Of roller coasters, hipster boots and Whore Awards...

So, first of all, not only did I totally crap out on you and not post yesterday; I crapped out on the Insecure Writers Group as well. See, at least you're in good company!

Mea Culpa.

Yesterday was just one of those days when I couldn't find my ass with two hands and a flashlight. Yes, I know, an object that big should have landing lights, but they wouldn't have helped either. It was just one of those days - and it kept getting better.

In fact, the last thing I did yesterday (before crawling into a corner with my bottle and a pillow) was absolutely the worst and the funniest - I guess it got all the stupid out of me, because today was sooo much better. Not really, but that's another story. At least it wasn't as bad.

So, about last night: I met my Critique Partner, CP; for dinner. Nothing out of the norm there. We were talking about different things and somehow we started talking about sex scenes. See, my current WIP doesn't have one. Nary a pube in sight. HOWEVER, my last book has what I would deem an awesome, totally 'wait for the significant other to go to bed or read it in the bathroom' sex scene. So she demanded insisted asked I send it to her as soon as I got home. And I did.

I cut and pasted it right into an email and sent it straight to her. At her work account. With the Government. Doing highfalutin, extra secret spy stuff. With a sex scene in her inbox. Bwah ha ha!

She did NOT finding it amusing. Well, she sort of did. I re-sent it right away to her home account. Thank god there are no anatomically correct body parts listed in the entire scene. Except 'breast.' And 'butt.' And to think, I almost put "porn" as the subject line. THAT would have been freakin' hilarious!

Ahem. CP did not find that part amusing. At All. She did, however, greatly enjoy the scene itself, which she took a helluva long time reading. In the bathroom. While her husband slept. And then emailed me this picture:

So, I'm guessing she liked what she read. But I digress. Not really, but I like saying that: "I (pause for affect) digress!"

Where was I? Oh, yeah: what I'm saying is, even if I'd had the time (which I didn't, unless I skipped that first double-Scotch. Like that's ever going to happen) I didn't have any ideas for the blog post due yesterday. 

And today, as a comment left on yesterday's completely unsatisfactory "hey, I'm screwing you out of your Wednesday reading material" post, Kelly at dysfunctionallyfun gives me the Whore Award (see it, in the upper right corner? Awesome, right?) and the following visual prompt:

Now, what the hell am I supposed to write using that? I could go so many directions with this, none of them rated "G"! I'm gonna have to take a couple days to wrap my brain around this one (get it: corkscrew, round-wrapping rollee coastee picture and brain?). So, no. You still aren't getting THAT post. Check back Saturday. I should either be drunk enough Friday night or hungover enough Saturday morning to make something of it. Evil bitch from the depths of hell. 

Crap - did I write that out loud?

Now, on to the award, which is so totally awesome, even though I could never get my made-for-supporting-bridges-and-tunnels legs into them. 

Dum Dum DUMMMMM: The Whore It Up Award

Yes, there are rules. Even whores have scruples or guidelines or something. Don't worry, I checked with the muse (that slatternly slut) and she says they're cool:

Rules:

1. Upon receiving this award, you will receive a prompt. You are to write about said prompt. (Whenever you feel like it)
2. Link back to who gave you this award and include the picture of the award in your post.
3. Pass it to just five bloggers. (You can tag back if you want to read what your presenter has to say about the topic you come up with.)
4. Come up with a prompt for the five bloggers you chose.
5. When you do finally get around to writing the prompt, let the blogger who presented you this award know. So they can read it.

Now, for my victims awardees:
1. My CP, CP at n00bishdelight - cuz she's my bud and she's into Zombies and shit!
2. Stacey at maplesyrupland - because she's smart, funny and likes has plays with balls
3. Sporkchop at roflinitiative - I thought it would be hilarious to see a guy in these boots - maybe with something else on but not necessarily, and he posts some weird shit I really like.
4. Valerie at flyingplatypi - hey, anyone that licks anything like she does DESERVES these boots! Git yer mind out of the gutter and read her blog, damn you!
5. Summer at fizzygrrl - cuz since I started following her on Twitter, my life hasn't been the same. In a good way. Unless you have an issue with snorting coffee out your nose.

And here's your prompt: You just swallowed the most potent aphrodisiac known to womankind (no, it was not an American Express Centurion card). It lasts 72 hours MINIMUM. You are trapped in a room at the North Pole, with one other person. There is no hope of rescue, no place to hide. It's one big room. What happens?

Here's your companion:

Could be worse. Could be Taylor Swift.

Muah ha ha!

Crap. I mean...crap.

Well, I know - I'm supposed to be writing about something this morning. I thought I had a topic lined up last night, but the Valkyrie (aka: my muse) got pissed and chased it away. 

So: Crap. What to write about. 

Here I sit, broken hearted.
Tried to write, couldn't get started.

Hah! Not what you expected, was it? Yeah - I try stupid stuff sometimes to get things flowing. Actually, my entire second manuscript started by thinking (and echoing in words) that annoying habit of hitting the same key on a piano over and over, with a half-second pause in between. 

Yeah - I started it like this:

One... Two... One... Two... 

And before I knew it, I was off to the races. It always intrigues me, the things that get our writing glands juiced up and ready for keyboard kombat... I frequently ask other writers how they came up with an idea, what made them start, how did they get the first few sentences on paper. We all have different methods and means, but in the end, it comes down to just sitting your ass in a chair and WRITING. 


If I were going to be completely honest (which I am, to a fault and without much tact), the actual verbal vomit part comes easy. Once I get going, once I pick up the trail my muse has left me, I can ramble on for hundreds, thousands of words. Part of it may be for total shit, part of it may only make sense to a crack smoking toad, but part of it will always be worth keeping. It's the space between the words that matters - the thoughts and images and questions drawn out by whatever I spewed like...  Well, the only 'spew' analogies I can think of are too gross and disgusting for this early on a Saturday morning. 

Sometimes it works - sometimes it doesn't. The point is, it gets me writing SOMETHING. Which beats staring at a blank screen.

Why yes, this is a little gratuitous Depp action.
What the fuck is wrong with that?

So, something I write may start like this:

"When Donny left, it was pretty much expected that Andie would fall apart. Really, really fall apart. They’d been together since college. Almost four years. They were talking about getting married. At least, she was talking about it. He would just listen, nodding his head while studiously not commenting. So when he left, when he packed his things while she was at work and moved out without even leaving a note; she went a little nuts."

And before long (but with several edits) becomes this:

"It’s the little things in life that make the biggest difference. Being five-minutes late for the job interview. Missing the other guy’s car by two inches. A quarter teaspoon too much salt in the soup. Big things are easier to detect, easier to plan for. Easier to accept. 

It’s the overwhelming force of the larger events that makes them more recognizable. You know something big is going to or has happened, so you allow yourself the time and the space to cope with them. But the little things? No freakin’ way. They just pile up, like grains of rice or flakes of snow, until the whole thing breaks lose and tears up your life as it plummets down the slope. 

So, when Donny left, it was pretty much expected that Andie would fall apart. Really, really fall apart. They’d been together since college. Almost four years. They were talking about getting married. At least, she was talking about it. He would just listen, nodding his head while studiously not commenting. So when he left, when he packed his things while she was at work and moved out without even leaving a note; she went a little nuts.  

She pulled the few things he left into a pile in the back yard, added all the pictures and mementos of their time together, dumped the oil from one of the Tiki torches on top and threw the match. She danced the shandy around the blaze, tipping back the bottle of Fireball until she was good and drunk, then passed out on the grass as the embers blew softly all around her. 

Yeah. She was pissed."

See how that works? You start with the tiniest, most obscure thread. You embellish, adding, subtracting, playing around with placement, tense, voice and other 'craft' tools and before you know it, you have a whole new story in the works! And as eager as I am to watch Johnny Depp, or Christian Bale or drink Scotch and dream about Johnny Depp or Christian Bale; I'm a writer. I gots to write. I get real bitchy when I don't. And my muse get's all pouty. Trust me - that's not a pretty sight!

Oh, and by the way, on my search for the perfect gifs for this post, I was horribly maimed and assaulted by A FULL PAGE OF TAYLOR FUCKING SWIFT gifs! GUH - my eyes! My eyes! They're burning!!!!

(See OMG, I Fucking Love This! for interpretation if needed, with kudos to Kelly and Valerie)

Now, for some fave tunes before I rush back into reality. Happy Saturday!