There’s no story in my head.
I can’t think what Annabelle would do, or what Kyra wants. I can’t even correctly imagine the Cheetoh-fumed flatulence of my Cybertroll (who is actually only a minor character, but if you follow my Twitter you know I’m rather irked by a real world mouthbreather tonight – a particular cybertroll who found the photographs of an adversary’s child and then manipulated and distorted them and posted them to the Internet for revenge.)
Some people just need to be stabbed in the scrotum.
But, as fun as it is to imagine, my work is not about stabbing people in the scrotum.
So, when trying to get in the mood (not THAT mood) I’ve developed a practice I read about online recently: purposeless writing
Tonight’s purposeless endeavor: Describe the dinner guests at the worst party you ever attended … (the goal is that writing about nothing will get me thinking about something and then … poof.) So here goes:
He was fifty to her thirty seven, and they’d both been married before (though they tried to pretend otherwise). His Christmas sweater was decorated with an abstract reindeer — the kind one sees in Jackson Hole and Park City — and her hair was taller than her plate of eclairs. I was working on my subtle getaway when they cornered me by the seven layer dip.
“Oh, we just love Mexican food. Don’t you just love Mexican?”
“Oh, is bean dip classified as Mexican food?” I asked (innocently I hope), trying to sidestep their circling approach and head them off at the 7-UP.
… And, here it is (was) all along.
What I really want to write about tonight – scrotum stabbing … AKA the Cybertroll gets his comeuppance (I love that word, though it may be the first time I’ve ever used it.)
Off to work …