Fine, fine, fine, I'm thankful for Leslie again...sheesh

Anyone who thinks I can be easily won over by a mere gloss of titillation has another thing coming. In this case, the other thing is roughly 10 inches long with a diameter of 2.5 inches. White stuff comes out when you squeeze it and it tastes like crap when it's got one of those wrapper things on it. I call it Mowgli. As I'm sure you all have guessed, it's the banana I just spit at the screen while reading Leslie's XXXmas entry. By the way, lest anyone gets the wrong impression, I did not spit Mowgli out because I was particularly shocked or amused--though I did find Leslie's entry enjoyable, but rather because I'm allergic to bananas and shouldn't have been eating Mowgli in the first place. This got me thinking: what's the deal with food issues? In our group, in order to please everybody (okay, just Chris and me) we have to construct meals that are meat-free, gluten-free, plantain-free, onion-free, slimy-disgusting-mushroom free, and--when Giles was around--nut-and-green-pepper-free. We also opt out of eating bugs, dogs, brains, feces, urine, and other foods that other cultures and creatures happily ingest all the time. Which brings me to today's topic: Harry Potter.

Here is a list of things that, for the bulk of my life anyway, I've meticulously avoided and in many cases despised: wet mushrooms, smelly and/or ugly feet, greasy man-on-man action, conservative Republicanism, trophy hunting with automatic machine guns, fish-gutting, burqua wearing, worshipping the "literal" God of the bible, animal sacrifice, penis-splitting (Morgen knows what I'm talking about), certain vowel sounds, life without threesomes (again, Morgen knows what I'm talking about), industrial slaughterhouses, standing in spilled beer while in line for the bathroom at a sporting event, righteous ignorance, Cleveland steamers, and the Bush administration. What do all of these things have in common? If you guessed "Karl Rove," you're almost right. Actually, the real answer is: every one of my aversions--with the possible exception of penis-splitting--is based more on a notion than on any real physical harm that would result from the subject or item named. Indeed, these notions are, along with a huge pantheon of others--bad and good, the intangible spirits that direct my life.

Todd has often talked about his desire to bring magic back into the world. I would argue it's already here in force. When someone told me Richard Gere had a thing for stuffing gerbils up his rear, I not only stopped liking Richard Gere and all of his otherwise fine movies, but I also found a strange web of associations radiating outward and muddying my respect for other otherwise pure notions and individuals. The Dalai Lama...isn't that the guy who's so beloved by the guy who lathers up rodents in Vaseline, cuts off their claws and teeth and stuffs them--bleeding--up his smelly anus. Come to think of it...I've seen pictures of Richard Gere and the Dalai Lama shaking hands. Did Richard Gere wash first? Do the Dalai Lama and Richard felch together? What really goes on beneath those flowing red and yellow robes?

Obviously, my example is a little ridiculous, but if a few brief words with absolutely no tangible evidentiary support could wreak this kind of havoc on my balanced and educated mind, what's happening to children in the mountains of Pakistan whose only educational option is the local hate-spewing Madrassa?

If we were reading a fantasy novel in which an evil wizard standing on a mountain top used only words to tear down two giant towers, kill thousands, and strike fear into the hearts of millions, thus fundamentally altering the course of history, we would have no trouble calling that magic, and yet we call Osama a simple terrorist (assuming it was him and not Karl Rove behind 9/11). What's the difference? Is it because Osama used men who used box cutters to terrify pilots into turning over their airplanes? If the wizard used eye-of-newt and spells of coercion to enchant his associates, would that make him any less magical?

Every thing that Harry Potter did in his fictional existence has been recreated by movie makers such that audiences the world over could see his magical acts brought to life in the same medium by which we see other, ostensibly "real" events take place. Would an aborigine untutored in modern cinema find the Harry Potter movies any less convincing than Iraq war footage? More to the point, is there anything Harry Potter did that can't be done by modern man? We can all fly ultralight single-passenger vehicles, we can all strike opponents down from a distance, we
can all transform our looks, we can even--in the near future anyway--put cloaks on that make us nearly impossible to see. These talents and the countless ones still to come are all the product of mere thoughts thunk by imaginative human beings.

The point--although I suppose I have several, none of which am I clearly articulating--is that magic is alive and well and we writers have every opportunity to be magicians. If you--like I do--believe that the first commandment (you shall have no other gods before me) is the single most violated one of the bunch (even more so than the anti-covet-covenant tenth), than we are not only magicians but god-creators. What other than gods could force me to not only forego but also revile the healthfulness of mushrooms, the fun of mowing down forest creatures with an AK-47, or the (theoretical) pleasure of greasy man-on-man action?

Leslie, I'll be sending Mowgli your way by Fedex. Between my saliva, the dead skin cells and dust mites he picked up after being spit out on my desk, and the natural vitamins and minerals created when he first grew on his Panamanian tree, it should be a very nutritious snack. :)

XXXmas

Merry, sexy XXXmas to you all! No, the Christmas season is not over yet. Not until after January 1.

Santa Baby brought me Diana Gabaldan's Outlander series, which has some lovely sex scenes with some subtle SM tossed in for flavor, and I used some XXXmas gift cards to get new, sexy underwear.

My brother-in-law received a wheeled device that makes it easier for him to slide in and out and in and out under the cars he is working on, which my sister said they should have sex on (the device, not the cars, though she would not be opposed to that.) And my other sister received Twilight (from me) which she is thoroughly excited by, so much so that sometimes she has to go upstairs.

Just thought I'd share. Maybe Aaron will be thankful for me again.

Les

Okay. Three words have moved me to respond --"absentia," "bottoms," and "fester," a word that downright warms the wobbly bits, don't you agree?

Rather than Lady Absentia, I am quickly becoming known in familiar circles as Lady Dementia. Case in point: I have no recollection whatsoever of ever meeting a Kanga, a Viking, a Talent, or a Sonja. I am, however, quite cozy with Pathos, but since Pathos has apparently gone missing (again), I shall strike off in search of the peripatetic god of distress and sadness. See you when I return from the Abyss. Think I'll need an umbrella?

I am no longer thankful for Leslie

4) There is nothing like the support of a group of strong-minded, hard-working fellow writers working toward a common goal, sharing the joys and sorrows of this peculiar career, pushing each other, always, to get better. I sincerely wish I had such a group.

I have learned . . .

I have learned many things. Well, at least one thing. And that is that your characters better have a damn good reason for being there or they should get the hell out. And they should be interesting. For a long time I applied this rule to life, and it does not work so well there. . . Unless your goal is to become a sad and lonely wretch.

Aaron, the fact that you titled and closed your last post with references to not responding to Todd means that you actually responded to him, and Todd wins the bet. But don't worry -- nobody bet against him, so he doesn't actually win anything.

Les

Watch me not responding to Todd

As the year draws to a close, I reflect on those things I'm thankful for--the many kindnesses of Chris, the fascinating body fascinations of Morgen, the wisecracks and cracked wisdom of Leslie, the way Todd so blatantly wishes he was more like me (seriously, it's getting a little SWF already). I'm also reflecting on writing lessons learned this year.

1) The juiciest conflict is not the battle between good and evil or sin and virtue, but rather the fight between competing virtues--when Character A, whom we care about, wants something for good reason that is diametrically opposed to what Character B, whom we also care about, wants for equally good reason. I realize this is probably old news to everybody, but I'm excited to structure more stories around such tensions. Of course, I'm not sure if competing virtues will appeal to the commercial public, which brings me to lesson 2.

2) I'm personally not well suited to writing for the commercial public. I tried this year to compose a book that would sell and I made it a hundred pages in before the pressures of writing to a very demanding phantom audience got to be too much. I have to follow my passion in writing, and if I never make a dime doing it, I'll still be happier writing that which fulfills me.

3) (with grudging thanks to Todd) I don't need unlimited time to write, I need only to write what I love.

There's more, plenty more, but right now I'm resisting the urge to apologize for coming up with that blasted nickname thing.

Older Posts

We have "older posts". That is to say, we have enough posts that it has knocked the "older posts" to another page. This blog has only been running for a day, and we have older posts.

Isn't there an institution for people like us?

Taking Bets

So we have Kanga-tender, The Viking, The Delicate Sonja, Lady Absentia and The Talent. No, Pathos. No, The Talent. No, Pathos. No, Guiltmaster. No, Knotty-bottoms.

Does anyone want to take bets on how many times Aaron changes his name before he settles on delivering a very long, very well-written dissertation on why it makes no sense at all to have nicknames in the first place, and that it was a silly, demeaning idea from the start, thereby creating a fester pit of guilt in which he can wallow because he was, after all, the one who began the whole "nicknames" thing?

I give him five days, tops. Any takers?

Bio - Chris

They call me The Pretender. I am the not-so-flowery version of the aforementioned wall-flowers, and also the one who cooks for armies of allergic writers and is able to magically produce gifts for any occasion from my office closet. But that's not why they call me The Pretender. They call me The Pretender because I have somehow managed to convince the other Hammers that I can somewhat convincingly be an expert on just about anything. Thus the "oral surgery" consultation from a fellow Hammer last Saturday. Of course I cleverly avoided actually having to perform the surgery by deftly manipulating said Hammer to perform the maneuver himself. I'm not sure that would have worked with any of the other Hammers. In fact, I'm not sure the other Hammers ACTUALLY believe I'm The Pretender. I think perhaps they go along with me being The Pretender in front of the deftly manipulated Hammer (Aaron) just to amuse themselves at one Hammer's (Aaron's) expense. If I'm to be honest, they don't call me The Pretender at all. Not even the deftly manipulated one (Aaron). I think the sad fact is, I'm just pretending to be The Pretender...

In truth, they call me Kanga. Right now I'm off to bake "Gingerbread Citizens" for the entire US Navy (including the Marines), so the story of the Hundred Acre Woods will have to wait for another time. But to ease your minds, no, I do not have a pouch, though I do have a Roo.

So many crosses, so little time

How do you keep track of all the crosses you bear? It is a good thing I brought up this one, otherwise it may have remained lost in the shuffle of crosses that you are always bearing. (By the way, I thought the fact that you boasted about your Pathos was pathetic.) (Pathetic in an endearing way.)

Revised revised bio

By delicate flowers, I certainly didn't mean you ladies couldn't take it, nor that I liked you any better than Todd. The truth is, sadly, I don't like any of you people. It is the cross I bear.

Bio - Leslie

They call me the Delicate Flower. It is because I am easily crushed.
They also call me Blond Sonja. Not that I am a Viking. Just very blond.
They also call me Leslie, because that is my name.
In fact, that is the only thing they call me. Forget that flower and blond sonja crap.
By the way, I never call either Aaron or Todd by any of the nicknames they mentioned, either.

Les

Revised Bio: Aaron Brown

Actually...they call me Pathos. Whereas the Viking is allergic to guilt, I bathe in the stuff. I fester, stew, and tan in it. Take, for example, my last entry. I wrote it to be funny and to talk enough trash to inspire some feisty responses. Ever since then, I've felt bad. It's not that I thought Todd would realize every one of the nicknames I mentioned (Mosquito Nuts, Donkey Breath, etc.) was something I call him behind his back when I think of his three published books, his published stories, and the many thousands of dollars he's made, but more that the other writers, the delicate flowers in our literary window box, might find my extreme degree of superiority the slightest bit irritating. Of the seven trolls living in caves inside my brain, Superiority is not one of them. Instead, superiority is one of the many small gopher-like Ids who scamper about outside the caves, waiting to be eaten by the trolls. Apparently, Frank just got him.

Bio - Todd Fahnestock

They call me The Viking. This could have something to do with my smallish brain (as compared to my compatriots), or it could be due to my proclivity for pop star chanteuse music, my love of long-haired heroes who like to chop through the "bad guys" with a bloody sword, or because I use cutting-edge fashion to make me a better person...and fail.

But in all likelihood, it's because I have no real intrinsic writing talent. The fact that I've been published many times and been paid thousands of dollars so far is due only to the fact that my favorite saying when it comes to criticism of my writing is:

"Fuck y'all, I'm a viking."

Some people say: Never say die.

I say: Smile and act ignorant when anyone says you suck.

And then chop them with a sword.

Bio: Aaron Brown

They call me The Talent. When we first assigned nicknames (two years ago at the retreat in Lake Geneva? 18 months ago at the conference in Waikiki? three minutes ago when I first thought of this bio?), I think the group was trying to honor both the brutal beauty of my prose and the startling humility with which I approached my Gift from the Muse. Unlike the others in the group, Hair Lip, The Clap, Mosquito Nuts, Flaccid, and Donkey Breath, I carry the unique burden of being a genius. While I have composed two classic novels of lasting beauty, I have yet to be offered the collective adoration that is my due. My fellow writers, recognizing this injustice, began to make amends by bestowing my small appellation. It is because of their love for me.

I am the heart of the group. And the mind. I am also the left arm and the right thigh muscle.

Hammertime

Topic 1: Hams in (Cyber)Space

Is it possible that a woman with a fetish for smart-ass angels, a man who likes his heroes wildly coiffed and tamely brained, a chick who digs scars (but only if they're bleeding), a fellow who could mastermind the invasion of Asia, but who is instead communitizing in a Carolina commune from somewhere in Chicago, a guy who--when a tree falls in the woods, hears nothing but the sound of his own guilt clapping, and a woman who has written more revisions of her first chapter than Stephen King has written first chapters (and who, by the by, could feed, clothe, and engift an entire army with just twenty minutes' notice and a list of food allergies), could ever come together to write a single blog? If so, what would they write about?