Author: terribleminds (page 430 of 450)

WORDMONKEY

May 10, 2011 / 50 Comments

Where Writers Get Their Ideas

It is the question that plagues us: “Where do you get your ideas?”

What a strange, stupid question. Isn’t it? The very query seems to suggest that we receive all our ideas from some external source. People ask you that question, you just want to reply, “Uh, I don’t know, my fucking brain? Where did you ‘get’ that dipshit question?” Then you want to kick them in the colon and shove them down an escalator. Well. Maybe that’s just me.

Still, most of the time, we’re polite, and we stammer through some made-up answer that still lends writing the veneer of magic others feel it deserves. You may find yourself at times stymied on how to approach this question and offer an answer that satisfies the interrogator, and so here, today, I intend to do you a service. I have listed a handful of answers to this question that you may borrow and utilize in your own daily life. Hell, use them in interviews. You have my permission. (Or, add your own in the comments!)

So, here goes. Where do writers get their ideas? Select your favorites. Trade them with friends.

Shady Men In Trenchcoats

“I got a guy. What? You don’t have a guy? You need a guy. An idea guy. Here, you can use my guy. He roams, this guy, roves all over the city, but you’ll find him. You call this number. Sounds like a Korean laundry service. Tell him what you’re looking for on the answering machine. Then you’ll get a call back, and he’ll tell you where to meet him. The pier. The warehouse. The gator farm. The dildo shop. I gotta warn you, though: this guy, the idea guy? He’s not cheap. I mean, you can get the shitty leads for just pennies. He’ll sell you Rio Rancho for a quarter. But if you want the premium leads? The real ideas? You want the Glengarry ideas? Well. Then it’s fuck or walk, am I right?”

Navel-Gazing

“I get my ideas from –”

*showcasing hands orbit your belly button like you’re Vanna White profiling a shiny toaster*

“That’s right. I get them from my belly button. The omphalos, friend. You think they come from up here –” *taps temple* “– but it comes from down here.” *pops thumb into belly button, swirls it around* “All day long, man, it’s like, it’s like ideas just stick to you. They’re coming at you from all directions. Like pollen on the wind. And eventually, they work their way into your belly button and collect there. The flotsam and jetsam of good stories. Stick your finger in. Scoop out an idea. Here, I’ll do it now:”

*wriggles index finger in greasy belly button*

“Oh! Oh, look: SPACE PIRATE.”

*another dip into the ol’ belly hole*

“Here’s another: FALLS IN LOVE WITH.”

*pop*

“ROBOT JESUS. See? See that? That’s an idea, my friend. Space Pirate falls in love with Robot Jesus. It’s like Romeo and Juliet all over again. I smell a bestseller. I also smell dryer lint.”

Down In The Dark

“I procure my ideas from the goblin-folk. They mine them down in the crusty underlayers of the hidden hollow earth, chipping them free from the rock walls with pick-axes made from the bones of forgotten writers. They’re a feisty lot, what with their dread widgets and malefic gew-gaws, but it’s worth the price.”

WTF?

“I get them from the Macy’s perfume counter.”

Uh-Oh

“I kill people, bash their heads open with rocks, then eat their brains.”

Sweet N’ Sexy

“All my ideas are the products of an unholy union between myself and a willing unicorn sex partner. After three months the unicorn gives birth to my little squalling idea babies.”

Ciphers And Codes

“TIME Magazine. Pick an issue. Any issue. Turn to page 34. Rotate the page. Look at it in a mirror. Spray yourself in the eyes with a blast of refrigerator-chilled Windex. No! Don’t blink away the tears. Stare through the tears. Read the last paragraph on the page that you can see. Write it down. Then reverse all the letters. Take this code and run it through a ROT 13 cipher generator. The resultant response is the idea. Use it wisely. Oh, also, flush your eyes with cold water. If the burning persists, call a doctor.”

WTF? (Part Two)

“Otters.”

Magpies

“I steal that shit from other writers. I read their books and then I’m just like, ‘Yeah, awesome, a girl develops crazy psychic powers at a Prom, boom, done, thank you, Mister Stevie King, whatever, asshole.'”

Creepy

“I get them from you when you’re sleeping.”

Ideas Lasting More Than Four Hours

“Seriously? You really want to know? Boner pills. That’s right. You swallow a fistful of dick pills, you start to see some really crazy shit behind your eyelids. Even better if you’re goofed up on Ambien to begin with. All writers do this. How do you think Mark Twain got the idea for Dracula? Ambien and dick pills. They teach you that when you get your MFA in Creative Writing. But I’m giving you this pro-tip for free because that’s the kind of stand-up dude that I am. By the way, got any boner pills? I’m Jonesing over here.”

This Is The Future

“I have a robot. I give him poker chips and infant blood. He gives me ideas.”

Not Very Nice

“I get them from your mom’s vagina! Boo-yay!”

Social Media Guru

“Twitter.”

Aw, How Quaint

“A jaunty fennec fox in a monocle and a hat made of an old sousaphone comes to my house every Tuesday. He brings me a bottle of milk, a cassingle of Prince’s Batdance, and one new idea written on a fortune cookie fortune. Then he leaves again on his mechanical pony.”

May The Force Be With You

“George Lucas and I have kinda of a partnership thing worked out. I inject bacon fat into his neck-meat, and he e-mails me all his leftover ideas. We signed a collaboration agreement. It’s all good.”

WTF? (Part Three)

“A head shop in Des Moines.”

Or, The Truth

“We don’t steal our ideas from the gods. We don’t receive them from magical transmissions. We don’t earn them as badges on Foursquare. We see things in the world — in our friends, in our loved ones, in the forests and oceans, in magazines and books, in ourselves — and our brains set to work on these things behind the scenes like a dog whittling away a cow femur with his ever-gnawing teeth. The whole damn universe is our frequency and our brain is the antenna. Our ideas aren’t externally-driven. The process is an internal one. No Muse. No idea factory. No lightning strike from above. The same place you get your ideas — whether it’s an idea to have lasagna for lunch or to masturbate to The Barefoot Contessa — is the same place we get ours. We get them from our own crazy minds, man. That’s it. It’s not that exciting, but that’s really it.”

May 9, 2011 / 36 Comments

A Letter To My Womb-Ensconced Son

I figured that, while my son remains firmly lodged in the wife’s uterine grotto, this was a good time to write him a letter for when he’s born — especially since, when he’s born, I won’t have time to write this letter, I’ll only have time to wash the poop out of my hair. We are now just about at “full-term” (though we’re likely to have a handful of weeks remaining where he stubbornly hides out and refuses to emerge). So, here we are: a letter to my as-yet-unborn son. Please to enjoy.

Dear Son:

Hello, boy. Welcome to the world.

I am your ~~landlord overlord ski instructor~~ father. You will be seeing a lot of me, and so it behooves us both to find clarity in terms of our relationship. Do you agree? (Pee in my mouth once for yes, twice for no.)

I’d like immediately to express my sincerest apologies because, as it turns out, I am clueless as to how to be a father. I don’t just mean how to be a good father, but rather, how to be a father at all. One supposes that since the title is earned by dint of breeding and not necessarily by habit or by skill, I guess being a father is no more the sum of being a human piping tube whereupon I… erm, frosted your mother’s, uhhh, cupcakes and made a soft, spongy-headed cupcake baby like yourself (we’ll get into the specifics of sexual reproduction when you’re a little bit older, like, say, when you’re around 24 or so). That said, being a father is an entirely different enterprise then Being A Father, and it’s this latter identifier that gives me trouble.

Consider: I can barely take care of myself. If I did not have your mother present, one could make a safe bet that I’d be found on a ratty couch out in the woods, my hair a nest for nuthatches, my body encrusted in the debris and feces of nature. I’d be trying to play XBOX by plugging a controller into the puckered knothole on an oak tree. I’d be surviving on a diet of acorns and venison ordure, which is just a fancy of way of saying “deer poop.” (This is one skill I may be able to offer you, the skill of making things sound much better than they are. I am a writer, after all, or as your friends’ parents will call it, a “marginally-employed drunken vagrant.” We are also talented liars, and so you should expect that at least 33% of the things that come out of my mouth are utter bullshit, usually said in response to answer a question I have no idea how to answer. I will never lie to be malicious. Rather, I will lie to shellac over my ineptitude.)

The point being, I am a woefully clueless human being, and so you will come to me at times looking for answers, and because I’m kind of a dick, I’m going to pretend I have the answers rather than highlighting my own deep uncertainty. You’re going to ask things like, “Daddy, what are clouds?” or “Where do puppies come from?” or “How do I navigate the terrors of a solipsistic universe?” And, instead of being honest with you, I’m just going to make stuff up. “Clouds are unicorn farts,” I might say. “Puppies are made when human babies are stolen from their cribs and taken to the moon to be turned into werewolves.” “Because bees, that’s why.” I will pray that these answers satisfy you. Sorry if they don’t.

Actually, in thinking about it, there exists an unholy armada of things for which I should apologize.

Here they are, in no particular order.

One: I am terribly clumsy. It’s a good bet that I will drop you. So, wear a helmet.

Two: I have all the patience of an ant on a sugar rush. This, combined with my general lack of manly skills, will ensure that all your Some Assembly Required toys will in the future be put together by a liberal swaddling of duct tape and super-glue. In fact, it is safe to assume that all your toys will lie embedded in a big wad of tape with only meager hints of proper “toy shape.” This should explain your stroller, by the way.

Three: I cannot promise I’m going to be very good at assuaging your childhood fears. “Daddy, I think there’s a monster outside my window.” “Holy crap, I know, right? There’s monsters everywhere, kid. Did you see this image of the chupacabra I found on the Internet? That’s crazy, right? Not nearly as crazy as serial killers, though. Those dudes will sneak into your room and steal you away into the night so that they can use your bones to build their Scarecrow Gods. By the way, have I told you about skin cancer yet? Here, look at this mole. Does it look like skin cancer? It feels like skin cancer. I think I’m dying.”

Four: We live in a world where terrible things exist. Like, for instance, jeggings. Sorry about that.

Five: You’re going to find a lot of pressure exerted upon you to “be a man.” Nobody knows what being a man really involves except for the biological factor of likely owning and operating your own penis. Beyond that, it’s all a big hazy fog of nobody-really-knows. It isn’t about carpentry or karate, it isn’t about deer hunting or banging bar sluts. It might have something to do honor and loyalty and being a stand-up dude. It definitely has something to do with peeing in the snow while standing up. Like I said: hazy. Worry less about being a good man and worry more about being a good person.

Six: I’m probably going to make you watch a lot of Star Wars. But maybe not the prequels? I dunno. Do you really want to watch a movie that talks a lot about “trade federations?” Besides, the protagonist of the first three movies spoils the really cool reveal in Empire Strikes Back (if I recall, it has something to do with Bruce Willis being both alive and dead at the same time). Further, the protagonist of the prequels is a total douche. He ends up being a wife-abuser and a child-murderer, which puts him somewhere on par with Freddy Kruger from the Nightmare on Elm Street movies. So when the time comes where we’re supposed to believe that Darth Vader has some good in him, you’re suddenly all like, “Yeah, but that guy was a real asshole, and I’m suddenly having a hard time getting on board this whole ‘redemptive path’ thing — maybe Luke should’ve just lightsabered that guy in the head and washed his hands of the whole affair.” Plus, then Luke makes out with his sister? Wow, yeah, I dunno, maybe we’re not going to watch Star Wars after all. Too complex. Here, read some James Joyce instead.

Seven: No, really, I’m going to make you read James Joyce.

I’m sure I’ll find other things for which to apologize. Keep an eye out.

All that being said, this feels like a good time to let you know of my Blueprint For Fatherhood, which is to say, the designs I have for you, my son. Some parents have great, often vicarious aspirations for their children: “He shall be a doctor.” “He will be a powerful litigator.” “He will marry a woman with good breeding hips and a kick-ass dowry.”

My aspirations are admittedly meager in comparison.

These are my aspirations for you.

First, that you are not eaten by squirrels. I figure that, as a father, my first task is to keep small woodland creatures from trying to eat you. They will constantly be trying to eat you. I am the thin bearded line between life and death by squirrel-nibblings.

Second, that you grow up and become a functional human being who can exist amongst others without pooping up the metaphorical hot tub that is our society.

Third, that you are not a drug addict. Or a Republican.

I’m just kidding. You can be a drug addict and we’ll still love you.

Fourth, that you love books. And also, that you love stories in general.

Fifth, that you become a famous anthropologist, just because it’d be really cool for me to tell other parents, “That’s my son, the famous anthropologist.” To be clear, I might tell them this anyway. So, you don’t actually have to become a famous anthropologist. In fact, we might just make that your first name. “Ladies and Gentlemen, Famous Anthropologist Wendig.” Nickname: Famanthro.

Sixth, that you’re not a jerk. The world is home to too many jerks.

Seventh, that regardless of all of the above, you’re a healthy and happy little human. Or, if you don’t end up being human, that you’re a happy and healthy robot, Sasquatch, demigod, or dryad.

Oh, and eighth, that you don’t end up being a writer. Because those guys are fucking crazy.

To recap:

I don’t know what I’m doing, I will lie to you, but I will protect you from squirrels.

In return, you will be a famous anthropologist who reads books and isn’t a jerk.

One day I hope that you look back upon this letter and realize that, despite the face of confidence I put forth, I actually don’t know anything about anything and that it’s okay that you don’t necessarily know anything about anything either, especially when the time comes to have a child of your own. I also hope you think back to those first moments, days, even years of your life, and this letter helps to explain the competing looks upon my face of Pants-Shitting Terror and Blissful Wonderment. Because I must say, I am eagerly looking forward to meeting you, my son, even though your first instinct will probably be to poop in my hair. In fact, that will probably also be your instinct through much of your life, especially when you become a dread teenager. It’s okay. You can poop in my hair and laugh about it. It’s part of our contract, I suppose.

I expect to meet you soon. Likely in the next month or so. Even though I do not yet know you, you are my emergent progeny, my heir to der Wendighaus, my cherubic spawn.

I love you, son.

Peace in the Middle East.

Love,

Your Father

P.S. If you happen to be a girl, that’s okay, too, though you might have some explaining to do in regards to the so-called “turtle shot.” What was that thing, then? The Loch Ness Monster? Regardless, your nickname will still be Famanthro, so don’t think you’re wiggling out of that.

P.P.S. Your mother is awesome. We’ll defer to her judgment in times of confusion.

May 6, 2011 / 25 Comments

Flash Fiction Challenge: “Profanity Is A Circus Of Language”

As noted earlier this week in my “Why Writers Drink” post, I am not a man who shies away from profanity. In fact, I leap toward it, arms open, my sticky jam-hands ever-reaching. What I said then was: “Profanity is fun. Profanity is a circus of language where the clowns are all insane and the elephant just stepped on a trapeze artist and something somewhere is on fire.”

And thus, this week’s flash fiction ~~sonofabitch~~ challenge is born.

Here’s all you gotta do:

Write a story where profanity features in the title.

Yep. That’s it.

Bonus points if:

a) The profanity is creative or otherwise uniquely used.

b) The profanity carries over into the tale (perhaps even as a part of a character’s name!).

c) Your squealing love of profanity comes through in the tale told.

As usual, you have 1000 words with which to tackle this motherfucking challenge. And you’ve got one week to do it — the deadline is next Friday morning, before noon o’clock.

Post to your blog. Link back to here if you’d like. Then drop a link in the comments here so we know that your story exists so that we may scurry over and read its goddamn brilliance.

Please to enjoy.

And further, beard the fuck on.

May 5, 2011 / 26 Comments

In Which I Pretend You Give A Rat’s Ass About What I’m Up To

Sometimes I hate to do these cursory updates, because it assumes you can actually muster a fuck as to what I’m up to. Hell, I don’t blame you for not caring. I’m not sure I care all that much, and it’s me we’re talking about. Really, I’m kind of boring. It’s like, “Hey, Chuck, what are you doing?”

“Oh. Well. The usual.”

“Does that mean…?”

“Mm-hmm. Sitting here, scraping lint out of my belly button with a pistachio shell. Drinking gin out of a dirty pencil cup. Making things up inside my mind and then writing them down.”

“The sexy life of a writer.”

“The sexy life of a writer, indeed.”

*scrape scrape*

Let me ask up front: do you like these updates? Do you read them? Feel free to answer honestly (though, also, tactfully — please no, “Dear Shitbeard, I don’t give two rats fucking in a jizz-lacquered gym-sock whether or not you update us as to what’s going on in your life. Love, The Internet”). For now, however, I am left to rely on my ego to get me through the writing of this post. Hence: please enjoy the stuff I am doing.

Monsters With Uncertain Bowel Habits

It’s been, mmm, let’s see, two weeks since I said, “Hey, errrrbody, I’d like to pick up some more sweet sales of Irregular Creatures because it is a short story collection that features flying cats and hell-vaginas and it’ll make you laugh and it’ll make you cry and also I need to buy some more coffee soon so DEAR GOD PLEASE HELP ME.” I said I’d like to get another 400 sales and I also said I’d update you crazy kittens as to how that plan is doing. And so here I am. Update in hand.

Well, in two weeks time I’ve sold 76 copies, which is nice. Especially since the previous two weeks saw only about 20 copies sold. So, 76 out of 400 means I’m… *counts on fingers, toes, nipples, nosehairs* just about 20% of the way toward my goal. That’s lovely, and thanks all for helping spread the word. Cat-Bird and the Magical Hobo Hermaphrodite thank you, too.

I must also thank Fred Hicks, who shouted out to Irregular Creatures over at Jim Butcher’s bloggery-space, and I’ve zero doubt that this shout-out also helped contribute to sales.

If you wish to procure Irregular Creatures directly through me, you can buy via THIS LINK via PayPal.

If you want it through Amazon (US), THIS LINK is your best friend.

If you’re across the pond, Amazon (UK) offers you THIS LINK right here, mate.

Thanks, too, for the many who’ve left amazing reviews on Amazon and Goodreads.

Where You Can Find Me

I’ve now contributed nine articles to The Escapist, with, I believe, a tenth on the way. You can find all my articles here, but were you inclined to see what I’ve been doing there recently, you might wanna check out:

First: How Games Get Zombies Wrong. A little ditty about how video games don’t quite grok the narrative potency of the zombie sub-genre, of which I am notably a fan.

Second: Evolution, Not Deviation. In which I discuss how when doing a sequel, it’s easy to do “more of the same,” but on the other hand, it’s dangerous to do different.

Speakazombies, a casual reminder that you can pre-order Double Dead from Amazon (Pre-Order US or Pre-Order UK). Described by me as, “A vampire in zombieland.”

Hey! Look. The Forsaken Chronicler’s Guide is out.

Human Tales is out. I’ve a short story in it!

What I’m Working On At Present

I’m working on a new novel while I wait for Double Dead edits. The new novel — CODENAME: SHUCK RAT — is coming along nicely. Too nicely. That’s how crazy we writers are — it’s going so well, I’m worried. “Why am I enjoying this? This feels so right. It’s not supposed to be right. Where’s my fear? Where’s my gut-churning acid-burn? Why isn’t my heart in my throat? Nurse. Nurse!”

I’ve got a cover coming in for Confessions of a Freelance Penmonkey as I finalize edits and add my own “director’s commentary” to the book. It’s a biggun. It’ll top 100k when all is said and done. Chocablock with writing advice and whatnottery. I’m loosely soliciting quotes from folks if anybody feels like blurbing the pants off this monkey motherfucker. Gimme a shout.

Got some film and new media projects bubbling on the stove.

Also will soon be open for summer work. You need a penmonkey, please do not hesitate to contact me. I work clean, fast, and friendly. Plus, I’m having a baby soon. Don’t make me shake him at you.

The baby is the other thing we’re working on. We now are loaded to bear with baby shower gifts. And something called a “diaper cake.” Which is not a delicious cake made of diapers. I mean, okay, fine, it’s adorable, but totally inedible. I know. I tried gumming that thing for hours. All it did was soak up every drop of saliva in my body. Absorbency, man. Absorbency.

Things I’m Enjoying

Almost through with Robert McCammon’s THE FIVE, which is an incredible psycho-horror rock opera as a band is hunted by a sniper. Totally different than anything McCammon has done.

Laughing at two new sitcoms: Workaholics on Comedy Central and Happy Endings on ABC.

Digging the new Beastie Boys album.

Portal 2 was crazy good.

Dragon Age 2 was crazy good, but in a different way.

And I think that’s all she wrote.

Beard the fuck on, friends.

Go forth and suck unicorn.

May 4, 2011 / 13 Comments

WWYD: “What Would Yaga Do?”

I think I’m supposed to be using my bloggery-space today to talk about the death of Osama bin Laden. Eh. Nah. You’ve already heard it all and the great thing is that we live in a country where we’re all allowed to express whatever it is we think, be it triumph or bloodthirst or outrage or fear. For my perspective, I was raised in a house where a kind of frontier justice was the order of the day, so do with that as you will. Even still, today’s post then perhaps comes at a good time, where I decide to turn my old dog’s blissfully ignorant ways into a brand spanking new religious path. Please to enjoy.

The old religions just ain’t cutting it no more. And so I like to let my brain visit the territory of “new religions,” coming up with spiritual paths that have not yet before been seen, imagined, or followed. It’s like, I’ll run into the living room and I’ll yell to my wife: “Tacos! What about a religion based on tacos? It could be, I dunno, Tacoism, or, The Church of Fuck Yeah, Tacos. What do you think? We could write the holy book on a flour tortilla, the words written with grill marks!” And at that point she looks at me like the lunatic I am, and I run off to…well, probably chase moths or gum a light-switch if I know me.

And boy, do I know me.

This time, however, the idea for a religion was not mine, but rather, hers.

We were in the car a day or two after putting our old shepherd, Yaga, to sleep, and we were reminiscing: how she’d chase him around the living room, how he’d eat great muzzle-fuls of snow, how he’d lay under the table and get up suddenly and whack his head on the table without giving a shit. We joked, even with tears in our eyes, about how even though he was gone he’d never be gone because we will endlessly find piles of his hair in untold corners — they’ll blow in like tumbleweeds, a fuzzy reminder of the dog we had, the dog we loved. I even said, hey, if we really wanted, we could just collect some of that dog fur and tape it all together, then stick on a pair of googly eyes and we could have another Yaga — if not a doppelganger, then at least some kind of hairy idol, a graven image of the old beast.

Mostly, though, the talk orbited what a good, sweet, and dopey dog he was.

It was then that she said, “We should aspire to be more like him. Instead of What Would Jesus Do, it could be WWYD, What Would Yaga Do?” It seemed like a good idea. Our modern lives are filled with a number of woes and stresses that are largely manufactured for no other reason than to fill spaces: whether it’s getting angry in traffic or feeling self-conscious about X, Y or Z, we all have our own self-spun stressors.

So, I thought, hell with it. Let’s do it. Let’s print that shit. Let’s get a gospel together and throw together some tenets and — boo-bam — we have ourselves a religion. I always say that those we love gain immortality through our memories, right? Why not take it one step further and make a whole damn religion? That requires, though, that I come up with some precepts based on WWYD, and here they be.

Yagaism. The Gospel According To Goofball. WWYD?

Ignorance Is Truly Bliss

Yaga wasn’t dumb, though you’d think it, sometimes. He’d have this look on his face like… “What? Is something happening? Where am I?” Hell, other times you wouldn’t even glean a confused internal monologue: instead in that stare you’d hear crickets chirping, brooks babbling, a breeze shaking a field of wildflowers. But he wasn’t dumb. He figured things out all the time: doors, baby-gates, how to steal food when nobody was looking.

Instead, I prefer to think of him as blissfully unaware. Life was just easier when he could sit there and pant and stare. Doubly true when allowed to do so outside a car window.

The lesson: sometimes it’s good to turn your brain off. Shut that shit down. Take some time and tune out the noise: the news, social media, work, your nagging inner monologues.

Become the cricket chirp, the brook babble, the wind-in-the-wildflowers.

Pain Is Fleeting

At some point, Yaga must’ve gone from cat to cat and stolen their many lives. He was a stone’s throw from immortal, that dog. Rat poison, chocolate, onions, elk attack, Lyme disease, cancer of the paw, falling down steps, a ride in a cop car. And none of that speaks to the daily indiscretions of Yaga thunking his head on something. He’d stand up or look around and — bam — nail his head into the corner of a TV stand or the underside of a coffee table.

It never fazed him. Even the rat poison. (Not that I recommend feeding your dogs rat poison, mind you. He learned how to open a cabinet and ate a whole box of D-Con. See? He was smart. But also: ignorant.)

The lesson: Do not let pain and indignity affect you. Let it roll off you.

Endure the head-whacks, the elk-attacks, the bellies full of rat-killer.

Sometimes, You Just Gotta Stop And Sniff Some Asses

Asses and crotches, actually. I was told that he was a mix between a Belgian Shepherd and a Chow-Chow, but you ask me, he was a hybrid designer pooch born of a certified Crotch-Hound and Ass-Terrier. Come to think of it, he also had a fondness for smelling the pee-spots of other pups, wherein he was clearly deciphering some secret message left behind by the Subversive Canine Network. I guess that means he was at least 33% German Piss-hund (aka “The Urine Spaniel”), right? Yeah. Point is, he always took time out of his day to suck in a stubborn noseful of urine, crotch, or dog butt.

The lesson: Take some time out of your day to enjoy the little pleasures.

Inhale the sacred pee-fumes, crotch-vapors, and nether-scents.

When In Doubt, Pee On It

Speaking of pee, Yaga frequently contributed his own “golden messages” to the world. Tree? Lawn chair? Shrub? Small child? He’d pee on it. You give him half a chance, he’d pee on the little dog, too — she’d be squatting down and he’d figure, “I’ll add my own secret message to the puddle!” except the only problem was, he was so eager, he’d start up before she was even finished, forcing her to dart out of the way of his incoming stream. Let’s just be thankful she was quick on her feet, yeah?

The lesson: One of two, choose your own.

Either, “Mark your territory and own what’s yours,” or, “Reality is determined by those things upon which you can urinate; if you cannot cast your urine upon it, then it does not exist.”

Behold the golden truth, the gleaming stream, the pee-pee dance of leg-lifting enlightenment.

Life Is Too Short To Poop In One Place

I just can’t stop talking about one’s bodily waste, can I? Well, this is terribleminds, after all. Hey, shut up, it’s relevant. See, Yaga was not a conventional pooper. Your normal dog, well, he’ll find that one magic place to poop and there shall he deposit his little contribution. Yaga, on the other hand, was not content to merely sit still. He walked when he pooped. That’s right. He did what you might term “The Dooky Shuffle,” or, as we sometimes called it, “The Circle of Love.” He’d poop and be all like, “Hey, I want to smell that flower over there,” and so he’d shimmy his way over toward the aforementioned flower, dropping the equivalent of an upended can of syrupy yams as he went. He did this all his life.

The lesson: Life is short so be like the shark (or Snow Shark) — poop forward, or drown. Embrace life and never stop moving. Put differently: don’t let your shit weigh your down.

Unfetter yourself of spatial anchors, heavy weights, needless waste.

Unconditional Love Will Get You Through The Day

Yaga was a beast made of love (and, well, 80 pounds of black, wispy hair that had the ability to choke even the most stalwart of vacuums). He loved anyone and everyone without fear, without condition. A serial killer could kick down the door wearing the skins of our neighbors and Yaga would greet him like that serial killer was a lost uncle deserving of only hand-licks and crotch-nuzzles. I’m sure many found Yaga’s unhindered love unsettling — our other dog, the Taco Terrier, is far more like us as humans. She’s distrustful and uncertain. You come at her with a free hand she’ll wonder what you plan to do with that hand. Something sinister? Probably. Thus it is deserving of scorn.

Yaga had no scorn. Hell, the little dog would sometimes bite his face and he was totally okay with that. Tail wagging even as she clamped down on his slobbery jowl. Because, y’know, man. Love. Sweet love.

The lesson: Love beyond the margins. Love unconditionally. Find trust. Don’t be so pissed off and suspicious all the time. Bliss out. Radiate dopey-faced happy-making kindness.

Exude love despite the facey-bitings, the interlopers, the heaps and mounds of cynicism and distrust.

The Best Thing You Can Do Is Be Near To The Ones You Love

Yaga’s number one goal in life: to be near to those he cared about. He was a Velcro Dog through and through. Wherever you were, well, that’s where he wanted to be. You feel bad now because, at the time, it feels annoying. “Hey, do you mind not being up my ass? I’m trying to do laundry.” “I love you.” “I know you love me, but I need to move and not trip and die.” “I love you so much.” “Fine, yes, I love you too.” “Okay.” He was the canine version of a six-shooter or colostomy bag: forever at your hip.

It was, I suspect, his greatest pleasure. He’d sleep by our door at night. He’d hew close if outside. You move from one room to the next, even in his last days, he’d slowly rouse his numb haunches and follow you.

The lesson: The ones you love and who love you in return are the ones who count.

Become Velcro, duct tape, and super-glue when love is on the line.

WWYD?

Some dude cuts you off in traffic? Ask yourself: WWYD? What Would Yaga Do? He’d love that guy unconditionally. Or pee on his car.

Lose your job? Smash your toe on a house robot? Suffer a breakup? WWYD, motherfucker. He’d ignore the pain. He’d pretend everything was all good. No questions asked, buddy.

Not sure where to go? What to do? Confused? Dub-Dub-Why-Dee. Yaga wouldn’t think twice. He’d just void his bowels and keep on trucking. Long as he’s near the ones he loves, it’ll all work out in the end.

All hail the mighty slack-jawed tongue-wagging prophet.

All hail, Priests of Yagaism.

All sing the hymn of the question, What Would Yaga Do?

Amen, so say we all, and woof-woof.

May 3, 2011 / 120 Comments

Why Writers Drink

“I usually write at night. I always keep my whiskey within reach.”

— Faulkner

*slides glass of whiskey over*

There. That one’s on the house.

Fact: writers drink.

Every writer drinks. Total boozemonkeys to the last. Sure, you say, “But I don’t drink,” except, you probably do. You go to sleep, fugue out, and your writer hindbrain takes over — it’s like flinging open the cage door and letting out an enraged, deranged orangutan. Just because you don’t consciously drink doesn’t mean your crazy orangutan soul isn’t up at 3AM, dousing himself in the mini-bottle of tequila you unknowingly hid in the Holy Bible. So, don’t tell me the story that you don’t drink. Next you’ll try to tell me you have a mannequin for sale that only comes alive at night, when I’m alone with her in a department store.

Man, I’d so bang that mannequin.

What were we talking about?

Right. Writers. Drinky-drinky. You drink. You don’t drink, then you might not be a real writer. Being a real writer isn’t about how much you write in a day or how many books you’ve published. It’s about how big your liver is. Your liver doesn’t look like a lumpy kickball, then you and me, we’re not on the same page.

I get two comments frequently here about this site. One, “You sure do use a lot of profanity.” Well, I’m sorry. Profanity is fun. Profanity is a circus of language where the clowns are all insane and the elephant just stepped on a trapeze artist and something somewhere is on fire. Two, “You sure do talk about drinking.” Well, I’m sorry about that, too. We writers drink, and we like to talk about drinking, and we like to talk about drinking while drinking. It’s just our thing. Deal with it. And drink this while you’re at it.

You want to know why? You want some deeper instruction on the booze-sponge that is the penmonkey?

*clink*

Here goes.

Wistful Poetic Romance

Hemingway’s daiquiri. Faulkner’s mint julep. Stephenie Meyer’s “no-no juice.”

Okay, I’m not really sure about that last one. Point is, writing and drinking have long been paired together, arms locked in a poetic tangle — we envision the writer by his typewriter, a glass of Scotch in one hand, an elephant gun in the other. The whisky lights a peat fire in his belly, sends smoke signals of bright and bitter brine to his head, fills the chambers of his mind with the fermented bullets of inspiration.

It’s absinthe and poetry, brandy and prose, a lovable drunkenness leading to the potency of fiction.

Of course, the reality hits home when it’s 10:30 in the morning and we’re sauced on boxed wine, idly wondering when we got vomit in our own hair (it’s been long enough that it crusted over, a crispy bile-caked cradle-cap). Later we’ll look back at the work we wrote during that time (“Is fluvasham a word? Is this a grocery list? Funions? Really?”) and recognize that the romance and inspiration we so dearly sought is as empty as the wine box we’re presently using as a foot-rest.

Because Other Writers Do It

You know how like, there’s a state-bird? “It’s Iowa! Our state-bird is the one-eyed caviling corn grackle!” Well, if the state of Writerdom had a state-bird, it would be the whiskey-sodden rum-warbler.

Try this experiment: go to a genre convention or writer’s conference, wait till… well, it’d be optimistic to say 5pm, but let’s go with that, and then ask around to try to suss out where the writers are. Seriously, don’t even bother. Because I know where they are. They’re like elephants and tigers and flamingos who have found the one fucking watering hole in 1000 miles of Kalahari hell. Hint: They’re at the bar, dipshit. Drinking. They might not have money for food, but by a good goddamn they certainly have money to wet their writerly whistles. Where did you think you would find them? The library? The health food store? Okay, sure, you might find them at a pet store holding turtle races or playing mind games with ferrets, but that’s just because they spent all their allotted booze money.

You want to hang out with writers, you go where writers drink. And if you don’t drink with ’em, they will sense that you’re different. And like rats who smell an imposter, they will nibble you to bloody ribbons.

Because Holy Fucking Shit, The First Draft, That’s Why

That first draft can be a beast. I’m constantly in search of a good metaphor for what writing a first draft of anything long-form is like, but for now, let’s just go with “drowning in a sea of bees.”

So we get to feeling like, dang, I could really use a little something to take the edge off, you know? Something to dampen the misery of endless stings. We might try, I dunno, stretching, or a cup of tea, or a few bites of chocolate. And that’ll tide us over to the 20% mark, but somewhere along the way we need a life preserver to keep us afloat. We need a goddamn drink. (Well, frankly, we probably need an insidious mix of black tar heroin, methamphetamines, and ayahuasca — we can vacuum the roof, write a bestseller, space out with machine elves, then battle the gods of Xibalba over a game of severed-head-basketball. Thankfully, those things are difficult to procure. Unless you know an Inca.)

One gin and tonic might keep us afloat. Two gin and tonics eases the coming of the first draft, a kind of chemo-spiritual pelvic widener to help birth this story-baby. Seven gin and tonics and we end up soiling ourselves and drawing pictures of boobs on our computer monitors in permanent marker. Or we end up writing The Da Vinci Code. To-MAY-toe, to-MAH-toe.

Still, you drink, you feel 100 feet tall and bulletproof. Stephen King ain’t got nothing on you. I mean, except the fact he’s lucid and doesn’t suffer blackouts that require him to wear a diaper.

Celebrate Good Times, Come On

“I just finished the book! Time for some wine.”

“I just sold a story! Time for some wine.”

“I just got through a particularly rough chapter. Time for some wine!”

“I just got halfway through a sentence. Wine wine wine wine wine.” *drunken pirouettes*

Eventually we end up in a piano crate under an overpass with a three-legged incontinent terrier named “Steve,” and we tell passersby how we “just finished that novel,” and they’re all like, “Sure, whatever, homeless-person-who-smells-like-Maneshewitz-wine-run-through-the-urinary-tract-of-a-diabetic-raccoon.” And we wave our manuscript at them. And by manuscript, I mean “genitals.”

Aww, Sad-Face Need Boozytime

The opposite end of the spectrum arrives. Hey, rejection. Hey, book’s not selling. Hey, a bad review. Time to drown your sorrows in booze the way one might drown squirrels in a rusty washtub! Die, sorrows! Die!

It seems like a good idea until you remember the idea that alcohol can serve as a depressant. Then you end up on the lawn with your laptop, yelling at some rejection letter or negative review. “You don’t know me. You don’t know shit about shit about — urp — shit, buster. I wrote my fugging heart out of my butt for you and this is what I get? I’mma genie! Genial. Genius. That’s it. You shut up. Quit lookin’ at me, possum.”

The Bottle Muse And Her Lugubrious Liquor-Fed Lubrications

We get stoppered up, our word-fluids corked up and bricked off like the poor fucker in Cask of Amontillado and we suffer that most mythical of conditions, the bloated beast known as “Writer’s Block.” And so, to answer one myth we turn to another myth by seeking our Muse, and in seeking our Muse we figure, hey, screw it, why not throw a third axis of mythic deliciousness in for good measure? Thus we seek to conjure the Muse in the vapor of our own boozy ruminations, guzzling some manner of alcoholic spirit to stir the metaphorical (and thus entirely unreal) spirits that purportedly guide our writing lives and have power over our own mental blocks.

It rarely works as intended. Oh, it provides lubrication, all right. We end up inspired. We find ourselves inspired to eat a box of microwave taquitos and drunk-dial a passel of exes before kneeling down and praying before the Porcelain Temple of the Technicolor Hymn. It’s just, y’know, the one thing it didn’t help with was putting words on paper. But at least we get a good story out of it.

Because Holy Fucking Shit, The Final Draft, That’s Why

You hit a point where it’s like, I have these 80 billion copy-edits, I have to cut limbs off this baby before anybody will adopt it, and I have to do it all on deadline. Daddy needs some vodka.

The story goes that Hemingway said to write drink, but edit sober, but man does that feel counter-intuitive, right? Editing is like surgery. And you wouldn’t go into surgery without anesthetic, would you?

Once again, however, there exists that cruel line. A drink or two might make the process more palatable, but a baker’s dozen and, whoo boy. Before you know it you’re slurring made-up racial slurs at your own manuscript, and in a sudden sweeping rage you highlight 20,000 words right in the middle and — *click!* — delete it, and then just to be sure it’s dead, you salt the earth by erasing all your backup copies and shattering your external hard drive with a croquet mallet.

It’s The Only Way The Demons Will Stop Jabbering

I’ll just leave that one there without comment. Do with it as you will.

SHUT UP QUIT SPEAKING YOUR INFERNAL POETRY IN MY EAR TUBES GRAAAAAAFRGBLE THE STORIES ARE TRAPPED INSIDE MY HEAD LIKE A GOURD FILLED WITH SPIDERS

Uhhh. I mean, what? Nothing.

Sauce Up, Writer Folk

So, what do you drink, writer-types? What’s your favorite drink? Even better — favorite drinking story?

And yes, for the record, awooga, awooga, disclaimers: I am not an alcoholic, you should not be an alcoholic, and writing is not made better or more magical by drinking. This is just a funny post (with maybe a hint of truth to it) about how writers are so frequently drinkers. So put down that oak cask with the squiggly drinking straw shoved in its bunghole. And get back to work.

“Alcohol is like love,” he said. “The first kiss is magic, the second is intimate, the third is routine. After that you take the girl’s clothes off.”

— Raymond Chandler