Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
This exchange was profoundly validating to me. I chase my characters and grind my molars, dismayed by where they’re going, reluctant to accept their direction, and upset because I’m again proven not to be in charge. Finding I’m in good company comforts me a little, like an amuse-bouche comforts me when I’m really hungry for pizza.
I enjoyed their conversation, so here’s a link, so you can read it, too.
This song came to mind yesterday. I was thinking about lunch. What to do, what to do, what to do? Wanted something small, light, and easy. Just a little food, just a little food. Soon I was singing, “A little bit of food, yeah, a little bit of food.” With a little thought, I realized it was the tune to “Little Bit O’ Soul” by The Music Explosion. I don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve last heard this song, but I’ll share it with you.
Infloofment (floofinition) – an accusation against a household pet such as a cat or dog.
In use: “Seeing the houseplant destroyed, its leaves scattered around the room, she turned to the cats and leveled her infloofment, demanding to know which was guilty. Both stayed silent but wide-eyed.”
I did the same thing that Scott said, buying Writer’s Digest and books on fiction writing, looking for the secrets before realizing, just read and write. It wasn’t wasted time or effort, though, because I glimpsed other writers’ processes and developed my processes and voice from thinking about what they’d done, trying to do the same, and then adjusting.
This is the essence of writing like crazy to me. Dive in and start writing, and hopefully, it’ll stick.
Floofverine (floofinition) – a cat or dog that reminds people of a wolverine, either by physical appearance or behavior.
In use: “His little white and gray cat with the blue eyes was such a little glutton that he began calling her his little floofverine, leading him to name her, Hugh Jackman. He often called her Hugh, Jack, or Jackman, but his favorite alias for her remained Floofverine. It didn’t matter, because she answered to all of it, so long as he was offering her something to eat.”
Little Feat was one of my favorite groups when I was a young teenager but none of my friends had heard of them. When I played their music on the eight track, they’d ask, “What’s that?” with that look on their face like they’d taken a bite and discovered a funky and unexpected taste that worries them because maybe they they’d bitten into a bug or some rodent part.
Years later, I was surprised to hear Little Feat were playing again because, hello? Didn’t they break up and the guy that started them die? Yes, but they’d been reformed by surviving members.
Well, they’d become a little more mainstream but I still enjoyed them. “Hate to Lose Your Lovin'” is probably the song most people know them for, so why not?
From 1988.
Showered, shaved, and coiffed, the finishing touch was required, the SPF 50 UV A/B blocker that would allow him to enjoy the sunny day while he rode his bike down to have coffee (and maybe a doughnut) with his friends.
But it wasn’t in its proper location among his essential toilet vials and tubes. Probably because he’d put it away in the wrong place yesterday, silly git. Each drawer was opened, searched, and closed, and then again because it must be in one of those drawers and he was just overlooking it.
Or it was on the tray where he keeps his stuff on the counter, knocked over, perhaps, or out of sight behind something else – hard to believe, because that tube is orange and yellow and the rest on there are green, black, or white — except the Trader Joe’s moisturizing shave cream that he uses (which is also an orange tube) — but the little bastard of suntan stuff wasn’t there, where it should be. So he must have carried it off somewhere, yes, probably while feeding the dog, or playing with the dog, or something with the dog, or maybe — did he get interrupted while he was applying it yesterday? There’d been one day when he’d had a phone call — which day? Who’d called? Someone had called. What day had that been?
Christ, he couldn’t remember anything. Maybe, maybe it’d had happened – yesterday? But — maybe he hadn’t used the suntan lotion yesterday. Had he used the suntan lotion yesterday? He didn’t remember, he couldn’t remember. Well, assume that he’d been using it and had gotten interrupted or had carried it off absent-mindedly — because that’s never happened — and put it down in another room, like the utility room – right, because that’s where the dog is fed — or the laundry room – no — or the other bathroom — no — or kitchen – NO.
Christ, had he thrown it away? Maybe he’d thrown it away by accident. Or maybe he’d put it into the freezer or recycled it or — or — whatever the hell people did when they were getting old and losing their mind. Maybe he was getting that thing, what? What’s it called? Alzheimer’s, Alzheimer’s. Was this his Still Alice moment? Maybe this was the onset of dementia — or maybe —
He saw his husband in the office. “You haven’t seen my suntan lotion, have you?”
“Yes, I used it yesterday. I was in a hurry and needed some, but I was out, so I grabbed yours and took it with me, and I left it in the car.” His husband smiled. “I’m sorry.”
He smiled back. “No problem.” Going out to the car, he chuckled at all the things he’d thought while he’d been searching – overreacting –
Stopping at the car, he paused in thought.
Why the hell was out he out here?
I like discovering quotes like these. It helps alleviate the worries I have about the lack of control over what I write — something which seems inherently wrong to write, but most writers will readily grasp.
