Tag Archives: writing

Fish odor syndrome- phew!



“Thar she blows,” said the Lexicon Dragon in a husky voice. She had donned a captain’s cap in the interim and was smoking a foul smelling pipe. She resembled Captain Ahab, which by process of elimination, made me Moby Dick, or rather a large whale. I resented the comparison, but yes, I did indeed blow. Chunks of grey matter flew across the room and landed in jellied chunks on the carpet. The muse had to pick some extraordinarily gross pieces from her hair.
‘Juck,” she exclaimed, “I do believe your grey matter is rather gooey for an intelligent writer such as yourself. It should have more substance, like my upper thigh from which, I am sure, a small adult could swing.”
I paid her no mind, I was having a meltdown. Like an angry two year old, I allowed all the pent up emotions to simply boil over. If I am not mistaken I think I might have stamped my feet and rolled around on the floor for a while. Self pity is a terrible thing to witness especially if you wallow in it like a pig in mud. Eventually I flopped onto the floor, cradling what was left of my exploded head. I was overjoyed to find that my ears were still attached; my irritating, gigantic nose hung around like a lump of clay. I couldn’t get rid of the thing!
I was slapped out of my stupor by an evil odour. I could see it hanging green and sluggish in the middle of the room.
“Did the cat catch one of the Koi again? Who forgot to take it out?” I asked as I glanced around at the characters present. They all shrugged, but were wrinkling their assorted noses in disgust.
“What died?” asked the muse, she was never one to mince words.
“Not me. Not yet anyway.”
“Damn, it’s disgusting!” All the voices were raised in unison and I could feel a headache coming on. Heaven knows why I always had to solve everyone’s problems.
“Don’t put yourself out on our account,” she of the jiggling bottom said.


Dystonia with menopause on the side



“Please keep in mind that I want this to be a serious discussion about a serious disease,” I asked for the umpteenth time. Even while I said it, I knew that the battle had already been lost. The characters in my skull were a comedic bunch and I waited for the penny to drop.
“Well, its’ a twisted story,” the muse was the first to succumb.
“That’s awful,” I sputtered, feeling rather embarrassed.
“Dear, I am sure that these sufferers have a hell of a time dealing with the illness, but I think one should rather focus on the positive. They say that five minutes of laughter a day can extend your life by at least ten years.”
“Be that as it may, I am sure that it is no laughing matter. Have you seen how contorted their bodies become? Uncomfortable in the extreme,” I argued.
“Their bodies can’t be as distorted as your mind, dear?”
“How did we get from Dystonia to the state of my mind?” I asked, knowing that she had something up her very large sleeve as usual.
“Sometimes you twist and contort and stuff us into tiny holes. You have Dystonia of the mind, dear.”
“Only when you disobey or become erratic.” I felt the sudden need to defend myself against the rallying hordes.
“Sometimes I need some space and time to think, and you know that you carry on,” I said glaring at her.
“Me?” she asked innocently.
“Of course, you know that you do.” I could feel myself becoming hot under the collar.
“Oooh, the temperature around here is definitely rising,” she said, fanning her face melodramatically.
“Are you sure you aren’t experiencing early menopause, dear?”
I hated the fact that she could read me like a comic book. Yes, I was a woman of a certain age and the hot flushes were rightfully, dreadfully mine, but was it really necessary for the entire bloody world to know about them?

Here’s to health



“Health nut now, too? Along with being a tree hugger and pet lover and stroker and all around mad cap?” she asked.
“Well, you could do with at least some form of exercise, you know.” I was adamant that 2015 should be the year in which I lost weight and wrote the next best seller.
“Wishful thinking, dear. Those hips ain’t goin nowhere,” she said, drawling like a true Texan.
“And the amount of chocolate you eat would put a confectionary out of business.”
“Well, I’ve seen your stash and lady, it ain’t pretty.” I was not the only one going down, she would join me in free fall if it was the last thing I ever did.
“Emergency sugar. Pre-diabetic, remember.”
“An excuse for everything as usual. Just go for a walk now and then will you.”
“Dear, when I walk the rest of me jiggles enough to raise the continent’s heart rate. I am an exercise machine.” She demonstrated and I saw flocks of birds plummet to earth in shock. It registered 8,9 on the Richter scale.
“I am serious, pay attention. Better health equals better creativity levels. Think about it!” I was adamant and refused to be sidetracked by her jiggling thighs.
“Well, yes dear, write more. I dare say we will be able to afford luxury cruises.”
“You know authors are not in it for the money, but for the love of the written word.”
“Words cannot be eaten, dear, no matter how much you butter them.”
The root of all health is in the brain. The trunk of it is in emotion. The branches and leaves are the body. The flower of health blooms when all parts work together. ~Kurdish Saying
For more information on the side effects of the drug Xarelto, read this link.


Take a bow, Fugly



Novel writing was taking its toll and I had a headache that would stop an elephant in its tracks. I knew that somewhere, in a hidden, convoluted part of my brain an angry troll had taken up residence. He had an enormous hammer which he was now using to take out his frustration on the world. Yes, he was ugly as sin. He cracked mirrors and exploded smooth pond surfaces, shiny objects scuttled away from him and hid in dark corners. His body was covered in an assortment of hair which, even he, was hard pressed to provide an origin for. He looked mangy and unkempt. He never smiled and had serious anger and control issues, which was understandable, I suppose. I had as yet not called in a psychiatrist.
Fugly (this was not his given name, but a nickname that had attached itself to him once his trollness became apparent) had not started his life in this manner. He was once, before he decided to run and take up residence in my head, a magician’s apprentice; a handsome boy with blue eyes and a mane of dark, curly hair. The magician, Sir Bunny Bane, was a perverted soul. He preferred to entice hats out of bunnies instead of the other way around. Fugly, who was then known as Rodney could not stand the singing piles that would pop out as soon as the top hats had made their appearance. They were false and only knew one song: “Ouch, ouch, ouch par de dum, ouch, ouch, ouch, par de dum, we all stand together dum, dum…”

Cockamamie excuses


funny chicken


“Might I remind you that I live inside that chaotic thing you call a mind? Lard, indeed.”
“Oops, I did it again,” I sang as I swayed my broad hips and knocked over a few innocent trees. They picked up their branch and leaf skirts and hurried away, muddy ground falling from their roots. I heard via the tree grapevine that they had set up shop in the Bermuda triangle as they figured that was one place where even I would not go.
“You cannot escape the mind of a writer you know,” I shouted after them.
“Don’t I bloody well know it,” the muse said. I actually understood what she meant Even for me, living inside my own skull was sometimes too chaotic as I ran the gamut from depression to euphoria in seconds it seemed.
‘Lard ass,” I said unkindly.
“Granted, but can you at least admit that this year’s NaNoWriMo has you scared stiff?”
“No-oo-oo, I was only looking for a worm today, honestly. I figure he took my mojo deep underground. If I can find him, I might be okay.”
“What kind of a cockamamie excuse is that?”
“Well, technically speaking a cock is a chicken, squawk,” I said, flapping my wings frenetically. Ladies never mention the other meaning except when you are an excellent erotica writer and have to call a spade a spade and not a fork.
Ready for something hot and steamy? Their +1

One-lovely-blog award


I won

I have been nominated by Son for the one-lovely- blog award. Thank you so much for making me part of this.
There are rules pertaining to this and I have to nominate 15 other deserving bloggers, who will obviously have to do the same on their blogs. I also have to share seven facts about myself that nobody knows. The others I have in turn nominated will have to spill the beans as well and post the award on their pages. I have chosen to start with the seven unknown, yet slightly weird facts:
1. I am a tree hugger. Yes, I love nature and animals to the point of distraction. I have seven pugs, two sheep dog, a miniature Doberman Pincher and two cats. When I leave this earth look for me, I will be the zoo keeper in heaven.
2. I snore and speak in my sleep, which is why everyone in my household keeps their bedroom doors shut at night.
3. I have OCD and will check on doors several times, even though I know I have closed them. I wash my hands numerous times a day and count everything. I am also bipolar which results in a roller coaster ride which I sometimes scream at or laugh at, depending on where I am in the cycle.
4. I am an artist, preferring to work with pencils, charcoal, acrylic and oils. As a perfectionist, I love realism, but add my own little twist. ♪♫ Let’s twist again, like we did last summer, ooh let’s twist again like we did last year ♫♪
5. I love the smell of new books and wish someone would bottle it and sell it as a perfume. I would buy armfuls of the stuff.
6. I have several people living in my head. They prefer speaking at the same time. Oh, wait, you already know this, sorry.
7. I was born in the wrong era. I love the Renaissance period. Please invent a time machine and take me back there.
My nominations, in no particular order are:
1. Butterfly on a Broomstick
2. The Vast and Inscrutable Imponderabilities of Life
3. Stella’s Starshine
4. Pushing the Bruise
5. For the Love of Storytelling
6. Andie’s writing journey
7. The Wayward Warrior
8. Gumboots and Grammar
9. A Rhythm Runs Through It
10. The Questioning Way
11. Through Harold’s Lens
12. Hope* the Happy Hugger
13. Square Tales
14. The Hungry Dog’s Lair
15. The girl in the little black dress
Alas, now these fifteen have their work cut out for them. I enjoy your blogs immensely- keep on trucking!

The six toe wonder



The queen had, for all intents and purposes shut her womb against the entrance of the king’s wayward seed. If this was what he produced there would be no more groaning or coming and going in the bed chamber. To tell the truth, the king was rather inept in the art of lovemaking and the queen would never suffer through another of these episodes willingly. She knew he would be content with the plastic doll she ordered, which lo and behold actually looked a lot like her.
The king approached the balcony, holding the infant before him. The crowd stepped back in horror. Young children screamed and hid their faces in their mom’s aprons. Prince Charming would become the thing that misbehaved children would be scared of for centuries to come. A groan spread through the crowd. Fingers were pointed and eventually the king scooped errant brain cells together and stared at his son’s bowed legs. He was born with six toes on each of his malformed feet.
Hmm, he has extra bits, mused the king.

“What are you staring at?” he shouted belligerently.

“Nothing, Sire,” a gravelly voice answered.
“And who might you be?” demanded the king.
“I am Mr. Smith, Black Smith,” said the farrier as he ushered the crowd back to the streets. Everyone knew that the king could be volatile. It happened like clockwork every time his brain cells took a stroll down Lost Avenue. But, he was their king for better or worse; he who must be obeyed if you did not want to walk the plank into the mugger infested moat.

Introducing King Dimwit and family


king 2

As the muse will shortly be outing herself in the form of a book, I was stumped for new characters for the blog post which would be welcomed with open arms and would work as a replacement for the enigmatic figure. With her blessing she is stepping back to allow others their moment in the spotlight. I hope they make you giggle as much if not more than the muse.

Therefore meet Queen Gnol Gnireffus, which is basically long suffering spelled backwards. She has had a hard life; was forced to marry the inferior King Dimwit who was intellectually challenged and battled to understand most things in life and had a son who was so ugly that he shattered all the mirrors in the kingdom. She called him Prince Charming, he deserved something in life, and it might as well be a name. Charming he was not, neither was he handsome, hence the non existence of any reflective surfaces in the entire kingdom. He even cracked the Lake Woebegone in winter.
Queen Gnol Gnireffus forced him into the world with various grunts and groans and the prerequisite tub of warm water on a cold midwinter evening, took one look at him and subsequently fainted. Even then he was swarthy, had a hooked nose, unfocused eyes which tended to wander in their orbs, tufts of hair which grew haphazardly across his knobbly skull and skin which seemed oddly scaly. The midwife held him out to King Dimwit who merely grunted and took him out onto the balcony. He held him up for the populace to see. The king had watched Lion King a number of times and had always wanted to re-enact that particular scene. Now he could do so with his one and only offspring.

The pantyhose tango:


pantyhose funny


“What on earth are you doing, dear?” asked the Muse. I was caught doing a jiggly one-footed dance while at the same time trying to get the darn pantyhose to fit over my bootyliscious butt.
“Putting on pantyhose should be an Olympic sport,” I groaned.
“One size fits all, my arse,” I said as I groped for the waistband and tried to hop into them.
“Since you brought it up, your derriere is on the large side, dear.”
“Thank you, Captain bloody Obvious,” I said, remembering to breathe in between spurts of frantic action. I looked insane; like a stalker without a purpose, a fly without a sticky mess. I bent my knees and hauled the hose up. No one wanted wrinkly knees!
No matter how hard one tried, at the end of a two hour lapse, the pantyhose would start sagging and pooling around your ankles like an attentive cat. Moreover the crutch would sink innocently to your thighs, looking up at you like an underfed orphan. There is never a middle ground for these things as they sag, twist or are so tight around your crutch area that you feel like an overstuffed sofa or a volcano ready to blow. Who invented these torture devices and who says we have to wear them? Oh, the vanity of the female race- we need bronzed, silky legs sticking out under our skirts. Pantyhose were my go to item when it’s chilly, I have forgotten to shave (read lazy as all heck) or I need to look grand.
I turned 40 and the first thing out the door was; you guessed it, my pantyhose! Bring on the knee highs, ankle socks or knee socks and I couldn’t care less about my super white, veiny calves- wear your sunglasses if the glare offends you. And if I haven’t shaved, avert your eyes; there is nothing to see here! Besides which I am waiting for the wool price to rise by which time I am sure I could get a few coins for my unwanted hair, failing that I could always knit a scarf out of them!


The progress report or lack thereof:



“Prrroooogresss Rrrrreeepooorrrttt!” she shouted and the house echoed. My jaw dropped to the floor as she appeared in a tight leopard skin unitard.
‘Oh my word, I cannot look at that without feeling ill,” I said, averting my gaze.
“It’s the latest fashion dear and extremely slimming, not to mention comfortable. It hardly chafes at all when you are on the treadmill.”
“They are allowing you back after the incident then?” I asked, referring to the fact that she had caused pandemonium and had broken one of their new treadmills last time she had gone there. I was sure that they had banned her for life.
“Well, I pleaded, dear. You know how I can go on and on about something.”
She had worn them down; now I understood.
“Back to the subject at hand, though. How are your word counts for Camp Nano?” she asked and I balked.
“580 on Dead-Lee and the 1268 on blog posts,” I whispered, bowing my head in shame and sinking to the floor in a watery puddle.
“So the novel is dead in the water- pun intended?” she asked and I had to agree that it was going nowhere fast; like a runaway train heading for the precipice. The brakes were failing and the wheels were coming off.
“Never mind, I have something for you that will take your mind off things,” she said as she handed me an A4 paper on which the following was printed.
“Are you trying to kill me?”
“No, just render you unconscious. All good therapists know that if you tap into the unconscious you work will be superlative and effortless,” she argued the matter.
“I will also be dead. Is that unconscious enough for you?”
“It says to stop once you are unconscious. If you carry on thereafter that’s up to you, dear,” she said innocently and sauntered off. The leopard spots quivered in the diminishing light.
Wish me luck, dear reader, perhaps this will work. If not visit me in hospital and please bring chocolates!