Ah, sex. Hanky panky. The Deed. The horizontal mambo.
Doing the dirty.
Plowing the field.
Hm, too pastoral? Well, you get the idea.
Sex is one of those things that can fill so many roles (and…holes?) within your story, it’s hard to keep track of them all. It can be a plot device, a character turning point, a trait, a twist, a marketing ploy (steamy excerpts, anyone?), or a page filler.
Sex scenes are also really fun to write, in my opinion. Alas, they can be one of the most difficult arenas for a writer to master, and when they’re…
It’s an accepted fact that most of history’s greatest discoveries were accidents. Humans are, as a whole, wonderful at creating said accidents — it’s a talent, really.
How many other animals can consistently f*** up, then turn those f*** ups into awesome inventions? When you think about it, most of our existence could be characterized as a serendipitous series of accidents, mishaps, and unexpected tangents.
So why do we spend untold amounts of time trying to structure ourselves to death? Is the “perfect” routine or the “optimal” schedule really going to give you the success you’re searching for?
Norbert was an accident. No one could have planned a creature as special as him — he is clearly the result of questionable decisions, a late-night adventure, and a genetic anomaly.
He is either an F3 or F4 Savannah cat that was not listed as such when I adopted him. No, he was simply adrift, a kitten lost in the flooding when hurricane Florence inundated Wilmington, NC.
His mom happened to be pregnant with him when this event occurred, and she happened to be rescued near a less-than-scrupulous Savannah Cat breeder, but who could have predicted this outcome?
If they sold brain laxatives at CVS, I’d have a lifetime supply stacked up in my medicine cabinet. Nothing is worse than moving through your motivational ‘writer’s morning montage’ only to sit down and experience…it.
The block. The hurdle. The vast and yawning abyss of that beast called writer’s block. It ought to come complete with sound effects: the deafening screech of machinery coming to a halt, perhaps, or a comical descending trumpet note.
Alas, it is usually a silent affair, and in more ways than one. That’s really what a block comes down to. Painful, stubborn, unyielding silence. It…
I’m selfish. I prioritize myself proudly, frequently, and in all manner of situations. It’s a quality I’ve developed intentionally over the course of my 24 years on this planet, and it’s a skill I fully intend to continue developing for however many I’ve got left.
Is it because I’m a spoiled, privileged only child from the “Zillennial” generation? Is it because I’m a flaming narcissist with no compassion for others’ needs and wants?
Is it because I’m just a big ol’ a-hole who needs a firm kick in the backside?
Well, I’d like to think it’s none of these things…
There’s something singularly depressing about snail races. Yes, that is a real, actual activity that people engage in. Google it.
Anyway, I think they’re so sad. I mean, sure, it’s kind of cute to see a bunch of chubby little gastropods sliming their merry way toward lettuce, but the whole thing is a perversion of their true strengths! Snails aren’t supposed to be raced.
Of course, that’s the point of the whole snail-race establishment. It’s meant to be ironic. But there’s a deeper life lesson dwelling within the unsuspecting (and mucus-y) wake of our shelled little friends.
Certain things aren’t…
That’s right, bad b*** squad — I’m back at it with the (relative) controversy. I’m about to blow a hole in the concept of finding endless things to write about. Madness. Insanity. [Insert more adjectives here].
You’ve heard the advice. Write an article a day, or at least five times per week. Keep a list of ideas and never stop adding to it. Make topics happen even when you don’t feel inspired, because muses are undependable little assholes who probably won’t show up if you so much as blink hopefully in their direction.
All of this is good advice, conceptually…
Well, everyone, it’s me! I’m back! Where did I go, you ask? That’s classified.
Anyway, there’s a lot of writing advice floating around out there in the sultry air, and some of it is actually rather helpful. Guess what? I don’t care! I destroy advice like some kind of demented cadre of apocalyptic horsemen on acid, their plagues missing every possible mark and bringing about nothing but a whole lot of confused theologians.
Which is to say — I suck at following foundational writing advice. It’s not for lack of dedication, either. Do you know how many blogs, newsletters, and…
While perusing job boards and scanning the freelancer landscape — with fancy opera binoculars, as one does — I often find myself in the mental state of a person watching a trainwreck occur in realtime.
You know nothing good can come of watching such a disaster unfold, but you simply can’t look away. My internal dialogue during such incidents could be condensed into a general feeling of “Oh no, baby! What is you doing?!”
I didn’t know I was going to Bible Camp. My parents, who literally chose and signed me up for said camp, didn’t know either.
To be fair, the brochure was pretty vague, but…the signs were there. My mom and dad just didn’t bother to read the whole thing. The attitude was more: “It has great safety ratings, and the bayside setting looks gorgeous. Let’s sign you up, kid!”
Thus began a very unwanted 2–week-long spiritual journey that not only caused me to renounce Christianity forever, but also made me gain at least 4 pounds in pure, Christian-Hippie-Counselor-fueled stress.