I’m continuing to experiment with the format of my newsletter, The Reverse Cowgirl. The last format I had was too complicated. The new format is basically like if I was a coolhunter but for sex and culture. Read it here.
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Image via INFP Problems
The other day, I came across an ad — I think maybe it was on Instagram — for Writers Blok, which is basically like a co-working space, but for writers. From the website: “We function like a gym or a yoga studio, using a set schedule to help our writers break their projects into bite-sized portions. Writing is like exercise: more effective in small doses and better in a group setting.” I found the idea annoying and stupid, so much so that I tweeted about it: “What kind of crackhead wants to write when other people are around.” I added a GIF of Tim Gunn making a gagging face to my tweet to emphasize my point. This morning, I had a phone call with my agent. Afterwards, I decided to do some outlining work on the project we’d discussed. But I decided to do it in a place that I knew would be both filled with people and noisy. It was a pretty counter-intuitive choice for an INFP. My theory was this: The context might be so agitating that it would encourage me to get some work done at a high rate of speed. In a cacophony of sounds and motion, I might be less likely to ruminate or rehash. Compelled by a desire to get the hell out, I’d get my shit done. As it turned out, my guess was pretty much right. My auto-experiment was a relative success. I’ll likely do it again. (See also: this LA Times story.)
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Big Sky Country, Austin, TX | Photo credit: Susannah Breslin
Yesterday, I read about The Most Dangerous Writing App on Kottke, and I decided to give it a try. Basically, you have to start writing and not stop for a set period of time, or your prose will disappear. I used the default setting of five minutes and created a work of flash fiction. Bear in mind, you can’t really edit, so I didn’t make any changes after I’d finished. Also, if you try it, don’t forget to download your work at the end. My story is called “Alice and Mr. Fantastico.”
this is the first time i've seen this place from this distance, fantastico said, his hands stuffed into his pockets. alice said nothing, just stood there, facing the sun, feeling blue. they had been married for 17 years, 12 months, 6 days, 5 hours, and 13 minutes at that moment. he had set the marriage clock the second they'd exchanged rings, and every anniversary, they'd look at it together, admiring the steady swing of the arms around the face. for a moment, fantastico hesitated, then he stepped forward. hoping she wouldn't mind, he wrapped his arms around alice from the back, as if he was her personal straightjacket and squeezed. instead of leaning back into him, as he'd hoped, his wife turned rigid, bracing at his embrace. from the front of her head, she made a small noise, something muffled and gutteral that suggested unhappiness and a desire to file for divorce. beyond them, there was the great land: the rolling hills, the dramatic ravines, the orange-scorched sky. between them, there was no physical space, only the grim concrete of alice's waning interest in fantastico. alice sensed fantastico sensing her interest in disincohabitating. for a moment, she felt guilty. then she imagined the guilt was small bits of dust on the floor, and her newfound attitude was the broom sweeping them across the porch. it was very hard to know what to do sometimes, alice considered. now, of course, wasn't one of those times. this was a time to rejoice. soon, she would never see fantastico again. her life would be hers, and the land would be something into which she could run, never to return.
Buy my digital short, “The Tumor.” It’s been called “a masterpiece of short fiction.”
I came across this writing prompt yesterday:
"Write a love story about two inanimate objects."
Let's give it a shot.
The dead husband and the dead wife were hiding in their drawers. It was late, and someone had turned out all the lights. Inside the drawers, it was dark. It was impossible to hear anything -- not the soft whir of the refrigeration stopping them from rotting, not the absentminded whistling of the coroner who had gone home, not the endless buzzing of thoughts in their minds for there were none. The bank of drawers was like a condo overlooking a river when a hurricane is coming: windows shuttered, blinds drawn, toilets flushed. Time itself filled up the spaces where their dreams, and their feelings, and their memories used to be. Briefly, a neuron lit up, then flamed out, vanishing into the blackness.
I thought I would try some live writing today.
I think Warren Ellis used to do something like this, but I'm not sure.
I'm listening to Aphex Twin's Selected Ambient Works Volume II (Amazon, YouTube, Pitchfork).
It is approximately 12PM EST where I am located.
I will be writing until 1PM EST unless I keel over and die in the interim.
I write in the CMS, and you can read it here.
You can take a look, go away, and come back, or refresh the page, I suppose.
If I don't like something, I'll delete it, so things may appear and then disappear.
I haven't done this before, so bear with me, or don't.
If you get bored, read this from Ellis on carnography.
I'm drinking this tea and ate lunch already.
I forgot the dog needs a walk.