Dearest Lida,

I was delighted to receive your correspondence, but surely you jest—vampires? But have you not just vanquished the zombies? This is terrible news indeed.

I won’t mince words, my dear. I’ve encountered the vampires. I am nearly ashamed to admit I have been seduced myself.

Does that shock you, Lida? I apologize. My wanderings in the wilderness often cause me to forget the gentility of polite company. But . . . → Read More: The Scent of Desperation]]>

A recent incident compelled me to write to my dear friend Stacey Cornelius for advice. I found her response so marvelously useful that I knew I must share it with you all immediately! Take heed!–Lida.

Dearest Lida,

I was delighted to receive your correspondence, but surely you jest—vampires? But have you not just vanquished the zombies? This is terrible news indeed.

I won’t mince words, my dear. I’ve encountered the vampires. I am nearly ashamed to admit I have been seduced myself.

Does that shock you, Lida? I apologize. My wanderings in the wilderness often cause me to forget the gentility of polite company. But yes, it is true: like the sweet young thing who falls prey to wistful dreams of adoring suitors and who longs for fame and riches, my eyes—and my mind—were deceived.

But you don’t need to hear the sordid details; you have more pressing matters to attend to.

I will tell you instead about the unmasking of these creatures and the manner in which to escape their clutches.

First, however, I must warn you: the monsters you speak of are highly specialized.

Vampires are attracted by the scent of desperation.

No, my love, it is neither the wayward they seek, nor the innocent. It is the disease of doubt that comes from the darkest depths of the soul that draws them.

Have you already perceived the awful truth, Lida? Yes, dear heart—the scourge is self-inflicted. We summon them, like the rose calls to a wasp. In the end, we are left alone, lost, more empty than ever, our lifeblood drained and aspirations dashed.

You must therefore recognize the villain when he presents himself. He comes with pretty words, the sweetest of reassurances, to soothe your most secret insecurities. He pretends to know your dearest dreams. He plays the most lovely music to your ears.

And you may know what happens then—you become lost. Not in the lush forest of creative rumination, but in a strange place where your thoughts are not entirely your own. You become obsessed with pleasing this magical creature. You hang on his words, gather tomes filled with false promises, pressing them to your forehead in the long, lonely night, praying for epiphanies.

You despair, believing your quality will never be sufficient. Why, oh why, can you not become the glorious creature he promised you will be?

When you reach this moment of despair, when all your faith is spent, then it is time to unmask him.

But how, you ask?

It is simple:

You must listen.

You will discover the smallest dissonance in his song, a strange reverberation that can only be felt in the bones. That sound is easily lost in the sea of confusion, and yet it is only when you listen deeply that you know: he is false.

And when you finally see the beast for what he truly is, you must turn away.

Oh, I know, the prospect is frightening. Turn away from one so dangerous? It seems preposterous. Yet it is necessary, because he is, in truth, a mirror, the very image of your fear, the reflection of your unacknowledged distrust of your truest self.

Your revelation robs him of his terrible power. When you pull away, the sound of his treacherous tongue begins to fade. You will then experience two strange things: regret, but also the beginnings of quietness.

You must nurture this new sensation. It will serve you well, because you will encounter more vampires. Some of them will be weak, some very strong indeed.

Remember, my dear: you do not need silly trappings. Your finest adornment is your own true voice. If you encounter doubt, simply ask, “What is this, truly? Will I wear it comfortably, or does it chafe as a poorly constructed garment?”

What is true will fit like the finest glove. What is not—you will know. Now that you are wise in the ways of the vampire, you will know.

And you will defeat him, dearest Lida. I know you are fearless when the need is great. You will not fail.

Please give my best regards to Ethelie, Gustav and dear Boggins. I do not know who this Beth person is, but if you tell me she is of fine quality, then I believe you. I should also tell you I have indeed done extensive research, and it seems I am of no relation to Miss Callista. I confess I am somewhat disappointed, since she is both brave and lovely, but I am content to share a name with this mysterious lady.

Until we meet again, my dear, I remain, faithfully yours.

- – - – - -

Stacey Cornelius writes about textbook-free marketing for creatives, and mindset that makes it great at thestudiosource.com, where she generally takes a somewhat less fanciful tone. You can also find her on Twitter @thestudiosource.

I feel I should apologize for not getting this post up sooner so that all you early-birds might benefit from it; but I’m afraid I was busy with some terribly important sleeping-in. Scrumptious! But alas, the delightful parts of my day have finished, and I have no choice but to turn my attention to my dreary List of Loathsome Labours.

Of course they’re loathsome; I’ve been putting them off all week, and for very good reason. All are difficult or dull or dastardly or annoyingly alliterative; the very thought of them causes me to turn . . . → Read More: Clear the Decks Friday: Less Loathsome Lists]]>

Darlings! Is it Friday again? How delicious.

I feel I should apologize for not getting this post up sooner so that all you early-birds might benefit from it; but I’m afraid I was busy with some terribly important sleeping-in. Scrumptious! But alas, the delightful parts of my day have finished, and I have no choice but to turn my attention to my dreary List of Loathsome Labours.

Of course they’re loathsome; I’ve been putting them off all week, and for very good reason. All are difficult or dull or dastardly or annoyingly alliterative; the very thought of them causes me to turn my mind from the Loathsome List and seek diversions. Why, I haven’t visited my taxidermist, or his charming wife, in over a fortnight!

But no. Such pleasures must be deferred until my Labours have been completed, lest I suffer Ethelie’s direst consequences.

My Favorite Remedy

Make the list itself less loathsome, darlings! How much more felicitous is it to be guided by a graceful graphic than to be shouted at by a stern and uncompromisingly grim List?

It seems to be a bit of foolishness, I know–how could a simple thing like the appearance of your list affect you?

Darling, how could it not? Do you not judge people and things by their appearance? Do you not find one young maiden alluring and enticing because of the graceful curve of her cheek and the way her gown hugs her bodice, yet find another maiden repulsive because of her slatternly attire and coarse hair? At the greengrocers, do you not choose one apple rather than another because of its firm flesh and glossy sheen?

Of course you do, darlings, of course you do. So why not give your list a less loathsome appearance? A simple make-over may be all your list needs to be transformed from loathsome to alluring.

• Perhaps writing your tasks with a fountain pen on lovely paper would do the trick;
• or perhaps scribbling each on a brightly-colored square of paper, arranged beautifully on the wall before you, would work.
• Fold an origami swan, and write a task upon each plane.
• Draw an octopus (what clever beasts!) and write a task upon each leg.

Let your imagination run loose, my lovelies! What can you do with brilliant markers, soft yarns, rich papers, flowing inks, and body chocolate? Mmm, I know just the thing.

I am sure you can create an amazing list. Tell me about it below? What’s on your list today — and how will you make it lovely?

In the Bible, after some dramatics with a wind strong enough to break rocks, a terrible earthquake, and a mighty fire, God finally takes his audience into consideration speaks to the prophet Elijah in a “still small voice.”

We all have a still small voice that speaks to us, I believe. Though perhaps only biblical prophets hear the voice of their God, everyone can hear something, if they are quiet enough. Have you listened? You may need to listen carefully to hear what whispers behind your customarily raucous thoughts. Some things make it easier to . . . → Read More: Concerning the Still Small Voice]]>

Darlings! It is time for us to talk.

In the Bible, after some dramatics with a wind strong enough to break rocks, a terrible earthquake, and a mighty fire, God finally takes his audience into consideration speaks to the prophet Elijah in a “still small voice.”

We all have a still small voice that speaks to us, I believe. Though perhaps only biblical prophets hear the voice of their God, everyone can hear something, if they are quiet enough. Have you listened? You may need to listen carefully to hear what whispers behind your customarily raucous thoughts. Some things make it easier to hear this voice: physical exertion, yogic breathing practices, meditation, and laudanum among them. Experiment: can you hear it? What does it say?

The first time I tried this exercise, I was startled by what I learned.

My Still Small Voice was Screaming.

It was remarkably similar to this:

Oh, dear. Oh, dear. Why couldn’t I be lucky enough to hear the voice of God directing me to anoint Elisha as a prophet? Why just this terrible screaming?

No wonder I had such difficulty writing: who could hear the words over that terrible cry? Who could concentrate? No wonder I flung myself into so many diversions instead of writing: the theater, the saloons, the licentious behavior, the torrid affair with the baker who supplied my pies, the reckless zeppelin-driving. It all became stunningly clear: I was trying to keep myself so busy that I did not have to hear the voice.

I do not wish to give the impression that all was despair, for on other occasions, I discovered that my still small voice was humming cheerful jingles for patent remedies and tonics, or muttering tongue-twisters repeatedly.

What To Do About the Screaming?

Comfort, darlings, comfort. If your still small voice is screaming, comfort it. Clasp it to your bosom and rock it gently, sing it sweet songs, bathe it with your sympathy and warmth. Feed it sweets and treats and assure it you adore it.

Do not chastise it for disturbing you with its wails; do not tell it how stupid it is for being upset; do not feed it to the Verbhounds. Simply comfort it.

You may also find that you can briefly silence the voice by turning down the volume, as on a Victrola; but this silence is only momentary. Much better that you take a few moments to soothe the teething beast.

And then get back to work.

Once the sobs have tapered off to sniffles, give it one final hug, and return to your  work.

Subsiste statim sermonem et scribe.

What does your still small voice say, Darlings? Tell us in the comments, if you so desire.

May I ask how your writing is progressing? Is it flowing along deliciously, like a river of chocolate that rewards you with sweetness every time you dip into it? Does it, like a river, carry you along, displaying magnificent new vistas around each bend? Does your writing, like a river, lull you to sleep each night with the sound of its gentle flow and the wind amidst the rushes? Ah, what bliss! You, my darling, are the luckiest of writers.

But I am afraid this post is not for you.

Today I write to all the other writers: those who are . . . → Read More: An Exhortation: On Your Terrible Shame]]>

O Brave Writers!

May I ask how your writing is progressing? Is it flowing along deliciously, like a river of chocolate that rewards you with sweetness every time you dip into it? Does it, like a river, carry you along, displaying magnificent new vistas around each bend? Does your writing, like a river, lull you to sleep each night with the sound of its gentle flow and the wind amidst the rushes? Ah, what bliss! You, my darling, are the luckiest of writers.

But I am afraid this post is not for you.

Today I write to all the other writers: those who are mired in the muck at the bank of the river, who feel the mud seeping into their shoes, who struggle daily to find the courage to scribble down some words.

Have you failed lately, my darling?

Have you not written enough words? Have you not written as often as you would like? Have those words you’ve managed been horrifyingly amateurish? Has your work been rejected? Have you disappointed others? Have you disappointed yourself?

Please take a moment to consider how you feel, my beauty. Not very good, I suspect; I sense that you are overflowing with shame and regret and despair. Perhaps you are even so burdened by these terrors that you find it hard to write: as if each key on your type-writing machine were weighted with brass; as if each page in your note-book were covered with foetid and stinking black slime; as if each shining idea was frozen in a block of sewage.

Writing is hard enough, you think; but it is impossible to write like this, with this vasty ocean between you and your words, an ocean filled with boiling blood and shards of glass and betentacled horrors, where tar rains down from a leaden sky, and all is lost, all is lost.

My sweets, let me reassure you that this is normal, and that you feel thus does not indicate that you’re misguided and doomed to failure. Nay! It simply means you’re human, and that your writing is so precious to you that you must protect it from all these horrors: from the tar and slime and weight and boiling blood and shattered glass.

I can help.

I am no stranger to shame, my darlings. I am excruciatingly familiar with the territory I describe, from long personal experience. Let me guide you out of this atrocious wasteland, and back to the sweetly flowing river of your writing.

The first step is to recognize your feelings of shame and despair.

The second step is to acknowledge them. My darling, no wonder you feel so horrid! Your feelings are perfectly natural. Reassure yourself of this; do not increase your anguish by struggling against them.

Finally, release them. Shout them down the sewer, blow them into bubbles and pop them, light them on fire and watch them burn away. Ahhhh, delicious, isn’t it? How do you feel now? Isn’t it quite difficult enough to write, without having to deal with all those extra layers of slime and wrongness?

Introducing the Shame Bucket

My favorite way to release my most dreadful feelings is to use the Fiction-Writing Directorate’s Shame Bucket. Simply write the feelings you wish to release into the form below, and click Submit. It’s utterly anonymous, darling, and I’ll delete your submission without reading it. No one will ever see what you say. I certainly won’t let stern Ethelie or strange Gustav read them.

Write it out, darlings. Release it.

Comments are closed on this post, lest someone inadvertantly place their secret shame in the wrong space!

Be Utterly Shameless

Now, my darlings, return to your writing, and be shameless.

Darlings! May I introduce you to this fierce beast? Willie Hewes drew him for me, and what an angry creature he is.

He is the voice of Failure. He is the voice of This Is Why Not. He is the voice of all the reasons why I should not write; indeed, he is the voice of why I should not do anything at all.

“You insipid slut!” he shouts. “No one wants to read anything written by a harlot like you! Don’t even bother!” He lists all the ways in which I am doing it wrong, all the ways I doom . . . → Read More: Concerning Monsters]]>

Angry Monster

Darlings! May I introduce you to this fierce beast? Willie Hewes drew him for me, and what an angry creature he is.

He is the voice of Failure. He is the voice of This Is Why Not. He is the voice of all the reasons why I should not write; indeed, he is the voice of why I should not do anything at all.

“You insipid slut!” he shouts. “No one wants to read anything written by a harlot like you! Don’t even bother!” He lists all the ways in which I am doing it wrong, all the ways I doom myself to failure and dying alone and in poverty, all the ways I will regret ever even trying.

Terrifying, isn’t he, Darlings? But here is the secret about monsters–this little chap, and all of your foul beasties, too–he’s trying to protect me. If he keeps me scared enough, he thinks, he’ll be able to keep me from writing and all the risks it entails: exposure and rejection and failure.

Sweet angry monster! Here, would you like a nice glass of absinthe? Or perhaps some laudanum? What you must understand, O Monster, is two things: first, that there is a very good chance that writing will lead to boundless successes, not dismal failures; and second, that I have failed over and over and over again before, and am perfectly fine. In fact, Monster, the louder you shout, the more likely it is that I will get nervous and fail. What’s worse, Monster, is that not writing is itself a failure. Yes, indeed, Monster, you yourself are creating my failure.

You’re sorry? Not so angry any more? Yes, I love you too, man; that absinthe is delicious, isn’t it?

Sweet darling monster, I know you are trying to help: but let us find a way to work together, yes? Certainly, you may have some more absinthe. Here. You’ve been working very hard and deserve a break, do you not? A time to rest? The rest of the bottle? Certainly. I shall be over here, writing.

And perhaps I shall examine my copy of Miss Caine’s Awesome Fear-Wrangling manual for further inspiration.

What do your monsters say?

Tell us in the comments, if you like. How are they trying to protect you? How can you thank them for their work, and convince them to let you move ahead? Tell us, Darlings!

Darlings!

Thank you so much for participating in our Survey. The results are simply delicious, and will be tremendously useful to us.

Almost three-quarters of you wish to write every day: yet you don’t.

Almost half of you don’t write each day because you believe you are lazy; a similar number fear that others will laugh at you.

Half?

My goodness. Those are some weighty issues, darlings, even without the zombies, even without grouping similar responses together.

Our free e-mail course will help. I’ll tell you more as it develops.

I promised we’d pick a winner: our Random Selection Device has chosen Ms. Lipten to receive a . . . → Read More: Survey Results]]>

Lida

Darlings!

Thank you so much for participating in our Survey. The results are simply delicious, and will be tremendously useful to us.

Almost three-quarters of you wish to write every day: yet you don’t.

Almost half of you don’t write each day because you believe you are lazy; a similar number fear that others will laugh at you.

Half?

My goodness. Those are some weighty issues, darlings, even without the zombies, even without grouping similar responses together.

Our free e-mail course will help. I’ll tell you more as it develops.

I promised we’d pick a winner: our Random Selection Device has chosen Ms. Lipten to receive a copy of Shimmer. Congratulations!

If you missed the chance to take the survey, but still have some Thoughts you would like us to hear, either comment below, or send us a message from our Contact page.

And if you’d like to know more about the results than this summary, let us know that, as well; I can post in more detail if there is sufficient interest.

Kisses to all of you!

Darlings! Thank you so much for your responses to our Survey! With your fabulous input, our upcoming Course will be even more magnificent than we imagined. We truly are listening!

For example, a startlingly large number of you aren’t writing because you fear being eaten by zombies. O, Darlings, we can help you with that, and are already working on a new zombie module for the Course.

If you haven’t taken the Survey yet, I would be absolutely thrilled if you’d do it! It only takes a few moments, and you might win a lovely prize.

In all the excitement of the . . . → Read More: Training Exercise #27: Comfort]]>

Lida

Darlings! Thank you so much for your responses to our Survey! With your fabulous input, our upcoming Course will be even more magnificent than we imagined. We truly are listening!

For example, a startlingly large number of you aren’t writing because you fear being eaten by zombies. O, Darlings, we can help you with that, and are already working on a new zombie module for the Course.

If you haven’t taken the Survey yet, I would be absolutely thrilled if you’d do it! It only takes a few moments, and you might win a lovely prize.

Your Exercise

In all the excitement of the Manifesto, I’m afraid we’ve neglected your Training Exercises. I’m so sorry, Darlings! Let’s kick things off again with a deliciously simple Mission: comfort. Ethelie will frown, as she ever does, but let’s not think of her tonight.

Set your timer and freewrite for ten minutes on the subject of Comfort. Keep your pen moving, even if you believe you have nothing to say; simply keep writing until the time has elapsed. Write by hand, on creamy and blank white pages, with a darkly flowing fountain pen, if you find that comforting. Or sit at your Type-Writing Machine, and be comforted by the sound of keys striking crisp paper. Simply keep the words coming.

What does Comfort mean to you? What experiences, sensations, tastes, scents, thoughts, do you find Comforting? Why do you deny yourself Comfort? What memories do you have of Comfort — or its lack? How do you Comfort others?

When you are quite finished, look over your writing. Find one comforting thing you can do for yourself right now — and do it.

Then, refreshed and rejuvenated, get back to your writing! Subsiste sermonem statim et scribe!

In the Comments

Tell us what you learned!

Darlings! O, Darlings. I trust you read Ethelie’s post yesterday? It is no doubt impolitic of me to speak out, but I fear I must disagree with her. O, she will be so cross with me!

All this talk of discipline, of iron will! Of steam and trains and engines! Of gears and machine-like precision and reliability! One commenter dreams of building a poetry robot!

The imagery, my darlings, simply does not work for me. Ethelie’s soul may be made of steam and steel and gears; mine is made of different stuff. And thus I shall re-envision things. Ethelie may be my . . . → Read More: An Exhortation on Adoration]]>

Lida

Darlings! O, Darlings. I trust you read Ethelie’s post yesterday? It is no doubt impolitic of me to speak out, but I fear I must disagree with her. O, she will be so cross with me!

All this talk of discipline, of iron will! Of steam and trains and engines! Of gears and machine-like precision and reliability! One commenter dreams of building a poetry robot!

The imagery, my darlings, simply does not work for me. Ethelie’s soul may be made of steam and steel and gears; mine is made of different stuff. And thus I shall re-envision things. Ethelie may be my supervisor at the Directorate, but she is not the supervisor of my heart and mind and soul.

Let us try a different metaphor.

Writing is my lover.

I come to writing out of adoration, not obligation.

I feed my writing lobster dripping with butter; it feeds me strawberries and cream. I feed my writing pie. We lick each other’s fingers clean.

On a lazy afternoon, I curl up in bed with my writing for a warm and drifting nap. We hold each other late at night and whisper secrets by the flickering light of a candle.

I take my writing to a dark and smoky bar on the bad side of town and listen to sinful music and drink too much. I caress my writing as we dance and grow warm and insistent together.

I plant a garden with my writing: we labor in the sun until our limbs grow languid. We plant fertile seeds in moist furrows. I wipe dirt from my writing’s cheek, and a trickle of sweat from its neck. I lean in and smell the ripe scents of earth and sun and work, and I tell my writing it is beautiful.

I touch my writing, reveling in its textures, its softness and its sleek muscles. I trace my pen along its curves and planes. I take my writing in and hold it close and it cries out softly in my ear. There is nothing else; we do not need anything else; my writing and I are enough.

I come to writing out of adoration, not obligation.

I want it every day; yes, please, more, more, please, O God.

Yes.

And you?

My darlings. It’s your writing. What metaphor rings true for you?

Create it. Share it in the comments.

Lida

Darlings! Now I can tell you what happened next!

Ethelie viciously shoved me out from the shelter of my precious zeppelin, toward the glowering miners. At first I assumed this was her vengeance for the time I caused her laudanum addiction to overcome her, and I cried out against her. “Stop shrieking,” she whispered, though I could barely hear . . . → Read More: On the Creation of the Manifesto, Part II]]>

In Part One of this tale, Our Heroes learned of their Urgent Need for a Manifesto (lest their Web-Site license be revoked!), and traveled Bravely to the Manifesto Mines of Kazakhstan. Upon arrival, they found themselves Surrounded by angry Miners with Rifles!

Lida

Darlings! Now I can tell you what happened next!

Ethelie viciously shoved me out from the shelter of my precious zeppelin, toward the glowering miners. At first I assumed this was her vengeance for the time I caused her laudanum addiction to overcome her, and I cried out against her. “Stop shrieking,” she whispered, though I could barely hear her words over the fierce thunderstorm that raged around us. O, how loud the rain was as it pummeled my zeppelin and the miners!

And how hopelessly wet I became, in mere seconds! My frock was soaked through and clung to my skin, nearly as if it were a part of me, like a selkie skin. (Fortunately, it was not a selkie skin, for it would have been terrible to turn into a seal there at the mines, so far from the welcoming mother-sea!) Darlings, it was also frightfully cold: Kazakhstan in Spring is no balmy retreat. I shivered, but not in a delicious way at all.

Lightning flashed, and illuminated me for the miners. The cruel light left nothing to their imagination, and I saw their countenances begin to shift as their anger was replaced with an emotion more . . . feral.

Just like writing, I said to myself. You cannot hide on the page, and you must engage the emotions of your audience.

Now I understood Ethelie’s cunning plan. I smiled at the miners, though I could not help comparing them to the Beastmaster, safe at home at the Directorate, surrounded by the warmth of his Beasts. O, darlings, I missed him so! But I knew I must do my duty for my Directorate. “Hello!” I called out. There were six of them, all wiry muscles and strength built up over years of working their tools in dark tunnels.

“Good girl!” Ethelie said, behind me, and from the corner of her eye, I saw her and Gustav slip out of the zeppelin, toward the gaping maw of the mine. They were burdened with their equipment: ropes and ladders and picks and shovels, and Gustav was dragging a heavy duffel bag with him. It seemed to squirm of its own volition – but that was impossible; surely it was just a trick of the treacherous light. They disappeared into the mine, and I turned back to the miners.

“So,” I said. “What now? Could we go somewhere warm and, ah, settle our differences?”

They blinked at me, clearly not comprehending my words. Of course; we were in Kazakhstan! I did my best, but my Kazakh is rudimentary at best. Eventually, though, I believe I made myself clear, and they lead me into a tiny hut that stank of mushrooms and dirt. At least it was warm and offered shelter from the downpour. The miners set their rifles down to gape at me in the flickering light of their lantern.

My goodness, what an enthusiastic group they were!

I could not help wondering how Ethelie and Gustav were faring, so did my best to distract the miners. My companions would need all the time they could get! I suppose it was fortunate that my Kazakh is so weak, for it took us ages to figure out the simplest question; had we been able to communicate easily, we might have run out of topics of conversation within moments. Below I offer my clumsy translation of our conversation – and darlings, just be thankful I spared you the painful fumblings as the miners and I strove for a common language, and only present to you the sense of it.

Why, it’s just like writing! For what is writing but the attempt to render the numinous into words?

The miners told me that they were in fact not angry, but were guarding the mine to prevent the unwary from entering it and facing the dark hazards that had driven them from its stony depths. A great beast stalked the lower tunnels, preying on unwary miners. It sulks through the passages, great iron nails scraping against the stone, hideous scales scraping against the walls, sparks of flame igniting pockets of flammable gas as it passes, leaving a fetid trail of slime and blood in its wake. The beast had slept for thousands of years – until the miners, unwisely, delved too deep, and awoke the slumbering horror.

At least, I believe that’s what they told me – I cannot guarantee the accuracy of my translation of this particular bit of the numinous.

Oh, bother. I hoped Ethelie and Gustav would fare well against the dangers of the mine! I had nothing but the deepest admiration for their skills, but suspected even they might find such a creature as this a formidable challenge.

I asked the miners if they had any pie, but alas, they did not, so we found ways to amuse ourselves that did not involve pie.

As dawn broke, I was roused by screams and running footsteps outside. I hurried into my clothes and crept out of the hut. It was Ethelie and Gustav, fleeing toward the zeppelin.

“Get us out of here!” Gustav howled, and we clambered aboard.

“What happened?” I asked, as I made ready for our escape. I could hear the miners shouting, but I could not pause to make my farewells.

“Just get us out of here.” Gustav’s face was pale and drawn, and Ethelie looked even more unhappy than usual, despite the glistening manifesto clutched in her hands. Ah, at least they had succeeded! I obeyed Gustav, and in an instant, we were aloft, and speeding away from Kazakhstan.

Behind us, I heard a terrible rumbling sound, and as I looked back, the whole mountain exploded! The zeppelin was buffeted by the shock waves and debris; but she is a sturdy vessel and I am a fabulous pilot, so in short order, we escaped, shaken but unscathed.

O, darlings, those poor miners! I wept at the thought of them perishing in that terrible explosion — for surely no living creature could have survived.

“What the hell did you do?” I asked.

Gustav cleared his throat and told his tale.

TO BE CONTINUED

Darlings! I’m back from Majorca. It was absolutely divine, and I’m now rested, restored, reinvigorated, and ready for a new challenge.

Oh, yes, Ethelie was still a bit frowny when I got back, but luckily I had a plate of Boggins’s Ma’s Biscuits to give her as a peace offering, and we have now resolved our differences. After all, we’re both deeply committed to the Directorate’s goal of helping writers write — does it matter if that lofty goal is achieved via punishment or via delicious, delicious pie?

No, it does not!

How scrumptious is it that just when I was . . . → Read More: I Dare You!]]>

Lida

Darlings! I’m back from Majorca. It was absolutely divine, and I’m now rested, restored, reinvigorated, and ready for a new challenge.

Oh, yes, Ethelie was still a bit frowny when I got back, but luckily I had a plate of Boggins’s Ma’s Biscuits to give her as a peace offering, and we have now resolved our differences. After all, we’re both deeply committed to the Directorate’s goal of helping writers write — does it matter if that lofty goal is achieved via punishment or via delicious, delicious pie?

No, it does not!

Our April Challenge:

How scrumptious is it that just when I was ready for a new challenge, just when Ethelie and I reunited in our desire to challenge you, that Script Frenzy came to our attention? Go on, click the link, I’ll wait, albeit impatiently.

Back? Marvelous! So now you know that Script Frenzy gives you 30 days (the entire month of April!) to write a script. 100 page of play, screenplay, or graphic novel. Why, that’s only a bit over three pages a day! Shall we? Shall we? Oh, please say yes! I’m giddy at the prospect, dancing about and clapping my hands like a schoolgirl!

Won’t you join us? I dare you!

But what will I write about?

Oh, bother. I have no idea. So I’ve decided to double my challenge, and write based upon your suggestions. Think you can stump me? Just try. I wrote an epic poem about President James Polk, after all!  Leave your dares in the comments!

And then start your own script, darlings. Let’s do it Tell me about your project!