Apple-Obsessed Author Fella

Author: terribleminds (page 427 of 449)

WORDMONKEY

Your Own Shelf Of Writing Advice

By now, you know the story: blah blah blah, CONFESSIONS OF A FREELANCE PENMONKEY is out, it’s now available in Kindle and Nook and PDF and, should you choose not to procure it, it will be available as a manuscript duct-taped through a brick and thrown through your front window.

I kid, I kid.

Seriously, though, it gets me thinking about other books of writing advice. I never understood writers who shirk writing advice because I’ve always found it so useful. I also don’t really grok those who absorb so much advice but then never actually… ohh, I dunno, put pen to paper because whenever I read great writing advice, all it makes me want to do is take what I learned and put it into play. Like reading the Kama Sutra for the first time. “Sun-Burned Donkey On Ravenna’s Porch? Upward Tilting Samsara With A Side Of Bhel Puri? Monkey Steal The Plums? I want to do all of these right now!”

Here’s the writing advice that lives on my shelf:

Ray Bradbury, ZEN AND THE ART OF WRITING.

Lawrence Block, both WRITING THE NOVEL and TELLING LIES FOR FUN & PROFIT.

Stephen King’s ON WRITING.

Robert McKee, STORY.

Elements of Fiction Writing: CONFLICT, ACTION & SUSPENSE.

Alex Epstein, CRAFTY SCREENWRITING.

Alex Epstein, CRAFTY TV WRITING.

Blake Snyder, SAVE THE CAT!

Syd Field, SCREENPLAY.

I’ve got other stuff, too — some stuff about writing horror (DARK THOUGHTS: ON WRITING), lots of grammar books (GRAMMAR GIRL, EATS, SHOOTS & LEAVES).

Bradbury’s book is cool — lots of personal tales, very bite-sized stuff, a book of wildly-roving advice. I like the way he wrote many of his original stories: he penned a list of cool titles, then one by one wrote stories to go with ’em. King’s book is pretty standard, and a truly great book — it was one of those books though that got me on some good habits and some bad ones. McKee’s story is nice enough, and there’s some valuable information, but the book is way too long for what it’s trying to tell you, and at times feels soulless. Epstein and Snyder show you the formulas that persist in film and television, and add new twists to those formulas.

I love what other authors have to say about the writing process. I lean toward advice that’s equal parts philosophical and practical and that lists into “hard-ass” territory, but then again, you already knew that: it’s ideally what you read here at terribleminds. I find it motivating. Thought-provoking. Never enervating.

How about you? What books of advice do you have on your shelves? Why are they there? Any books you didn’t like? Feel free to extend this out to blogs, too. I’m curious: where do you get your advice, and why?

Confessions Of A Self-Published Penmonkey

Hi, my name is Chuck Wendig. And I am a self-published penmonkey.

(“Hi, Chuck.”)

As you may know, my e-book of profanity-laden writing advice, CONFESSIONS OF A FREELANCE PENMONKEY, is now available:

Kindle (US): Buy Here

Kindle (UK): Buy Here

Nook: Buy Here

Or, buy the PDF ($4.99) by clicking the BUY NOW button:

 

And, this being my second foray into the weird wild wide world of self-publishing, I thought, it is once more a good time to comment on the state of self-publishing as I see it.

What About The Readers?

Yesterday, agent Rachelle Gardner laid down some thoughts at her blog that (in a loose paraphrase) suggested that legacy publishers work more directly for readers than self-publishers. The self-published, she asserts, directly serves only the authors, and creates a more perilous environment for readers.

I get her point. I think you could make an argument that while choice is a good thing, such a glut of choice is not always a win. Too much noise and not enough signal is a loss for the readership.

I once worried to a similar point, but I’m no longer of that belief. I’m not comfortable putting a positive or negative value on it, because once you do, you start wandering down the path of false dichotomies (do this, but not this, this is awful, this is awesome, no gray area, nothing in the middle but a giant abyss filled with hungry spiders). What it means is that the environment — the publishing and authoring ecosystem — is shifting.

Which means that the role of gatekeeper is changing, too.

For legacy publishers, or traditional publishers, or “old-school pub-monkeys,” depending on whatever terminology tickles your pink parts, the gatekeeper role remains largely the same.

But both in and outside that model, driven in part by self-publishing but also in part because the world is home to a nigh-infinite selection of books, it means that the reader is becoming a gatekeeper, too. The Internet has widened the “word of mouth” in social groups considerably. Sites like Goodreads count toward this. So too does social media. Or Amazon comments. The readers are a “pure” gatekeeper in that they’re the first and last line of defense in terms of self-publishing. They give the Roman “thumbs up” or “thumbs down” in terms of whether the gladiator will be spared or made to fight another day.

In legacy publishing, other gatekeepers exist, and that’s okay, too. We must allow for and expect an ecosystem that has room for both self-published and trad-published books. We must allow for it because it’s fucking happening, no matter how much people think either one is doom, doom, DOOM. (By the way, don’t trust anybody who tells you it’s either/or. They’re zealots, plain and simple. Nobody has answers, the only truth we know is that this is going on; trying to predict the future or lay objective certainty upon all this is the same as trusting a homeless guy who will read your fortune in a pile of pigeon shit.)

For the record, the glut of choice is present already, even without self-publishing. Go into a bookstore and gaze upon the racks, then recognize that Amazon multiplies that by a factor with many zeroes.

Further, I have a pretty cynical mindset in terms of what serves who.

Writers serve writers.

Publishers serve publishers.

Readers serve readers.

Why should it be any other way? I’m not suggesting that this is a function of vanity or greed but rather, the reality of the marketplace. Because this is, after all, a marketplace.

Writers and publishers aren’t magnanimous. The only one pure of heart and innocent of motive (in general) is the reader, and it is forever the reader who is king.

Speaking Of Selfishness: More Rumblings On Price

Pricing PENMONKEY was tough. There’s such a downward trend in price that — for me, at least — I get a little shaky. I see some authors — not readers, authors — say that they won’t buy e-books now above a certain price, and sometimes that price is surprisingly bargain basement. So, here I am with a book that in part recycles material from this blog, material written over the course of two years. That’s a ding against it, right? But it’s also a huge book. 100,000+ words. And it has new content. And I paid for an extra-sexy cover, so that’s a cost that needs covering.

IRREGULAR CREATURES I priced at $2.99, and was only 45k, and is niche because it’s a collection of short stories. I felt PENMONKEY was less niche, and had twice the content, and so I noodled with twice the price. In the end, though, it seemed that five bucks was a pretty clean price. I know I’ll drop five bucks very easily. On media, on food, on anything. So, that seemed like a good place.

You likely won’t see $0.99 as a price from me. I may do sales, but I think I’m done with that as a price point. No harm, no foul to anybody else who wants to go that way (I know a number of smart, excellent writers who are rocking that price point), but it’s just not tenable for me. Not only morally (I’m stubborn), but financially. I can’t live on that price. I can’t feed my son on that price (well, technically he’s chowing down on hot tasty boob, but eventually I’ll need to buy him food). Listen, to make a barebones $35,000/year, I would need to sell 116,000 e-books over the course of a year at $0.99.

That’s a lot of goddamn books.

That number drops significantly at $2.99 — there, I only need to sell 17,500.

Still a lot, but way less epic a number.

At $4.99: ~9600 books/year.

At $6.99: ~7100 books/year.

At $9.99: ~5000 books/year.

I don’t put those numbers there as indicators of anything except, at the right prices, authors can actually earn out and become genuinely self-sufficient at higher price points.

I know this issue has greater levels of complexity than I’m stating here, and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with authors who price low. Go for it. I’m just not betting on that being the right course for me and my books.

Books Breeding Like Lusty Rabbits

This isn’t new information, but having more than one book for sale is a good thing. When PENMONKEY hit, IRREGULAR CREATURES sales went up. They’re still up, actually.

This is tricky for the self-pubbed author because it means you’re under greater pressure to produce, produce, produce. Which is where you might find issues of quality lagging.

Self-Pubbing Is Still A Pain In The Ball Sack

Self-publishing takes work that goes beyond. You know this. I know this. I just want to reiterate it for those who are planning on going that route. From cover design to e-book prep to marketing to all that jazz, more of the weight falls to the author’s shoulders. Because now, author = publisher. Again, this is both good and bad. It’s just worth noting.

This time, I prepped the book for Amazon using MobiPocket, and while it took me a little bit to learn how to use it, I think it came out better. Though the table-of-contents gave me problems.

Getting the book onto the Nook marketplace was actually a lot easier. Upload, one, and done.

Smashwords can pretty much go eat a dick.

I’m not yet on iBooks. Not sure why I would, yet.

Also still considering a print version.

Goddamnit, Authors, Create A Direct Channel

Still surprising how few authors offer a direct channel to sell their e-book. Everybody’s so up in arms about “middlemen,” well, fine, then recognize that Amazon is a middleman.

I will forever sell a PDF version directly to readers. Not only do I get more value out of that (PayPal takes a far less robust cut), but it offers readers a different way of getting your book.

Why do that? Well…

Sales Numbers

I don’t know how many books I sold on the first day of release because, oops, my son — the baby penmonkey — decided he wanted to be born on Friday. (As dear friend Aaron Dembski-Bowden said, “you published a baby”). I had crapgasmic Internet at the hospital, and no way to really check how the book was doing. I did see that the book rocked up the Amazon charts, which was neat. Made it to #1444 across all Kindle books. Made it to #1 in writing reference (Kindle) and I believe #10 across writing reference books across the board (meaning, beyond the Kindle marketplace).

I know that I sold about 150 copies over the first few days of release.

A happy-making number, and again, many thanks to those who procured.

My numbers are currently at 67% Kindle, 24% PDF, and 9% Nook.

It’s that middle number that I want you to note: my direct sales through PDF are, as they were with IRREGULAR CREATURES, rocking at 20-25%. That’s a big number. Better than Nook.

Authors: offer your product directly.

Interface with the audience as one facet of sales.

What’s Next?

Well, PENMONKEY shall continue, one hopes, doing well. I’ll eventually do some contests and what-not.

I am available for interviews.

I am available for gust-bloggening.

I am available for handjobs behind the Burger King dumpster.

If you contacted me on Friday about any of these, please re-contact. I apologies, but again, that day was apeshit. Much that I probably missed, so please, re-contact.

Spread the love. If there’s anything I can do for you, please say the word.

I do anticipate a print release, but I’m not sure about Lulu or Createspace. As noted earlier, thinking on doing something with a higher-end printing that incorporates some of my photography.

Beyond that, I’ll continue to work in the self-pub space, though obviously I’m a fan of “traditional” publishing, too. Got DOUBLE DEAD coming out in November and hopefully more beyond that. Again I say that everybody needs to get used to an ecosystem that features a many-headed publishing beast. Authors are best straddling those worlds, in my opinion. Lest they fall into the spider-clogged abyss.

This Is Freelancer Law, Or: “How Not To Suck As A Freelancer”

Oh-ho-ho. Where do you think you’re going?

Ah. I see. You thought, “Heh, Old Man Wendig over there just had an adorable baby. He’s gone soft. His heart has wilted like the spinach in a hot bacon salad. We’ve got the run of the place! This is a lawless wasteland! Fuck commas. Piss on deadlines. I’m going to pop a squat on this stack of Bibles!”

First, I am not an old man. Stop that. Stop saying that. It’s hurtful.

Second, why are you pooping on Bibles? That’s not related to anything I do here. Now you’re just acting out.

Third, my heart’s hard as tungsten, motherfuckers. My baby’s cute as shit, but I learned from my wife that the best things in life come in a flood of pain and fluids. (I may be taking this lesson too literally. For my next book release, I’m going to first pass it through my colon. Purification through pain! D.O.C.E.: Damaged Orifices Create Enlightenment!)

I’m going to be a tough-love Daddy. I’m going to be the gavel-banger. The unyielding wall.

And since I see you all as my children, it’s time for some hard truths.

It’s time to lay down the law.

Today: I’m laying down the freelancer law.

Also known as: how not to be a crap-tastic, shit-tacular, poo-glutted freelancer.

*bangs gavel*

Those Who Fuck With Deadlines Get Fucked By Deadlines

Deadlines exist for a reason. A client does not just pick a deadline out of a jaunty bowler hat. It’s not a lottery. It’s not a game. To get the project to the web designer, to get it to the printer, to kick it up the chain to the Secret Council of Squid Wizards who slap their greasy “tentacles of approval” upon it, then everybody’s got to his a series of critical deadlines. You miss a deadline, now you’re a pair of blood-caked pantyhose clogging up the pipes. Now nothing moves forward.

And that makes Freelancer Jesus smite a horse cart full of adorable lambs.

That’s why they call it a fucking deadline. That’s a hard-ass name if ever there was one. “This is the line of death. Thou shalt not cross it.” They don’t call it the “marshmallow line.” It isn’t “lemonade-and-ponies street.” It isn’t the “ehhh-if-you-wanna-line.”

Dead. Line.

Now, I get it, sometimes you know you’re not going to hit a deadline. Your goat dies. Your father goes to jail (maybe for killing your goat). You catch some kind of super-SARS.

Here’s a pro-tip: get ahead of that. Let the editor or developer know this as early as humanly possible. If you’re telling them you’re not going to hit the deadline on the day of the deadline, you are a fucker.

Punishment: dragged by a bee-stung bull through a field of stinging nettles.

You Are Horse, Not Unicorn

Creative types like to think they’re special. It makes sense. You have a “voice.” A “talent.” Your work comes pouring out of your “imagination” like the glittery perfumed vomit of Strawberry Shortcake.

You can be special in your own special little mind.

But your client does not think you’re a prancing unicorn. You’re just a horse like everyone else. Not a zebra. Not a tapir. Not a unicorn. A horse. A work horse, at that.

What does this mean?

It means, when the client hires you to do a job, do the job they hired you to do. You get an outline for a book, cleave to that outline. “Yeah, I know you wanted me to write 40,000 words on the subject of the mating habits of the Venezuelan Micturating Wombat, but instead, I thought the book could instead use an epic poem about the bowel movements of Norse gods. Cool?” No. No. Not cool. *punches your throat*

Also, go ahead and take this hot iron and brand yourself with the phrase: write to spec. This is apropos directly to freelance writers, but it means, if they ask you to write 10,000 words, write 10,000 words. Don’t write 5k. Don’t write 20k. It’s like SkeeBall: get as close as you can.

Finally, this also translates to the notes you receive. You’ll get notes. Everybody gets notes. Few freelancers nail their task in one shot (“nothing but net — swoosh!”). Take the notes, and do what they say. This is not hard. “Please rewrite with less emphasis on dolphin penis.” “Nnnyeaaah, I didn’t do that.” *kick testicles*

Like I said: do the job you’re hired to do, not the job you imagined in your head. You don’t pick and choose how much of the work you’d like to perform. Don’t be that asshole.

Punishment: rectally violated by this robot.

Garbage In, Garbage Out

Your first draft should never be “close enough for horseshoes and hand grenades.” This is true of writing, art, anything. The thing you turn in should never be the equivalent of a thumb swirled around a full diaper and pressed onto an index card. Your job isn’t to make the client’s own work harder. Do you see why that would throw a client into a paroxysm of rage? Your job is to make their life easier.

Turn in quality work. Be as awesome as you can be.

Turn in trash, get tossed out like trash.

Punishment: nibbled to death by Bubonic marmots.

The Slack In The Rope Could Take Your Head Off

One of the many joys of being a freelancer — beyond, say, brewing your own coffee and living a blessedly pantsless existence — is having no boss. Your life is your own. Your schedule is yours to create and master. Nobody’s going to come in, ask you to punch a clock, fill out this form, clean your desk, rub his shoulders, express the sebaceous cyst on his lower back. You are the architect of your destiny.

But that doesn’t mean you get to laze off, you quivering slugabed. You think you have no boss? Bzzt. The client is your boss. Better still, you are your boss. Get behind on a project, and the slack on that rope could whip out and take your head off. Life presents its own challenges. Additional emergency work piles up. You might get sick. Maybe you’re eaten by one of those tornadoes that keeps popping up all over. Shit happens.

Don’t get left behind, like those poor assholes in the Rapture. (Wait — that didn’t happen? So this… this office of mine riddled with Scotch bottles and empty Chinese food containers isn’t Heaven? What was that floating sensation I felt the other day? What’s that, you say? That was just gas? Oops!)

Message: get ahead. Don’t get steamrolled by your own workload.

Fall behind and…

Punishment: you must manually masturbate Karl Rove to sexual completion.

No Freelancer Is An Island

It’s easy to feel like you’re on your own when freelancing. You lay in a pile of Wendy’s wrappers and Funion crumbs, your laptop splayed out across your chest; it’s just you and the work.

But you’re not alone. You’re no island.

A freelancer assignment is universally a team gig. At the bare minimum, you have a team consisting of you and your client, but frequently enough you’re also part of an ecosystem featuring other writers, artists, and creators. What does that mean? It means: communicate. Communication is key in any freelancer gig. Ask questions. Offer thoughts. Make updates. Check in. You don’t need to be obsessed with it, and you certainly shouldn’t be irritating, but be a part of the ecosystem. I know, I know, you got into freelancing because you run with scissors, don’t play well with others, and aren’t allowed outside of your plexiglass enclosure. Just because you’re legally not allowed to use a fork doesn’t mean you can’t communicate with your client and with other freelancers. Even the Lone Ranger had Tonto, for Chrissakes.

Don’t act the loner.

Punishment: eternal Cop Rock marathon beamed straight into your brain by an evil psychic chimp.

Get Paid, Or Get Fucked

In the realm of “creative” work, one could argue that there exists some advantage in writing for free.

The freelancer, though, gets paid. Or, he should. (Be not fooled by the misnomer of “free” in the word “freelancer.”) What are the dangers of working for free?

First: you’re worth what you charge, and if you charge nothing, then you’re worth the same. Don’t think so? Try writing for free, then putting that on your resume. “I did some free pamphlet work for Jojo’s Hymen-Breaking Hut? You know, the one down on Acevedo and Blumpkin Ave?” Watch the client stifle laughter. This is the same as, “don’t put your blog on a resume,” too. At best, it’ll fail to provide a boost. At worst, you’ll lose respect, and when you lose respect, you lose work. Plain and simple.

Second: there exists a corrosive effect when good writers choose to work for nothing. Why wouldn’t there be? If the standard is, say, ten cents a word, and then a handful of capable writers undercut that by five cents a word, hey, fine, right? That’s the market. Problem is, now you have to write twice as much to earn the same. Well, okay. Except what happens when the next batch undercuts by another two or three cents per word? Eventually (slippery slope alert): good writers are writing for free, and that’s where the market hangs. its hat. At that point, freelance writing becomes a non-viable career for you or anybody else. The earth? Salted. Again, one can argue that in more creative pursuits, there exists advantage in building readership and gaining audience. But freelancers: don’t give your stuff away. This is supposed to be a career, not a creative pursuit. Careers are not built on hanging out free handjobs in the park.

Third: writing for free takes as much time as writing for cash. Need I say more?

By the way, it needn’t always be “cash” you’re paid in. Just don’t fall for that old saw that you can get paid with exposure. Again, in creative endeavors, that might have more meaning. In straight up freelancing, it usually means someone wants your work for free, and that’s it. Pumped, then dumped. Exposure is not a measurable metric. “I will pay you in three exposures” is not a thing people say because it doesn’t make a lick of fucking sense. Get something for your work, something that is measurable.

If you’re a capable writer, you’ll find paying work. It’s that simple.

Related: learn how to get paid. By which I mean, keep a spreadsheet. Write invoices. Track payments. Pay quarterly taxes. Manage your income. This is a business. Treat it like a business. Sure, it’s a creative-flavored business. But it’s still about earning out.

Punishment: forced to live in a piano crate for one year with a grabby drunken hobo.

Happy Client, Hired Monkey

Keep the client happy.

Really, that’s it.

I mean, you don’t have to be a whore about it.

But go the extra mile. Please them with your work. Your attitude. Your moist and hungry mouth.

…uhh, okay, maybe not so much that last part.

Your resume is who you are. Your reputation is part of your resume.

Happy clients mean they keep on hiring you. Or it means they pass around word that you’re a worthy freelancer. Clients communicate with one another. Trust me on this.

…As Always, Don’t Be A Fucking Shitbird

Related to the last but deserving of its own section:

Don’t be an asshole. Or a douche-swab. Or a fuck-basket. Or a pimply dick-burger.

I’ve seen freelancers burn out their reputations by being problematic. They’re full of excuses. They’re unpleasant. Cocky. Argumentative. Preening ponies. And they fade away, like a guttering candleflame.

Be polite. Don’t be a fucking shitbird. End of story.

* * *

Chuck Wendig’s book about writing and the writer’s life — CONFESSIONS OF A FREELANCE PENMONKEY is available now! Buy for Kindle (US), Kindle (UK), Nook, or PDF.

Transmissions From Baby-Town

“I think something is happening,” my wife says.

She says this to wake me. At 1:30 in the morning.

The lights go on. Fan, off.

I don’t know what’s happening. Something. That’s what she said. Something is happening. Could be anything, I think. Leaky roof. UFO on our front lawn. Goblin invasion. Everything and anything.

“I think my water broke,” she says.

Oh. Oh.

She asserts that she has not peed herself. Which is always good news in any situation. I do this spot-check periodically in my day-to-day. “Did I pee myself? Mmm. Nope. Score!”

We call the doctor. They say to keep an eye on it. We keep an eye on it. The water, it keeps on coming.

Along with it: the mucus plug. Which has another name: “the bloody show.”

We have no idea how apropos that will be.

* * *

The wife, she puts on makeup before we go. I pack some bags, get stuff together: camera, chargers, reading material. Just in case, we think. We know this is not real. This is not really the something that’s happening. It’s two weeks early. And besides, conventional wisdom says: new moms have kids late. Everybody’s told us that. She just saw the Obi-Gyn Kenobi the day before and, in his words, “There’s no way this baby is coming early.” Except he must have — oh, just for a goof — put a small thermal detonator against her internal membranes, a detonator that went pop around midnight, because why else would her water have broken?

Thermal detonator, shmermal shmetonator. Baby’s not coming today.

We go to the hospital at 5:00 AM knowing full well that they’re going to send us home.

* * *

They do not send us home.

In fact, they inform us quite frankly: we’re having this baby sometime in the next 24 hours.

*blink, blink*

We’re in a little room. So small that the nurse is entering our information into a laptop, but her chair is a medical waste bin. Doctors and residents come in and out. The one doctor says, she’s not that dilated. And she’s not even having contractions. They say, “we’re going to get you started on pitocin.” We say, hold up. We’ve heard about that. If we need it, we want it, but we’re not sure we need it yet. We don’t want to get on the drug train, not so fast. The wife, well, shit, she’s gone nine months without a sip of wine or a single goddamn Tylenol. She’s not ready to start guzzling drugs at the finish line.

They say we shouldn’t wait. “Infection,” they say. We say, “Yeah, but we have 24 hours to deliver before that’s a huge concern.” We want to wait. And we’d like to get her up, walk around, use a birthing ball. “No,” they say. “The doctor doesn’t want you doing that.”

Then they leave us. Emergency C-Section down the hall. The room is quiet but for the sound of our child’s heartbeat out of the monitor, rising and falling, and with every rise (and with every fall), I worry: is that too fast? Too slow? Where is everybody? Am I ready to be a father? Did I pee myself?

* * *

The contractions hit. They are small and lazy, like warm bay waters lapping up on a pebbled shore.

* * *

By the time we are again attended to, it’s a shift change. Like clouds parting and a priapic ray of sun thrusting through. The new doctor says we can get up, move around, see if we can’t move this baby-bullet into the cylinder naturally. No problem waiting on the pitocin.

We do laps. Wife bounces on the birthing ball (which is not, contrary to its name, a robotic sphere that vacuums the baby out of your hoo-ha, like you might find in Star Wars). She does squat thrusts and lunges.

Doc comes in. “Doctor Black.” Sounds menacing, like some CIA operative, but she’s bubbly, warm, young, petite. She does another cervical check, which means she basically goes elbow-deep and flicks my wife’s tonsils with her thumb. Still only 1cm dialated. Contractions are still tame, like mild salsa.

Wife is weathering them nicely.

“Want the Pit?” she asks. A nickname for pitocin. Not a nice nickname.

“Two more hours?” we ask.

Two more hours.

* * *

Two more hours.

Another “oops, I lost my wristwatch in your lung cavity” cervical check.

A big ol’ change of zip, nada, zilch, pbbbt, *poop noise.*

Still 1 cm dilated.

It’s time to enter the Pit.

* * *

Pitocin. Synthetic hormone. Takes the volume knob on contractions, cranks the knob, then breaks the knob off and stabs the mother-to-be in the eyes with it.

It’s still quiet for a little while. Not much to do. We watch episodes of The Dog Whisperer. I tweet. Some people chastise me for tweeting, as if I should be doing something else. Early labor is dull as watching the IV drip. I rub feet, I get ice chips, but it’s not like every minute is a circus. Not yet.

But then the real contractions hit. The waves just got bigger. These are Oahu pipes. Surfer’s paradise.

Crashing hard against the rocks.

* * *

The wife says, “No epidurals.”

She tells everybody this. I say okay. I say it’s also okay if she wants to change her mind on that, but for now, it’s understood that my job is to help her cleave to her vision. Her birth plan.

With each contraction, she goes to her Zen place. Breathes in, breathes out. Nose, mouth, nose, mouth.

She bobs with the tides.

* * *

It’s only a few hours later that the Doc comes in, uses the wife’s cervix as a wristwatch, and informs us (to her surprise): it’s working. The wife is now at 5cm. And something is “effaced.” Dignity? Peace and quiet? Certainty? I dunno. Whatever it is, it’s gone. Or going away fast.

What’s not going away are these contractions. Now the waves are tall. Pier-breakers. Dock-collapsers. Each hitting like a fist. With each, the wife grabs the rails of the bed, holds on like she’s on a ride.

But not a happy ride. This, like a log flume through fire and bees.

I rub the small of her back with a blue plastic dolphin back massager. Not a sexual device — it’s actually shaped like a dolphin. An unyielding dolphin whose fins turn muscle to dough.

The Dog Whisperer episodes continue as the pain amps up.

* * *

Every time the nurse comes in, when nobody’s looking, she gives a little switch by the pitocin IV a flick. She’s upping the dose. This stuff is like the anti-morphine. It doesn’t steal your pain. It gives it as a gift.

* * *

It’s a tag team effort, now. Me on the small of her back. Her mother rubs her upper back or shoulders. Her aunt monitors the fan. Sometimes I pocket the dolphin, hop over and give her some orange snow-cone.

That’s a mystery to me. No food or drink. Except she can have ice chips or a flavored snow-cone. When a snow-cone melts, it becomes a drink. Because ice is — as it turns out — just liquid, frozen.

And yet, no foods, no liquids.

That Gatorade I’m drinking? She can’t have it. But she can have a cup of melted orange flavor water.

“You cannot have this thimble of water, but you can have this thimble-shaped ice cube.”

Damn you and your mad logic, horse-spittle. Damn you.

* * *

The contractions are punching her in the back now. We’re afraid it’s “back labor,” where the baby is head down but facing the the more difficult way. (Curiously, it’s not.)

Her whole body twists with each tsunami crash. She’s like a sailor on that boat in that movie, except here there’s no George Clooney. He was sort of a dick in that movie anyway.

The whole time, though, she’s polite. She doesn’t yell out. No cursing. She’s nice to me the whole time even though I can do little more except stand over her juggling Snow-Cone and dolphin massages. It gets so she can barely speak: her words are breathless rasps, and even the effort it takes to make them is hard-fought. She sleeps between contractions. And the contractions are coming hard and fast now. Every minute, a new shelf of snow tumbling upon her.

“Bowel-twisting.” That’s how she refers to them. Like a kinked up yard of gutty-works that undoes itself after a minute, maybe a minute-and-a-half. But the twisting comes faster and faster.

They check her again, just an hour and a half later. She’s now 7cm.

* * *

She maybe wants the epidural. She doesn’t know. It’s hard to tell. She’s so tired. And it hurts. It hurts like a sonofabitch. Mean invisible hands twisting her guts and stealing her strength. Incubus hands.

It’s not that she thinks the epidural is the demon’s seed or anything. It’s not going to turn a good child bad. But it’s also not ideal. The baby might come out a little groggy. Maybe he won’t want to nurse. Could be that it’ll give him horns, or a tail. We know that the epidural can be nice and ease labor. Of course, pitocin is supposed to ramp up labor. You have an epidural, they might need to kick more pitocin. Which could lead to a longer labor overall. Or fetal distress. That train ends in a part of town called C-Section. (That morning, C-Sections all around us. A troubling warning sign.)

I tell her, give it 15 minutes. If you want a epidural then, you got it. If you don’t, then we go another 15 minutes. And on and on, in equal iterations. Agreed? She’s good with that.

We go 15 minutes. She says, “No epidural.” Not yet.

We don’t make it the next 15 minutes because next thing you know, she’s telling everybody she has this urge to push like she’s pooping, and that urge persists beyond the contractions.

They check. She’s 10cm dilated.

Shit just got real.

* * *

Ambrosia salad with a toupee on top of it. That’s the first glimpse I see of our son. That’s what he looks like coming out. An unformed deflated head that looks like gelatin. Gelatin covered in hair.

Birth is both a miracle and a misery. Like Buddha said, all life is suffering. He meant it in a good way. Or like in the Princess Bride: “Life is pain, highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something.”

My wife is surrounded by a cheer squad of lunatics. Doctors in doctor garb, nurses, me, all cheering her on to push push push, bear down, push past it, keep going, breathe in, push, stop, relax, do it again. Everything is red faces and sweat and bright lights and lots of pain and yet despite that there’s this airy, eerie feeling of euphoria, this blissed-out top-of-the-rollercoaster sense of promise and possibility that hints at a secret truth, a truth that says that yes, indeed, all life is suffering, and that all the best things in that life require effort and pain and sometimes even misery to succeed.

Sometimes, it’s all about pushing past the ring of fire.

* * *

Nobody ever turned the TV off. It’s a special on Nat Geo about squid. Humboldt Squid.

I hear the phrase, “A thousand biting squid.”

And I think, maybe it’s time to turn the TV off.

* * *

Over the last nine months I’ve seen scads of videos of mothers birthing babies, and in every video is one moment I dread: the baby emerges, he’s purple, he’s blue, he flops over like a rubbery puppet whose strings just got snipped, and then they have to jostle him — only a second, maybe two — to get him to resurrect, a rebirth trapped in a birth. I’m not looking forward to this.

But a strange thing happens. His head pops out and he’s already looking around, his mouth moving. They corkscrew his body out on the next contraction and he’s red as a beet and dancing around and crying. No prompting. They give him an Apgar score of 10. They say they haven’t seen a score that high in a long while.

Then he’s with Mom. His crying quiets as he hears her voice.

* * *

I cut the cord. They don’t give me those kindergarten safety scissors I keep hearing about. These are small and sharp. Even so, it’s like cutting through calamari.

(“A thousand biting squid”)

* * *

They take him. Just for a few minutes. For the cord clamp, the measuring, the weighing, the warming.

I hover over him as they do all kinds of shit in the robotic embrace of a Robbie-the-Robot looking thing called a Panda Warmer. A tiny part of me cries out — No, that’s the wrong device! He’s not a panda! This insane robot is going to try to feed him bamboo! — but the fear is gone as they warm him up and prick his heel and squirt goop in his eyes and suck out some other goop from his face.

Then he’s back with Mom.

The wife looks to me and says, “No epidural.” She holds up her hand to high-five.

We high-five.

“Go Team Wendig,” I say.

And then, just like that — *snap* — we’re a family.

* * *

Benjamin Charles Wendig — aka “B-Dub,” or “The Little Dude” — is downstairs with Mom and Grandmom as I type this. Chilling out after the first feeding of the night. He’s cluster feeding, now, which means he likes to eat a lot in very short order. He’s like a shark the way he shakes his head and approaches the nipple. (“Boppy goes onto the bed. Wife goes into the Boppy. Baby’s on the bed. Our baby. Fairwell and adieu to you, Spanish ladies…” “We’re gonna need a bigger boob.”)

The kid’s got witch nails, so we have to cover his hands because he seems hell-bent to tear his own face off.

He’s got hair that’s equal parts black, brown, and blonde.

His skin is as soft as the toys you give babies.

Today he looks like a baby. Moreso than yesterday. Definitely moreso than the day before, when he looked like a angry little goblin man, a changeling who stole our original child.

We’re home now. He’s warm. And weird. He cries. He’s cute. Sometimes he makes these faces that looks like he’s on the edge of a smile. Other times he looks like Popeye. Or, perhaps, “Poop-Eye.”

He didn’t lose much of his birthweight, so he’s a good size — 7 lbs, 14 oz. Kid’s a rock star. And the brightest star in our constellation. And a hungry little sonofabitch.

He kinda looks like me.

Like I said, miracle and misery.

Confessions Of A Freelance Penmonkey: Now Available

“No seriously, he’s not fucking around, you really don’t want to be a writer. But if you’re mad enough to decide that you do, Wendig will be your gonzo-esque guide, from the technical advice about structure, query letters and submissions, to dealing with agents and editors and how to make your characters do as they’re damn well told, he’s full of good advice. Like a cursing, booze-soaked Virgil to your Dante, let him show you around. Buy this book, your editor will thank you.”

— Jenni Hill, Editor, Solaris Books

Dear Word-Herders and Ink-Slingers: CONFESSIONS OF A FREELANCE PENMONKEY is now available for your eyeholes and e-readers across multiple platforms.

Let’s get this part out of the way, right now. Here, then, are your options for procurement:

Kindle (US): Buy Here

Kindle (UK): Buy Here

Nook: Buy Here

Or, buy the PDF ($4.99) by clicking the BUY NOW button:


Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way…

If you’re on the fence, I give you five reasons to nab this book.

1. “I’m Here, Aren’t I?”

CONFESSIONS OF A FREELANCE PENMONKEY is the distillation of writing advice found here at terribleminds — so, I’m going to ahead and safely assume that you dig this site which should also mean you’re doing to dig this book. CONFESSIONS features 50+ essays taken from the pages of this blog. Each essay is polished up and revamped, given a new coat of paint and in some cases, additional content. Further, each essay is also accompanied by “commentary” from yours truly, in which I add additional thoughts, change my mind about things, argue with myself, or ruminate on the value of statements like “rage-fuck a pumpkin.” Finally, the book offers other snidbits, including a “20 Questions” session with yours truly, in which I answer questions put forth by you most excellent readers.

2. “By The Power Of Grayskull That’s A Lot Of Bang For My Buck!”

The book features over 100,000 words of content. The PDF is over 300 pages. You get a mega-ultra-shit-ton of content that covers topics like: writing query letters, editing, rewriting, outlining, applying structure, waking up pantsless and ink-stained in Tijuana, utilizing theme, writing sex scenes, handling rejections, penning a good ending for your story, and so on. Further, it goes beyond advice on writing and publishing and offers issues that pop up like incontinent gophers during the writer’s life (should you write for free, should you self-publish, how to manage the hornet’s nest of crazy inside your crazy writer brain).

All for just shy of five bucks.

Now, you might be saying: “Chuck, I would like that book to be cheaper.” To which I respond, “I am very sorry, but it is not cheaper. I would also like a clockwork llama, but times are tough.”

My hope is that you do not consider five bucks a too-expensive price. Many things of ephemeral value cost more than this: a Starbucks drink, a fast food meal, a bag of candy, a “handie” from one of the callus-handed hobos down at the park. All things that are over and done in a matter of minutes. This book should last you…

*does some quick math using a pile of M&Ms*

…at least 17 years. Give or take 16 years.

That’s a pretty sweet deal.

3. “I Trust What These Other Awesome Humans Have To Say.”

Check it out. Some really cool people have said some really cool things. Don’t you like these cool people? You do want to be cool, don’t you? I’m just saying — they’re all ‘doing it.’

“Chuck Wendig has done what so many authors desperately need and will never admit: offered a phenomenal book about the real world of writing, and made it reachable and readable by anyone. His terribleminds blog guided me through good days and bad, provided advice and much-appreciated laughter throughout the whole, often painful, process. I’m thrilled to have his brain trapped in Confessions of a Freelance Penmonkey, and I’ll be referring to the squishy gray-matter of his brilliance often.

If it weren’t for Chuck Wendig’s advice, I’d have fallen off the writing map long ago. This is the book you want stapled to your chest when you march into the battle of authorship! An absolute must-read for anyone even thinking of dabbling with words for a living.”

— Karina Cooper, Author of Blood of the Wicked

“Chuck Wendig’s Confessions of a Freelance Penmonkey is full of the kind of writing advice I wish I’d gotten in school. Practical, brutally honest, and done with the kind of humor that will make it stick in your brain. Whether you’re a veteran writer or new to the craft, you’ll find something useful in here.

Plus he says ‘fuck’ a lot, so, you know, there’s that.”

— Stephen Blackmoore, author of City of the Lost

“In Confessions of a Freelance Penmonkey, Chuck Wendig hammers out writing and career advice that’s always brave, profane, creative, clever, and honest. And don’t forget hilarious. You’ll never laugh so hard learning so much.”

— Matt Forbeck, game designer and author of Vegas Knights

“These days, a kind word is regarded with suspicion. A supportive gesture is mistrusted. An altruistic move never is. We live in a time where cynics ignore the saccharine of Chicken Soup books and accept hugs only from Mother, and only when we’re drunk and crying. When a writer hits cynical, drunken, mother-hugging rock bottom, that’s when they need Chuck Wendig’s raw, no-holds barred advice. This is not for the faint of heart. But then again, neither is writing.”

— Mur Lafferty, host of ISBW (I Should Be Writing) podcast, editor of Escape Pod, author of Playing For Keeps

“Despite being irreverent, vulgar, and funny, Chuck Wendig is also surprisingly profound. From one wordslinger about another, Chuck is the real deal and every prospective or working writer should read Confessions of a Freelance Penmonkey. Hell, the ‘Writer’s Prayer’ alone is worth the price of admission.”

— Jennifer Brozek, Author of The Little Finance Book That Could

“About the only thing harder than being a writer is trying to capture the utter insanity that truly is the writer’s life. In Confessions of a Freelance Penmonkey, Chuck Wendig does just that. You’ll be laughing, crying, shouting and grimacing, but most of all, you’ll feel the deep resonance of hearing the truth in all of its sarcastic, profane and comedic glory. If you want to be a better writer, or just want to be inspired by one of the best takes on writing I’ve ever read, do yourself a favor and buy Confessions.”

— Daniel Ames, author of Feasting at the Table of the Damned

4. “I Love Terribleminds So Much, I Want To Make It Rain With One-Dollar Bills!”

You may be saying, “Well, fuckadang, Wendig, I come here every day and have been for the last two years, and every one of those days you have some fresh content that costs me naught but me checking my shame at the door — oh, and occasionally wrestling with the corporate cyber-Dobermans that prevent NSFW content from getting through to my goddamn computer — and here I am with the chance to get a sexy e-book version of your most popular writing advice posts here and so I do believe I must take you up on that offer. Besides, since I’m a writer-type, this is a tax deductible purchase for me, isn’t it? So, here you go, boy. Shake that booty can. Let me crumble up these five one-dollar bills into little origami boulders and pitch them at your gyrating banana hammock. Yeah. Nngh. Shake that fountain pen, bitch.”

5. “Because Wendig’s An Asshole And He Wants Me To Feel Guilty.”

In a few weeks my wife is — fingers crossed — going to, ahem, “accept a baby delivery from a jaunty stork wearing a postman’s uniform” (that’s how it works, right? I feel asleep during the videos I was supposed to watch), which means before too long I’m going to be responsible for feeding and clothing a whole other human besides myself. I can barely change my own diapers. If you don’t buy CONFESSIONS, then that baby will starve. That’s just how it is. You’re not going to say no to a cute little baby, are you? The cute little baby needs nom-noms. You can help put nom-noms on the baby’s plate. (And also, only you can stop forest fires, but that’s a different “guilt axis”). So, I’m left to believe that if you’re here reading all this delicious content but don’t want to pay anything toward it, then your only goal in life is to passively harm infants. That’s not cool, man. Not cool. (Okay, I’m just kidding. No guilt. I’ll just feed the kid leaves and squirrel meat.)

Will It Ever Be In Print?

Ennnh? I dunno. Right now, it’s e-book only. I might noodle around with Lulu or Createspace, or I’m alternately considering doing a real intense version that also features some of my writing-related photography. If anybody has opinions on this or information geared toward this subject, note that my ears are tilted toward you. I am eager to accept your frequency. Which is not a euphemism: please stop fiddling with the zipper on your pants.

What If I Don’t Want To Give Money To The Man?

Just to clarify, I am a man, but not the man.

And by “the” man, I assume you mean Amazon, or Barnes & Noble.

You can procure the PDF directly from me, as noted above.

Hell, if you want, I’ll even digitally autograph it. Just be sure to let me know when ordering!

If you buy PDF, note the process is: PayPal sends me an email usually within an hour (often much more quickly), and when I get it, I bounce you the PDF directly via email. No DRM or anything nutty.

I choose no DRM on all my e-books. Thus, if you’re so inclined to pirate, well, I can’t stop you.

What Else Can I Do?

Let’s see.

a) I’ll give out review copies where appropriate. Hit me up using the Contact Form.

b) A review somewhere — Amazon, B&N, GoodReads — would be lovely. I would of course love a positive review, but hey, I’m not the little man that pilots you. That’s on him.

c) I am of course available for interviews. Or guest-embloggenation. Or whatever you need. I will be your dancing monkey. I say “ook-ook.” I clap my cymbals together. For you. For you. Also, if you want to use the book in any kind of contest, bounce me a message, we can make that happen.

d) Above all else, just spread the word. Get on the Brainbook, the Twizzers, the Goblin Signal, whatever social media you frequent, and please tell them about this book. You would have my ultimate gratitude. I will send you imaginary cupcakes. Psychically. To your mind oven.

What Comes After This?

If this books sells well (by which it meets some vague uncertain metric of “earning out” — let’s say it earns me about five grand when all is said and done), then I’ll do another book of writing advice. Well, two, actually — another gathering of terribleminds posts, yes, but also, an original book about writing. Something a little more specific — like, say, the life-cycle of the novel.

Buy Today, Save A Kitten From Orbital Lasers

In a perfect world, a whole meth-addled flock of terribleminds readers will hurry out and snap up digital copies of CONFESSIONS at an unprecedented rate, thus giving my first-day sales a lightning bolt right up the colonic passage. Amazon and B&N’s servers will shit themselves and take out a couple city blocks. My book will be catapulted to the top of the charts, where it will be tongue-bathed by temple whores.

If you help to make that happen, then my many thanks.

Alternately, if you do any of the above things, including spreading the word, then also: big thanks.

This book wouldn’t be possible without the many daily readers of this website, and the fact you come back here day in and day out and help to bloat my already egregious ego is honestly very cool.

You’re all nice folks.

Thanks again, and if you buy the book, please to enjoy.

Search Term Bingo, Starring Johnny Depp As “Pony Boy”

Ahhh, there we go. The totally absurd search terms are coming in hot and heavy once again.

And so it is that I emerge out of shadow and slap you in the face with a wet sack of Search Term Bingo. If you don’t know the drill, here it is: I comb through the search terms people use to find this blog, and I cherry-pick the weirdest of those search terms and… well, madness ensues. Please to enjoy.

what happens if i accidentally breathe water

You might suffer a funny little side effect called “death by drowning,” dipshit. What do you think this is, THE ABYSS? You cannot breathe water. You cannot aspirate a cheeseburger. It’s oxygen or nothing, buddy.

you jizz hamsters pony boy

The lack of punctuation here is killing me.

“You! Jizz Hamsters! Pony boy!”

“You jizz hamsters, pony boy.”

“You. Jizz. Hamsters. Pony. Boy.”

“You jizz hamster’s pony, boy.”

OMG SO MANY OPTIONS.

I’m going to go with the second option, because it feels like an insult strung up in future slang. Some cyber-hacker anti-corporate teen robo-courier from the future flips the middle finger to some jackhole in a jet-car that just cut him off in traffic and he’s all like, “You jizz hamsters, pony boy!” And passersby gasp. So, remember, anybody gets in your way, call them a pony boy and tell them they jizz hamsters.

Which, come to think of it, sounds really painful.

x-ray of gun in mans anus

Such a shame. I misread this the first time, instead reading it as, “X-Ray Gun In Man’s Anus.” And I was like, whooooa, an X-Ray gun? I want one! Even if it’s been up some dude’s keister, I want it.

“I’ve got an X-Ray gun!”

“Why does it smell like that?”

“Uhhh. Nothing. Stop smelling my X-Ray gun, dick.”

sniggering mtv teen

I now know what I will yell at people when I am an old man and they come onto my lawn. “Get off my grass, you sniggering MTV teens! With your hair! And your clothes! And all that sniggering! Go back to MTV! Go diddle yourself to the Lady Goo-Gas of the world you little prevert!”

But my eyes will be so bad, I’ll probably just be yelling at a whitetail deer. The doe will blink at me, flick her tail, then go back to eating some clover. “QUIT YOUR DAMN SNIGGERING!”

still waiting on tribulations

Aren’t we all?

Won’t have to wait much longer, what with Saturday being the end of the world and all that. Or, at least, the Rapture. Like I said on Twitter last week, I hope when the Rapture comes it takes away all those assholes who believe in the Rapture. Then we can totally have a big orgy. Melzer’s bringing the Chex Mix. We still need someone to bring the ginger ale, the blow-up donkey, and the industrial lubricant.

Sign up by the door. Let me know what you’re bringing.

carla gugino’s thighs

This is one of the search terms that gets people here with some frequency. It’s this, search terms about Pauley Perrette, “beard maintenance,” “turtle penis,” and “albinos of ghost mountain.”

Seriously, together those search terms account for dozens, and sometimes hundreds, of views per day.

Also: Carla Gugino’s Thighs. Band, or album?

Biography, or autobiography?

CIA Codename, or Native American Ritual Dance?

giant rotating nipple ships from outer space

Sold. Here’s a bucket of money. Go make this into a movie.

websites for people who like use meth

I was pleased to learn that terribleminds was named one of the Top 101 Websites For Writers by Writer’s Digest, but I am now truly geeked to learn that we have been named one of the Top 101 Websites For Folks Who Tweak The Fuck Out On Tubloads Of Crystal Meth. That has always been my goal here: to entertain those most jovial citizens, those with meth-scabs and tweaker-teeth, those who live in moldy trailers and smell like cat pee, those who vacuum for days just because they can, those who will stab you in the face with a rusty garden trowel just to get a box of Sudafed so they can cook up more of that sweet-ass crank.

I’d like to thank my parents. My wife. And God.

*kisses award, points to the heavens, grabs crotch*

when will my beard come in?

I dunno. When did you order it?

sucks his own clit

Nudge, nudge.

Might want to take an anatomy class. Or just Google, “Do dudes have clitorises?”

You know, on second thought, don’t Google that. Just take my answer — “no they do not” — and walk away.

omg baby comming out through vagina

This search term makes it sound like it’s some kind of holy-shit biological surprise. Well, where the hell did you think it was going to come out? Her nose? Did you think she was having some kind of butt baby? They don’t deliver them via UPS, for Chrissakes. Newsflash: babies come out of a woman’s hoo-hah. Any Obi-Gyn Kenobi will tell you that shit. Just call around. “OMG!” Shut up.

the whiskey dragon

Dibs. Dibs! DIBS. I called it. This is the name of my next novel. “The Whiskey Dragon.”

Come to think of it, I want this name for so many things. I want to buy a pub and call it that. “Come on down, have a pint and a shot at the Whiskey Dragon!” Would make a good name for my computer, too. And my car. And my penis. And my first-born son. “This is my spawn, Whiskey-Dragon Wendig.” Nobody will fuck with that kid. What bully’s going to be like, “Let’s go beat up Whiskey-Dragon!” You know that’s a bad idea. Because, c’mon. Whiskey-Dragon.

I also envision a dragon that, instead of breathing fire or ice, it breathes whiskey.

Thank you, Search Term Bingo. Thank you.

some stupid monkey for miranda

Yeah! Fucking Miranda. She’s always like, “Rah rah rah, whine whine whine, I want a monkey!” Well, fine. Fine, Miranda, fine. Here’s a stupid monkey for you. I found him in a dumpster humping a a cardboard box filled with old lettuce. You can have him! He’s just some stupid monkey. He’s probably going to end up biting half your face off because that’s all these stupid monkeys do. People get them and they dress them up in pink dresses or powder blue tuxedos and they’re all like, “This is my son! I love him so much!” and then the monkey bites out their eye and poops in the hole. But whatever. Whatever, Miranda.

You wanted a stupid monkey. You got a stupid monkey.

I hate you so bad, Miranda.

my wife has a sweet ass

I’m happy for you, but why did you need to Google that?

will beanie babies make a comeback

For the love of Jim Nabors, I hope so. I have a metric poop-load of these goddamn things.  I got the little fucking bears, I got the dogs and the cats and a pink lizard and a dumb little dolphin and a goddamn… I dunno what he is, some kind of fucking crustacean or some shit? Whole room full of these sonofabitches. It’s like — this, this is why the economy shit the bed. Forget real estate. Forget the tech boom. The Beanie Baby Bubble is real. It affected millions when that zit popped. These babies were going for a mint. A mint. You could walk onto a car lot, throw down a gym-bag full of these fuzzy little fuckers and walk out of there with a previously owned Lamborghini Diablo. But now you can’t give these things away. They’re worth negative money. If you even show a Beanie Baby to someone, you have to them pay them two dollars. Seriously. I’m not messing around. There was some nonsense about AIG insuring Beanie Babies, and then I think the Ty Warner company like, bet against the Beanie Baby market, which meant they were betting against the Beanie Baby collectors at the same time they were making money off the Beanie Baby sales?

It’s sick. It’s a sickness. This is what caused the Recession. Beanie Baby whores. All of them.

bingo boobs

This blog is no longer called terribleminds.

It shall hereby be known as Bingo Boobs.

And it’s the name of my first-born daughter. My son, Whiskey-Dragon. My daughter, Bingo Boobs.

what food can you put on your breasts?

If you’re laying down, probably most foods, right? Not that I’d recommend slopping a whole Christmas ham on there or whatever, but I’m just saying — you could. You totally could.

Standing up, well, it depends not so much on the size of the breasts as how much weight they can support? Like, do they function as shelves? Try experimenting with various foods. Okay, cotton candy, easy. Some lunchmeat slices, not too much trouble. Go bigger. Loaf of bread. Canned peas. Beef tenderloin. Jug of milk. Dead goat. My advice to you is: dream big. Don’t stop believing.

is it bad to suck back in snot

That’s what killed Elvis.

frothy eye cockerel

New cocktail name? Or a rad new sex move? You tell me.

which face beard can shoot

It depends which beard can do laser. Often, the left face beard is the face beard with the laser installed, and usually — usually, but not always — the right face beard has a force field built in. But that’s not a guarantee. It depends on which company makes the face beard. Microsoft? Google? Weyland-Yutani? Leave me your serial number, your registration code, your birthdate, your social security number, and your favorite color, and we’ll get this whole thing figured out nice and quick. Thanks for calling! Have a great day.

unicorn nipples

I demand that this be a new cookie.

Okay, Internets, here’s your task: drop into the comments below and describe for me what a cookie called a “unicorn nipple” should look like. Bonus points if you include a recipe, real or imagined.