"I think that we're all mentally ill. Those of us outside the asylums only hide it a little better - and maybe not all that much better after all." -- Stephen King
X-Rated Language in Nonfiction Writing
I try not to be overly foul-mouthed in my writing. An effenheimer sprinkled here and there - depending on the circumstances maybe a few more than some deem necessary. It’s all in the name of art, though. I’m not a deranged befuddled lowlife with a second grade vocabulary, so I can find “another” word if I want to. There are situations, however, that demand strong ugly and vulgar language.
Today was one of those times – exigent circumstances. What, you may wonder, would those circumstances be? Let me acquaint you with them –
A couple of blog posts ago I mentioned that my partner was out of the country for a chunk of time – 33 days to be exact. On Day 2 of this sojourn, the dastardly canine that resides in this house evoked his biennial fecal incontinence. If you require more detail, please feel free to scroll down and read the entry. Otherwise, allow me to share today’s events – YES plural – EVENTS.
Day 23 of the aforementioned 33 day stint: It’s approximately 90° outside. My head is thundering like a herd of buffalo on a rampage. I arrive home from work at the normal time thinking of the cool white bottle with the lovely blue label – ALEVE. I unlock the back door and the canine about mows me down scooting past me. Not a good sign, I think to myself.
The buffalo shuffled off and the Riverdance Tour took up residence in my skull. My eyeballs throbbed with the beat.
The central air had cycled up while I was at work, so the temp in the house was a moist and steamy 87° … add to that a funk that would put a skunk to shame. Oh, yes, my readers … the fecal incontinence redux. And I’m not talking the average doggie poop logs … oh, no. I’m talking brownish gray liquidy blobs of goo that look like a toxic waste dump behind a nuclear plant. These pools of pasty poisonous poo covered half the runner by the front door.
I wonder how much it will cost to have the rug steam cleaned – or if a rug cleaner would even accept the befouled tapestry. Perhaps incineration is the only answer, but then I worry the smoke would blow a hole in the ozone layer.
Of course, I scrubbed and emitted a few cuss words – several actually – well, okay a nonstop stream of expletives. And the stomping dancers in my head are replaced by heavy hoofed buffalo. I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear the civil defense sirens sound at any moment. There was disaster afoot, after all.
I cleaned up the pestilential masses and by turns gagged and cursed my way to the trash barrel. Mr. Dumbass (you’d know the canine’s name if you read my earlier blog entry) frolicked alongside me back to the house where I proceeded to firmly close (not slam, mind you) the door in his face.
I defunked the air in the living room as best I could – I used half a can of Lysol “Neutra Air” sanitizing spray. Fresh scent my ass!
Having finished the feculent cleanup I turned to place the paper towels back in the kitchen when my foot slid through a scummy puddle of pee. The nasty little hound had lifted his arthritic leg and managed to pee on the leg of the couch.
More profanities issued forth from my mouth and took flight – the windows are still rattling from the reverb. (Kidding – mostly.)
Oh, let me backtrack … I decided to let the dastardly dog into the back porch before I had finished phase one of the decontamination drill. Now, having completed phase two, I was on my way to the trash, again, when I opened the door to the back porch – SMACK! POW! BAM! No, I did not have the TV tuned to a Batman episode.
Yes. Incredibly, the conniving canine had decorated a good portion of the floor with less than delightful little splotches of noxious liquidity. If there is a hell on earth – I’m in it!
The disgusting dog is outdoors where he’s free to punish the neighborhood with his odiferous offerings.
I’m washing Aleve down my gullet with ice cold Diet Pepsi and marking off the days on the calendar – only 10 days until my honey returns. If the canine is of a religious bent, now would be a great time for him to get down on all four knees and pray the next ten days go quickly because I’m seriously considering banishing him to his lush green fortress (aka the garden).
A person can’t make this stuff up … this, my friends is my nonfiction contribution to the art of writing.
I prefer fiction.
Write on!
Today was one of those times – exigent circumstances. What, you may wonder, would those circumstances be? Let me acquaint you with them –
A couple of blog posts ago I mentioned that my partner was out of the country for a chunk of time – 33 days to be exact. On Day 2 of this sojourn, the dastardly canine that resides in this house evoked his biennial fecal incontinence. If you require more detail, please feel free to scroll down and read the entry. Otherwise, allow me to share today’s events – YES plural – EVENTS.
Day 23 of the aforementioned 33 day stint: It’s approximately 90° outside. My head is thundering like a herd of buffalo on a rampage. I arrive home from work at the normal time thinking of the cool white bottle with the lovely blue label – ALEVE. I unlock the back door and the canine about mows me down scooting past me. Not a good sign, I think to myself.
The buffalo shuffled off and the Riverdance Tour took up residence in my skull. My eyeballs throbbed with the beat.
The central air had cycled up while I was at work, so the temp in the house was a moist and steamy 87° … add to that a funk that would put a skunk to shame. Oh, yes, my readers … the fecal incontinence redux. And I’m not talking the average doggie poop logs … oh, no. I’m talking brownish gray liquidy blobs of goo that look like a toxic waste dump behind a nuclear plant. These pools of pasty poisonous poo covered half the runner by the front door.
I wonder how much it will cost to have the rug steam cleaned – or if a rug cleaner would even accept the befouled tapestry. Perhaps incineration is the only answer, but then I worry the smoke would blow a hole in the ozone layer.
Of course, I scrubbed and emitted a few cuss words – several actually – well, okay a nonstop stream of expletives. And the stomping dancers in my head are replaced by heavy hoofed buffalo. I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear the civil defense sirens sound at any moment. There was disaster afoot, after all.
I cleaned up the pestilential masses and by turns gagged and cursed my way to the trash barrel. Mr. Dumbass (you’d know the canine’s name if you read my earlier blog entry) frolicked alongside me back to the house where I proceeded to firmly close (not slam, mind you) the door in his face.
I defunked the air in the living room as best I could – I used half a can of Lysol “Neutra Air” sanitizing spray. Fresh scent my ass!
Having finished the feculent cleanup I turned to place the paper towels back in the kitchen when my foot slid through a scummy puddle of pee. The nasty little hound had lifted his arthritic leg and managed to pee on the leg of the couch.
More profanities issued forth from my mouth and took flight – the windows are still rattling from the reverb. (Kidding – mostly.)
Oh, let me backtrack … I decided to let the dastardly dog into the back porch before I had finished phase one of the decontamination drill. Now, having completed phase two, I was on my way to the trash, again, when I opened the door to the back porch – SMACK! POW! BAM! No, I did not have the TV tuned to a Batman episode.
Yes. Incredibly, the conniving canine had decorated a good portion of the floor with less than delightful little splotches of noxious liquidity. If there is a hell on earth – I’m in it!
The disgusting dog is outdoors where he’s free to punish the neighborhood with his odiferous offerings.
I’m washing Aleve down my gullet with ice cold Diet Pepsi and marking off the days on the calendar – only 10 days until my honey returns. If the canine is of a religious bent, now would be a great time for him to get down on all four knees and pray the next ten days go quickly because I’m seriously considering banishing him to his lush green fortress (aka the garden).
A person can’t make this stuff up … this, my friends is my nonfiction contribution to the art of writing.
I prefer fiction.
Write on!
All Writing is a Mystery
Writing is a mystery - no matter what genre of the art a writer pursues. Stories are made up of clues and motives and a need for resolution. And we need people, places and things to get us to the resolution - people that aren’t us, but are us.
Writers exist in parallel worlds. Don’t you think? Well, if you haven’t thought about it - please do! When writing we are the characters and we’re also ourselves (the writer) watching our character selves from a distance. Up close and personal and at the same time hovering above, ala out of body. Without having thought about this before, I examined the prospect and found, for me, it’s true. For instance, I love mystery and love to ‘live’ in mystery through my writing and my characters. I am them and I’m watching me be them in the creative process. Don’t confuse this with the specific mystery genre because it’s so much deeper than a matter of genre.
I read a superb essay in the New York Times today (Sunday) entitled, “The Spooky Art,” by Roger Rosenblatt. The article presents a clarity to the art of writing. For me, writing has been a secret addiction, as far back as I can remember. My dirty little secret that I was afraid to share with anyone for fear of ridicule, discouragement or embarrassment. No one could know. I wrote in journals and destroyed the evidence. I love writing because I do it alone. Yes, I’m an introvert. Yet I’m not alone because I’m surrounded by all those that I create. And as alone as I am in the writing my goal is to have readers pick up the story and lose themselves in the world I’ve created - to know my world, be part and parcel of this thing that I’ve constructed. Putting myself out there is a bold and scary prospect.
But now I’m at the point of life where I want to toss off the cape of fear - fear of being “found out” - and take pride in ownership of my alter ego(s). Each character that pops into my head and onto the page (virtual or paper) is me, good and bad, all the nitty gritty. And the best part? I have no idea who all these characters are, where they’re going or what they’ve got planned until it happens. The journey is an unknown - a road that could lead just about anywhere with curves, turns, straightaways and dead-ends. A trip I’m excited to take. Rosenblatt describes this phenom best when telling how E.L. Doctorow compared his own writing process to driving at night, when you’re only able to see as far as the reach of the headlights.
Darkness is my friend. I’m infatuated with the darkness because it holds all the secrets. Secrets buried in nooks and crannies that maybe I’ll find - or maybe not. And the light of day allows for picking apart and examining all the night’s transgressions. The murder and mayhem, good and evil, just and unjust - all pieces of the mysterious puzzle that I yearn to put together. Looking at clues, pursuing them and barreling through those that are roadblocks. Plunging onward until finally pulling the right thread unravels the whole scarf and uncovers what lies beneath - resolution.
Good prevails. Good must prevail because that’s what our readers want - a reward for agreeing to take the journey with us. There must be a reward or the time invested won’t have been worth it.
And once the ride is over?
As a reader, I’m always in search of the next great expedition, which is good news for writers!
As a writer, the feeling is bittersweet. I’ve finished with the story and I’m happy for having survived the sojourn - completed a monumental task. (To date, my experience is limited to one completed work, which requires a few rewrites.) But I’m sad because all my alter egos, those I’ve been living through vicariously, have gone and I’m left with just myself. Unchallenged. Lonely. Until the next time, which is good news for readers!
I hope for many ‘next times.’
Write on!
Writers exist in parallel worlds. Don’t you think? Well, if you haven’t thought about it - please do! When writing we are the characters and we’re also ourselves (the writer) watching our character selves from a distance. Up close and personal and at the same time hovering above, ala out of body. Without having thought about this before, I examined the prospect and found, for me, it’s true. For instance, I love mystery and love to ‘live’ in mystery through my writing and my characters. I am them and I’m watching me be them in the creative process. Don’t confuse this with the specific mystery genre because it’s so much deeper than a matter of genre.
I read a superb essay in the New York Times today (Sunday) entitled, “The Spooky Art,” by Roger Rosenblatt. The article presents a clarity to the art of writing. For me, writing has been a secret addiction, as far back as I can remember. My dirty little secret that I was afraid to share with anyone for fear of ridicule, discouragement or embarrassment. No one could know. I wrote in journals and destroyed the evidence. I love writing because I do it alone. Yes, I’m an introvert. Yet I’m not alone because I’m surrounded by all those that I create. And as alone as I am in the writing my goal is to have readers pick up the story and lose themselves in the world I’ve created - to know my world, be part and parcel of this thing that I’ve constructed. Putting myself out there is a bold and scary prospect.
But now I’m at the point of life where I want to toss off the cape of fear - fear of being “found out” - and take pride in ownership of my alter ego(s). Each character that pops into my head and onto the page (virtual or paper) is me, good and bad, all the nitty gritty. And the best part? I have no idea who all these characters are, where they’re going or what they’ve got planned until it happens. The journey is an unknown - a road that could lead just about anywhere with curves, turns, straightaways and dead-ends. A trip I’m excited to take. Rosenblatt describes this phenom best when telling how E.L. Doctorow compared his own writing process to driving at night, when you’re only able to see as far as the reach of the headlights.
Darkness is my friend. I’m infatuated with the darkness because it holds all the secrets. Secrets buried in nooks and crannies that maybe I’ll find - or maybe not. And the light of day allows for picking apart and examining all the night’s transgressions. The murder and mayhem, good and evil, just and unjust - all pieces of the mysterious puzzle that I yearn to put together. Looking at clues, pursuing them and barreling through those that are roadblocks. Plunging onward until finally pulling the right thread unravels the whole scarf and uncovers what lies beneath - resolution.
Good prevails. Good must prevail because that’s what our readers want - a reward for agreeing to take the journey with us. There must be a reward or the time invested won’t have been worth it.
And once the ride is over?
As a reader, I’m always in search of the next great expedition, which is good news for writers!
As a writer, the feeling is bittersweet. I’ve finished with the story and I’m happy for having survived the sojourn - completed a monumental task. (To date, my experience is limited to one completed work, which requires a few rewrites.) But I’m sad because all my alter egos, those I’ve been living through vicariously, have gone and I’m left with just myself. Unchallenged. Lonely. Until the next time, which is good news for readers!
I hope for many ‘next times.’
Write on!