This week’s flash fiction challenge for Chuck Wendig’s blog was to write a story that used one or more quotes from his 5 year old son. The list of possible quotes was:
“Can I put goggles on the dog?”
“There is a three-headed flying werewolf in that tree.”
“I can cut down a thousand trees with my teeth.”
“I will defeat it with Kitten Magic.”
“I will slice you into beef!”
“I can still see without a face.”
“You guys don’t make good choices.”
“They said it was a legend, but I know it’s real.”
“I’m gonna ride you like a turkey.”
“I am queen of the goats.”
I was unable to choose one to work with so I went for broke and put them all in the story. . . exactly 1000 words total. I now need to go take some Xanax and meditate and have some quiet me time. . . .hope you enjoy it.
“Docket number MCH001287539C, the state versus Thelma Addison.” The court clerk chimed in a monotone voice. “Preliminary mental competency hearing related to docket number MCV0023872623 and ordered by the criminal courts, Judge Lewis presiding.” He finished and seated himself and made busy shuffling papers.
Judge Mathis scowled. He hated when the criminal court judges pawned their looney toons off on him. Like they were too busy to handle their own dirty work and he had nothing but time on his docket listing. He furrowed his brow and looked over the documentation. Having given the reports a cursory glance he was ready to start.
“Ok Miss Addison,“ he began.
“Am not!” Shrieked the woman.
The judge looked up, confused. “You are not Mrs. Addison?”
“Yes, your honor, she is. . .” her defense counsel began but she cut him off.
“Am Not!” She shrieked again.
“Yes sir, she. . .” The lawyer tried to over talk her to shut her up.
“Am not! Liar! I am queen of the goats!” She shrieked.
The judge lowered his head in resignation. It was going to be ‘one of those’ days. “The court urges counsel to get control of their client and. . .” The judge was cut short.
“You can’t silence me by wearing a dress! I speak the truth. I speak the truth even when you are wiggling!” The woman shrieked and broke into a cackling laugh.
The judge, the clerk and the defense all bowed their head. Collectively they all, simultaneously and without prior communication, resigned themselves to their fate in dealing with this case.
“Miss Addison!” The judge said in a loud and stern tone. “You will be quiet long enough for these proceedings to be conducted or you will force me to make a summary judgement based on your inability to conduct yourself accordingly. Am I clear?” His eyes were burning with anger. He hated the looney toon cast off days. He wished he could send some back to the all-important Judge Lewis. Maybe he could criminalize cases of dogs crapping on the neighbors grass and send him those. Those would be good pay back.
“Yes your honor.” Thelma said in a small voice that was so calm, everyone was immediately set on edge and suspicious.
Taking advantage of the lucidity the judge continued. “Mrs. Addison, you had a recent run in with a . . .” He scanned the document for the name, “Officer Bowersox and according to the report, assaulted both the officer and his K9 unit Rex.”
The defense counsel tried to speak but Thelma was faster. “No, it is not correct. I acted only in self-defense and defense of the dog.”
The judge gritted his teeth.
“The dog was wincing and I was trying to protect its eyes from the sun and I asked the officer first.” She excitedly explained.
“Asked the officer what?” The judge asked grudgingly, scanning the document.
Thelma looked at her lawyer and he nodded and shrugged, not much else to do but let her go now.
“I asked the officer, ‘Sir, your dog is under cosmic solar attack. Can I put goggles on the dog?” Thelma explained. “And then the officer started yelling and there were colors in the air.” She further explained calmly as though what she was saying would clear up any misconceptions about the incident.
“Colors? Cosmic so. . . .ok.” The judge took a deep breath. “Let me get this straight, you were trying to protect the dog from the sun?” The judge asked, hating his job more and more with each question.
“Yes!” Thelma said with great enthusiasm, he got it! “Yes, someone had to do it!”
I hate my job, I hate my job. The judge chanted in his head. Then, the mantra having calmed him, continued out loud, “Don’t you think that perhaps the police officer could decide on what is best for. . .”
“You guys don’t make good choices.” Thelma snapped.
The judge paused and reflected on the choices in life that had brought him to this point and sighed. “I see.”
“They said it was legend, but I know it’s real!” She said excitedly.
“What is legend?” The judge asked, feeling his control of the court room slowly eroding and finding it hard to actually give a shit about it.
“The cosmic solar war beams!” Thelma shrieked.
“Ok, that’s it!” The judge finally lost all patience with the proceedings.
“There is a three-headed flying werewolf in that tree but I can cut down a thousand trees with my teeth! I told them that! I told them I would keep them safe if they just would stop melting!” Thelma shrieked and began to flail her hands around in wild gestures.
“Bailiff, remove the defendant, I hereby remand you to. . .”
“I will ride you like a turkey!” She shrieked over the judge’s voice.
“The county mental health facility for a 72 hour hold pending a full. . .”
“I will slice you like beef and make you into bacon!” She yelped as the bailiff took hold of her arms from behind.
“Psychiatric . . . bacon is pork. You can’t make bacon from slicing someone into bee. . . never mind. . .Evaluation and review.” The judge was cussing in his mind at being caught up with her ravings.
“Hide me away to keep me from seeing but ha! I can still see without a face! I see you. I will beat you with kitten magic! Meow!” She tried to make clawing motions towards the judge but the bailiff held her fast as a second bailiff struggled to put hand cuffs on her.
“Hold on!” The judge called out and the bailiffs stopped. Even Thelma ceased her struggling. “Upon further reflection, take her to Judge Lewis’ courtroom, I am finding her competent to stand trial. She’s all his from here. Let’s take fifteen..” The judge got up and walked from the courtroom without waiting for the clerk to announce anything.
So the flash fiction challenge this week for Chuck Wendig’s blog was to take two random weird character descriptions generated by THEY FIGHT CRIME and write a 1500 word story featuring the two characters you got fighting crime. I got:
He’s a hunchbacked Elvis impersonator from the spirit world and She’s a bloodthirsty paleontologist with a backpack full of scones.
Together, They Fight Crime!
So this is what I came up with. . .
The Doctor and The King
Cassandra looked at the carnage before her and drew in a deep breath. It was, to say the least, intoxicating to see the sheer brutality of the riot in full color, unabridged, and still fresh. The entire jail prison yard was decorated with splashes and splatters of blood and bits of flesh. Unlike most of the scenes of carnage she investigated, it was not fossilized remains and conjecture. This was, real. . .she could smell the tin like scent of blood. She could see the glistening of the sticky smears as they slowly dried, she could. . .
“It’s overwhelming I know.” The Warden said in an apologetic tone.
Cassandra realized her level of excitement was showing and took a deep breath, savored the scent and put on a shocked mask. “Yes, it is . . . terrible.” She lied.
“Why is he. . .” The attending guard asked from behind them. Turning they both saw Dead Elvis fixing his hair perfectly and then assuming his standard ‘I’m about to break into song’ pose. He was just starting to croon ‘Amazing Grace’ in tribute to the mangled bodies which, it should be said, was one of his better numbers but hardly appropriate for the job at hand.
“No!” Cassandra scolded him and he stopped at “the sound” and went quiet and stared at her with a sulky frown. “No.” She said again and then reached into her back pack and fished out a lemon-poppy seed scone. Like a puppy being given a treat, Dead Elvis pranced over and bobbled in place waiting to be given the pastry.
Both the Warden and guard looked on with a mixture of distaste and curiosity mixed into the normal ‘WTF’ gaze people had watching them. Cassandra shrugged as an apology and tossed the scone to Dead Elvis.
“What exactly is . . . ?” The Warden started to ask and then let the words drift off.
Cassandra took a deep breath and launched into the canned, standard issue reply and explanation she had said so many times she had to fight herself to not go through it too fast. If she did, she just had to say it again later.
“He’s a spirit; a dead person. He was a homeless Elvis impersonator but then he was run over by a Buddhist monk. The monk felt bad and came back day after day offering incense, foods and prayers to atone and Bennie’s spirit stayed around because it smelled good. That would have been the end of it if I had not come along and, not expecting to see a Buddhist monk kneeling in the middle of the road in the middle of the night, run him over, killing him. It was an accident but, by chance I had just gotten fresh baked scones, they smelled good and Bennie, or Dead Elvis as he prefers to be called, began following me.” She took a deep breath and let it all sink in.
“He’s all hunchbacked and . . . what kind of Elvis impersonator. . .” The guard started and Dead Elvis chimed in.
“No. . .No. . . You got it wrong buddy boy. That’s just the, you know, break.” He explained.
“Huh?” Both the Warden and Guard chimed in together.
“His back, it’s snapped in two.” Cassandra explained. “The monk backed up when he realized he ran him over and. . . .” she snapped her fingers coldly. Then realizing how that might look, smiled sympathetically.
“And since my body left me, I’ve found a new place to dwell. . .” Dead Elvis started, his hip gyration making his top half heave and bobble precariously.
“Stop!” Cassandra told him. Dead Elvis went back to sulkily sniffing at the scone. “He really is helpful at times. He can sometimes speak to the recently dead and get their side of the story.”
Dead Elvis nodded and smiled.
“So you two. . .” The Warden began in a dubious tone and then rethought his words and let the statement drift off. He was beginning to wonder why the State’s Attorney had sent these two to help investigate a prison riot. “I’m sorry but I don’t see where the two of you are going to. . .” He started to say but Cassandra cut him off.
“These men were from a special unit correct?” She asked.
The Warden nodded and looked around at the bodies. “Yes, they were our pilot early release program.”
“They were model inmates who had committed non-violent crimes?” Cassandra asked.
The Warden nodded.
Turning to the guard she asked, “And you had direct interaction with all of them?”
“Yes,” The guard nodded. “I am with them. . . .was with them every day for 8 hours when I was at work. I even ate lunch with them.”
“So no underlying gang related tensions? Racial tensions? Political or religious tensions?” Cassandra asked in rapid fire.
The guard shook his head no three times in response. “They were good men. They were getting out in less than a week.”
“They were almost done with the program. They had no reason to do this at all.” The Warden stated and threw up his hands in confusion. “I have no idea why. . .”
“The three guards on duty were involved and also killed?” Cassandra asked bluntly.
The Warden took a deep breath to calm himself and not retort to her brusque method of questioning. “Yes, we assume they were fighting for their lives.”
“As were they all, Warden. As were they all.” Cassandra said and began stomping on the ground.
“What are you doing now?” The guard asked in disgust, tired of this woman’s stupid questioning. It was obvious, it was a riot and three of his friends died. He was getting fed up with her superiority complex and the bullshit.
Cassandra looked up, eyes narrowing as she looked past him at the mountains behind him through the prison fence. Turning she looked at the hills to the other direction and nodded. Then she noticed Dead Elvis was, once again drifting away. Reaching into her backpack she produced a cinnamon scone and Dead Elvis was immediately beside her again sniffing deeply.
“Gentlemen, to understand what happened last night you must understand what happened on this spot long ago. That is why I am here.” She said, answering both of their unspoken questions. “Long ago . . . and by long I mean millions of years. . .This area was home to a species of raptors that I believe had evolved beyond what we currently can prove.” As the Warden began to speak she held up a finger and shushed him. “They were a matriarchal species and when their species went into decline, the males outnumbered the females and eventually there were only males left. The species would gather together, clan like, for a mating ritual on the spring equinox. They would gather here, on this spot, actually. In the final years when there were no more females to control the mob, the gathering became a blood bath. With no females to govern or chose mates, the males attacked and shredded each other much like last night.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” The Warden burst out with obvious contempt.
“Hear me out Warden. All will be clear.” Cassandra asked and then snapped her fingers to get Dead Elvis’ attention.
“What are they telling you?” She asked him.
Dead Elvis listened and nodded and turned back to Cassandra. “There was a party. . .a celebration of the men having completed the program.”
Cassandra nodded, she had expected as much.
The Warden explained, “They had almost completed the program. I thought they deserved some kind of reward so. . .” Cassandra held up a finger to silence him.
“There was music?” She asked.
“Yes, the prisoners had been allowed to form a band and play at the party.” The Warden nodded.
“The wiring for the sound system, it runs under this cement slab?” Cassandra asked.
The Warden nodded.
“Then I know what happened here. It was not a riot, it was in fact a case of trans-species spiritual possession. The carnage from the past left an emotional charge in the ground that, when triggered by the right electrical charge possessed the inmates and guards alike into reliving the deadly event over again.” Cassandra explained.
“What the hell are you talking about?” The Warden bellowed.
Dead Elvis stepped forward to explain.
Dead Elvis took a non-breath and then began to gyrate in a most disturbing way as he sang, “The warden threw a party in the county jail. The prison band was there and they began to wail. The band was jumpin’ and the joint began to swing. Then the electrical shorted out and it released that thing. The shock, It was all about The shock. Everybody in the whole cell block, was possessed by the dead raptor rock.”
“There you have it, case solved,” Cassandra said.
So this week’s flash fiction challenge on Chuck Wendig’s blog was to write a story for a random picture. Now, I know this is actually a Peruvian Chullo hat or something like that but that is not the first thought that came to mind. . . I went a little more fanciful with my story. . .
The photo url:
For the record it should be stated he did not ask for it. He had, on many occasions begged them to stop. It was to no avail though. They kept doing it every time he fell asleep. He’d wake up and find himself covered with random bits of color. Sometimes it was just glitter sprinkled on him and other times, like today they went all out.
His hair was actually woven into the yarn bits and portions of the hat were glued to his head. He guessed it was to keep it all in place while he slept but, was not quite sure. It happened like this sometimes. The bush fairies would get in a color-fueled frenzy and go crazy.
It was his fault. Had he listened those many years ago and not given milk to the cries in the bush he would have had a much less complex life. He was young and foolish and didn’t listen though. He knew best and he put the saucer of milk by the bush. He had fed them and they had stayed with him ever since.
At first it was just flowers in his bed. Bright little bundles of wild flowers left for him and he had thought it very quaint and special. Then it was flowers woven into his hair. While a little less quaint it was still, interesting and harmless. Then they discovered textiles. That is when it started to go a bit odd.
Hats were the first things. Random colorful hats would be on his head when he woke up in the morning. No matter where he woke up. At home, they were there. At a friend’s house, they were there. Serving in the military, they were there and his drill sergeant was not at all amused. They were always there and he had no way of stopping them. People thought he was insane, they sent him home from the Army. No one wanted an insane man around, even if he was stylishly accessorized with colorful headwear.
Then, just as he thought things wouldn’t or couldn’t get worse, they discovered glitter. He remembered it was a cold day in early fall and there were no colorful wildflower blooms in the fields. He had always thought that was why they found glitter. They could find no color they wanted in nature so, they found it in some craft supply store. Then glue was next because the glitter fell off too much he assumed. Beads, pom-poms, tassels, and streamers followed in quick succession as they branched out their artistic efforts.
Soon after that they began to combine things. Beads in his hair and glittery cheeks. Pom-poms tied to his ears with nasal streamers of rainbow colors. The list was almost unlimited of the things they did. He couldn’t stop them. He tried staying awake but eventually, he had to sleep. He tried having someone watch over him but everyone thought he was crazy and wanted nothing to do with him. He set up cameras to capture them doing it but they stole the film and made streamers out of it and decorated him with shredded plastic tassels.
He was too old now to worry so much about it. He left it where they put it and just went about his life. The people around town all thought him completely mad but harmless and nothing he would do would ever change that view. Once you were mad, you were always mad. No one in a small town ever came back from being bug nut whacko. You just were always assumed to be hiding it better. So he didn’t try. He went about his life as best he could.
He would fish alone and sell his catch to a man in town. He would hurry into the store and buy what he needed and milk to put out in a saucer for them. Even though he didn’t appreciate all of the things they did, he also still couldn’t let them go hungry. It didn’t matter if he did, they didn’t leave so he might as well be right about it in his heart. He was a good man.
He had built a fence around the bush where he had heard them crying those many years ago with wood he found washed up on the beach. Over the years he had added much of the color from his morning gifts to it so that it was a patchwork of aged wood, dried flowers, bits of fabric and yarn and threads and, of course, lots of glitter. He kept adding to it until the fence completely hid the bush and the layers of adornments muffled any crying inside.
He was a good man. He would feed them because he had no choice but he would also hide them away. He would make sure that when his days were done they would not find another to do this too. He was neither angry nor bitter about it. He thought of them as his children and had genuine affection for them in his own way. He also wanted to make sure that no one else would ever suffer the same harshness in their life.
They meant well. Of that he was sure. They meant all of their efforts in love and affection as a way of thanking him. They didn’t know what it cost him and like a good father, he would never tell them even if he could. You accept. That is what parents do. They meant for him to be bright and cheery like a smile or a summer’s day. He saw it. After all these years he saw it and understood it and accepted it. He cherished not being alone. He cherished what they meant to do because, they meant well for him.
The children of the town called him the glitter man. They thought he was quite mad.
That was ok.
He would make sure they never knew the truth behind the glitter.
This is my story for Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenge Ten Titles You Made Up… Which was to take the title and do a 1000 word or less story for it. . . .so. . .this is what I got…
It’s a bit of a different take on the “sitting outside” part of the title. . .
They Sat Outside Eating Cake
“The monkeys are agitated again.” Nix hissed from several of her thousand mouths.
“They are always agitated about something.” He replied.
“Ya, but this seems like one of those big agitation things not just a little ripple.” Nix replied as she looked across years of time, watching the pattern bubble to the surface. “It’s building and building without any place to go.”
Cthulhu made a vile gurgling noise of annoyance.
“Don’t get mad at me.” Nix hissed.
“I’m not.” Cthulhu shuffled over to peer at the bubble Nix was describing. “It’s just damn annoying. They are finally getting it right and they are going to implode, yet again.”
“Maybe we should go talk to them and explain.” Nix offered without much hope the idea would find any acceptance.
“Ya, that’ll work.” Cthulhu chuckled and inadvertently caused a mud slide in Peru.
“Stand back you. Geesh!” Nix scolded him. “Look what you’ve done.” She said surveying the destruction. “You’ve got to keep a handle on that. Just because the monkeys are being stupid doesn’t give you the right to do that.”
Cthulhu twitched his tentacles apologetically. “Sorry.”
“It doesn’t do to vibrate the veil too much. Nothing good comes of that.” Nix smoothed the veil out again, purring soothingly until it was still.
“So what are the monkeys upset about this time?” Cthulhu asked.
“Oh, everything. Apparently they have separated themselves by every possible way of classifying each other to point out every difference so they can properly despise each other in every way. Right now apparently they are upset that people who look too much alike want cakes when it should be people who look different that get cakes.” Nix explained.
“Can’t they just share?” Cthulhu threw up half of his tentacles in frustration.
“I told you we should have used something a bit more group friendly. Monkeys are just nasty little cusses when you get down to it.” Nix told him.
Cthulhu shook his head. “Wouldn’t work, trust me. I’ve done the math. It has to be an omnivore that has a sweet tooth and is smart enough to figure out butter cream frosting or it’s just not worth it. Herbivores would make nasty cakes with no eggs and fluffiness and a carnivore would make it out of meat.“ He sighed a musical chorus of sighs that would, had it been heard by a lesser being, driven the listener mad. Nix, mother of night, she of a thousand whispers, however, found it somewhat soothing.
“We should go talk to them.” Nix said again.
“No.” Cthulhu objected again.
“Why?” Nix asked.
“Because every time I do that they go insane and start eating each other and every time you do they all start thinking the world is ending and then they stop making. . .”
“Cake.” Nix finished the sentence for him.
“Exactly. Hopefully they will stop caring about stupid things and stop worrying who has an inny and who has an outie and get back to the job.” Cthulhu said and Nix rippled the darkness in agreement.
“They are good at making cake.” Nix said after a few moments of non-time.
Cthulhu nodded in agreement.
“Can we. . .?” Nix let her voices drift off, the unasked question hanging in the air.
Cthulhu gurgled in amusement. “I suppose it can’t hurt too much.”
“I mean, they are already all worked up.” Nix said and Cthulhu nodded. “So what’s the harm?”
Great Cthulhu nodded in agreement.
“Let me make the hole though, you keep jiggling things too much.” Nix told him and Cthulhu stepped back to let her slide her many hands into the time space fabric so he could reach in.
“Get chocolate this time. No more of that tutti-frutti weird stuff. That’s not proper cake.” Nix said and Cthulhu sighed. He kind of liked the weird flavors but, he nodded. Chocolate was good too. As Nix slipped the veil ever so carefully outside a downtown bakery and made an opening, Cthulhu slide several of his huge tentacles in, deftly grabbing at the cakes within the shop. They both tried to ignore the screams and other assorted odd noises that followed as he pulled out a cache of cakes into the dark with them.
“Ewww.” Nix winced.
The monkeys were all upset now. Those in the shop apparently had gone quite mad and gone on a zombie like rampage through the city eating people. Cthulhu looked embarrassed.
“I told you. They freak out when they see me.” He said by way of explanation.
Nix shrugged and began to lay out the cakes in proper fashion so they could see what they had gotten. There was a wide array of flavors and styles and, thankfully, some good old fashioned chocolate cake as well. Nix purred in excitement.
Cthulhu though was watching over time and troubled by the monkeys growing instability. He wished he could just tell them to stop but, he knew they wouldn’t listen. They were all howling and hooting about their own vision of their purpose, their destiny. Nothing was going to calm them down but time and maybe less caffeine.
“We should just tell them.” Nix said.
“Can’t.” Cthulhu shook his head. “They’d never believe it.”
“But if they keep going off they will end up doing something drastic again.” Nix warned.
“And then…” Nix started.
“…No cake.” Cthulhu finished.
“Right.” Nix nodded. “ So we should tell them before they get all twisted up about their purpose or destiny again and start lobbing bombs.”
“They wouldn’t listen.” Cthulhu sighed.
“Then we slap the shit out of them and tell them Oiy! You! Shut up and make cake. That is what you little monkeys are supposed to do. That is all you are supposed to do. Now stop being fussy and make more cake!”
Cthulhu took a slice of cake. “They wouldn’t believe it.”
Nix sighed, he was right.
They just ate their cake sitting outside of space and time and watched the monkeys.
So. . .maybe it is just me but it seems like things have changed. We used to listen to political leaders for speeches that were inspiring, well written, and profound. They were things that school children would later have to memorize in some public speaking class.
Now. . .it kind of reminds me late night infomercials. Every candidate, no matter what party or level of office could, at any point in time, pull out a rotisserie or box of stain busting laundry powder and I would not be surprised at all. I actually would find it oddly comforting because then at least I would know what all the shouting was about. Hell, everyone wants their wash to come out cleaner and their chicken to be roasted to perfection.
Its just kind of up in the air why everyone on all sides is so angry. At least the other way we get cleaner clothes and a good meal out of it. . .
I once knew a man who had difficulty with words but didn’t know this fact. Truth be told, he found himself to amazingly witty and articulate. This same man bragged about having never read a book and still passing school because he must be some kind of special genius or something. He would blog periodically, angrily expounding upon ideas with a flat, bludgeoning wit that would pulverize any point he was trying to make into a wet, gooey mass of convoluted ideas and overly simplified logic.
All of this though was fairly acceptable especially in this day and age when using text speak is considered so acceptable that the president and our political leaders use an ever growing code of acronyms rather than take the extra 5 seconds to type a word. So if they do that, I could not fault this man for his cumbersome and somewhat bovine ranting. Except one thing. . . one very important thing that I tried to explain to him several times but he would not listen to my logic because he was, after all, a self edumacated genius-sort.
His problem was the lack of understanding between two words that may look somewhat similar at first glance are very different indeed. The words were Irreverent and irrelevant. Thinking he was saying that he was rude, off the wall, and caustic in his wording, i.e. irreverent, he would instead use the word meaning immaterial, extraneous, of no real consequence, irrelevant. So phrases such as:
“Some people say I am irrelevant and god damn it, I agree. I speak my mind and say what I think and what I think is a lot of the time irrelevant.”
I would try and explain to him and he would lash out that just because he didn’t have fancy words, he still had an opinion that he was free to voice whenever he wanted and if people found him irrelevant, so be it, that was on them. He liked being irrelevant and enjoyed shocking people with just how irrelevant he could be.
So the moral of the story is, sometimes spell checker is not enough, especially if you are a moron. There should be a moron checker that goes beyond there, their, they’re and to, too, two. . .then again. . .maybe not. Maybe these types of idiots are here as a divine “pull my finger” joke by god. Last time I talked to the man I suggested that he was irrelevant and that he should put in his will that he wanted that in big, huge letters on his gravestone when he dies. “HERE LIES A MAN WHO WAS TOTALLY IRRELEVANT”. He agreed, he liked that idea. . .
. . .And this is reason #678 that I am going to hell.
I have, over the years, started many a blog. I have tried to be clever or introspective or informative. I don’t think I have ever just tried to be myself though. Thinking about it, I wonder about my reasoning behind the blogs I have started and then, eventually, abandoned. Was I seeking social connection? Was I trying to create a platform. . .? A writer’s platform. . .makes it sound like I might just tip over while writing doesn’t it? Like I need scaffolding to keep me upright. . . Oiy! Get some blocking under ‘im. . . he’s listing to the side again!
The writer’s platform. . . it is an odd concept to me. I get why it is needed in this day and age with the sheer volume of new fiction but, at the same time, I have a hard time planning one out for myself. I have a hard time thinking of “I should create this platform to attract that kind of reader to sell . . .” I know I should. I know it is stupid of me not to. I read other writer’s blogs, successful widely published writers and they seem to weave promotion so effortlessly into their blog. It is not pushy or too timid but just right. They slide the promotion in and do it in such a way that it is enjoyable and unobtrusive.
Me, on the other hand, well I always end up feeling like I put off the image of the neighbors horny dog that kept humping everyone’s legs when I try and do it. No matter how much I plan or don’t plan. . . .if I am spontaneous or operating on a thoughtful, systematic plan. . .I still get the feeling I come across like that horny puppy. It was a nice enough dog but once Rags got that sparkle in his eyes, you knew to steer clear of him cause someone or something was about to be dry humped.
Write Drunk, edit sober
Those words always encompassed the true grit of masculine writing to me and of course were uttered by the immortal Ernest Hemingway. The idea that when slightly inebriated the ideas would flow easily, albeit rather sloppily and you could bang out large sections of text that you could then go back and edit when sober and clean up. I want this. I strive for this. I try again and again for this. . . .Unfortunately for me, there is a stumbling block of the modern age.
In a word. . . .Porn.
I get myself a buzz going on Angry Orchard hard cider and then sit down to write. I am feeling creative. I am feeling energized. I am feeling like I could write great stuff. I am expecting the alcohol to loosen my inhibitions and allow me to write in a gushing flow of ideas that, while grammatically challenged, tap into some deeper portion of me cut off by my sober mind. I open up word, prepared and resolved to write and create mind blowing story lines and in depth characters that pull at the very soul of the reader and then. . .
It is not so much a conscious choice. It is not planned. It is not even anticipated really, it just happens. Somewhere between opening the word document and starting to write, I get distracted by sparkly things and wander off into a half drunk, gluttonous storm of porn. I lose track of ideas and think only in basic, primal urges I will not discuss here. . . but you get the basic idea.
I often wonder if Hemingway would have been able to hold fast to the efforts of writing had he had the internet and non-stop streaming porn of every flavor possible available at just a few clicks away. Would he have been able to resist the siren like lure and call of debauchery or would the world be starved of his brilliance due, at least in part, to Big Booty Latex Housewife Sluts parts 1-4?
It is a failing of mine but, once I reach a certain level of intoxication boobs are far more interesting than plot line development. I know. This is wrong but I also know, it is somewhat inevitable. The best intentions of banging out five thousand words while intoxicated becomes a point and click frenzy of clips, searching for the perfect one that fits my current mood.
I could be Hemingway . . . if it weren’t for “The Best of Big Boob Bangaroo”.
It just happens.
I swear to god I don’t even remember opening it half the time. .it just happens.