, I’m done experimenting with punctuation. Or grammar. Or. Mm. Ahem!
As it stands now, the very rough first draft stands just under forty-five thousand words. Ten chapters or so. I might have miscounted. I know I let entire threads drop away. I know there’s much wrong right now with Naked Farmers of the Apocalypse. Which will probably either get a new name or have that band become a much bigger part of the overall STORY than it is now.
There are things that need to be tightened. There are things that need to be expanded. That’s so obvious a pet rock would know that instinctively and act accordingly.
Oh the ending. I scraped my fingernails across my soul’s blackboard and then dug out the crap from under my figurative nails and called it the finale. wheeee eee uh
The news continues to shred my will to live. I really do think America has to be plunged into an abject, horrible time, where it’s ruled by absolute assmunches that future Alt-History books will label with a gentle fondness for the Good Ole Days…before it learns that’s not a good thing. What?? Fascism is bad?? What??!!
Except so many seem to want authoritarian boots on their necks as long as those boots are stomping others they hate and fear into bloodied rags…As long as it’s not happening to you it’s great!
Except. Losing your rights, your freedoms, your voice, your vote…it will happen to those without gigantically deep pockets. Even a dummy like me can see that one slithering in from Bethlehem to be born, if not born already, hello… from a thousand miles out.
Those fragile checks and balances…blowin’ in the wind, baby. Blowin’ in the wind.
Now that we’re all depressed or you’re chuckling over what a snowflake I am…I’ll post some excerpts come December first, because that’s Christmas month and you should all get a chuckle out of my novel-writing efforts. Isn’t that why you stop by here once a year or so? For the chuckles?
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…
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.