Agent Rocket came to the Directorate today, weeping soulfully. She was having a terrible day, and needed extra motivation. “Those horrid VerbHounds are slavering in their pen! Write, or they will feast upon your flesh,” I said, in accordance with Directorate Directive 2.5.11.
But Agent Rocket only wept harder. I tried all the other Beasts at my disposal, working my way down the Checklist, but to no avail. She just wept and wept (and what a ghastly mess she was, too, with her red eyes and runny nose and tear-spotted frock!), no matter how hard I threatened her.
I sighed. “Perhaps I should offer you a carrot, instead of a stick.” Yes, my friends, it’s not in the Directorate manual — but we are known for our unorthodox methods, and when everything else has failed, there is no harm in trying desperate measures.
“I don’t want a carrot,” she wailed. “I want pie!”
I raised my eyebrows, but gave her a slice of warm apple pie with ice cream, and within moments, her sobs had tapered off into mere sniffles. The flirtatious little minx even smiled shyly at the Beastmaster. He was leaning masculinely against the wall, reeking of Beasts and sweat, ready to sling her across his strong, broad shoulders and carry her off to his nasty Beasts; but there was no longer any need for such stern measures, for Agent Rocket set aside her pie plate, picked up her pen, and began to scribble furiously upon the tablecloth.
Your Exercise
1. Have some pie. Even if you haven’t earned it; perhaps especially if you haven’t earned it.
2. Once you have stopped wailing about your misfortunes, write.
3. Report below! What kind of pie did you have? What did you write?
1. DONE!
2. Am doing.
3. It was not PIE, understand; it was apple-carrot-sweetpotato cake, with lemon zest and poppy seeds and cinnamon and nutmeg all conspiring together for the greater deliciousness. As to writing — I am scribbling my way towards a Tarot de Gaga, an elaborate bit of verbal portraiture designed to fold the “Bad Romance” video slantwise to my devices. The words number in the hundreds! Fodder for the hounds!
Oooh, that sounds absolutely DELICIOUS, both your cake and your writing.
I bought an apple hand-pie from my local bakery, and I wrote a 1200-word planetary romance called “A Princess of Zigel in Cleveland Heights”.
Agent Felicty! Stupendous! Gorgeously done, my lovely!
Oh, bother! In my enthusiasm, I spelled “Felicity” wrong. Blushing!
I didn’t manage this on the day assigned, but had to go back to it! I had a few mini mint ice cream sandwiches and they were delicious. Then I dragged myself to my notebook and force-wrote for five minutes. Nothing brilliant resulted, but I did get words down.
As long as you don’t call me “Felicty” forever as a result, as the last person who committed that typo did, I think we’re fine
Though I love how TFD has assigned me a unique-seeming icon, I’m envious of your personalized one, Felicity. How did you accomplish that?
Eva — it’s a Gravatar (http://en.gravatar.com/) — “globally recognized avatar”. You set one up through gravatar, and it follows you anywhere gravatars are supported, as long as you use the same name and e-mail.
Thanks, Felicity! Look! There I am, all personalized! I’m tickled.
*tips hat
Thanks for the info, Felicity!
Mmm, pie.
Oh, that Ethelie is so clever! I didn’t even know about “gravatars.” At first I thought Agent Felicity was talking about delicious, delicious gravy; fortunately I read more carefully before I did something really shocking. Thank you, Agent Felicity!
[...] hope you enjoyed your pie yesterday; I certainly did. I had a delicious slice of chocolate meringue pie, myself, and [...]
[...] “Pie?” she said, and I trembled, for I have never heard a single word carry so much scorn and derision. “Pie?” she repeated. She loomed over me, stern and unforgiving. I tried to be brave, truly I did, but it was all I could do to keep myself from pulling the covers up over my head. [...]
[...] look what has Happened! Pie! Celebration! Shameful Harlots! A Horrifying attack upon my Person! Is there no End to Lida’s [...]