Last week I reached my 50,000 word goal for the month of November! To anyone else who participated in National Novel Writing Month, congratulations! This year, I wrote 50k words of poetry. On Monday, I started reading through and revising.
To be honest, most of it is garbage. But there’s a lot of stuff in there with potential. Such as:
Here’s what I learned in Art History:
A woman in a Renaissance painting has powdered white skin (no other color)
and never farts
or vomits after too much wine.
No one has to hold back her pompadour
while she pukes up her servant-made supper into a golden chamber pot.
She doesn’t do drugs or smoke.
Her somber expression pouts at the painters.
The world’s first selfies.
Now, I don’t agree with the last line even though I wrote it. The argument can be made that the world’s first selfies were actually cave paintings and little sculptures done long before Renaissance painting was a thing. Anyway, I’ve got LOTS of editing to do.
See you soon,
Here’s an excerpt from the beginning of Sort of Super. Randy Bones has just stumbled out of the spaceship onto a new planet and is accosted by an old man claiming to give him superpowers.
“You get four options,” the man began.
Four options? “Isn’t it usually three?” Randy asked the stranger.
The old man snapped, “The number of options depends on which type of people we’re short on.”
“Wha-? There are types? But that means I’m not…” he tried to think of a word that wouldn’t make him sound like a whining schoolboy, but time was running thin. “I’m not special?”
“No. You were chosen from among the earthlings because of your incredible generic-ness. You are average in almost every way.” Delight oozed from the man’s face as he continued, “Average height, average weight, job performance. Even your romantic life is average. You’ve had sex twice in the past year. Honestly I’m quite pleased you’re one of my recruits. What you do excel at, however, is imagination. Your thoughts are almost constantly going to another world. That’s value.”
Randy wanted to cry. He wasn’t special? Someone was reading his mind? How many sexual fantasies did this old man know about? How did he know about his sex life? And hell, he thought working as a daytime receptionist for a music venue was hella cool but whatever!
In Subplot, Seeking Help
From: Damsel Underwhelmed
all my poetry is about romance
isn’t that totally gross?
i mean, i run my phone down to 24% in a day
for a notification or a gif or a meme
with this that the other person’s charming face
good god when comes the part where i don’t look for trouble, it finds me?
and Wait there’s more, i have no blood
i have no herbs to add in my tea
i have no spellbound trickster leaves
i have no flapping stomach bees
i have this sexy actor meme
i want to be the meanest woman and i want to be forgiven immediately.
only one person can fall hopeless and it’s the guy in the produce aisle.