A WRITER'S DILEMMA BY JOHN BRUNI

 It was a mildly warm afternoon, and my socks were moist. 

What the fuck kind of hooker is that? 

I don’t know. I think it’s pretty quirky. Something Vonnegut would have liked. 

Are you writing for Vonnegut? 

Well, I don’t write for one person, but Vonnegut could have been a reader. 

Are you writing for Vonnegut? A dead writer? 

*sighs* No. 

Then ditch it. And don’t start with the weather. Remember Elmore Leonard? 

Okay, fine. Let’s see here . . . 

Sweat grabbed my nuts, holding them to my thighs, so I discreetly adjusted them from outside my pants. I cursed the heat and— 

What is this? Are you kidding me? 

What? It grabs a reader’s attention. 

You’re being vulgar for the sake of being vulgar. 

You think you could do a better job? 

Fuck yeah. All right . . . 

The severed head flew at him at seventy-five miles per hour, and when it hit him square in the chest, his ribcage collapsed. 

Whoa! Stop! That’s not even what the story is supposed to be about! 

You’re not going to stop reading it, though, are you? 

I guess not. But still. 

All right. Let me try again. 

The FBI agent removed his sunglasses, giving me a stern look. He seemed so ridiculous, so humorless, I couldn’t help it. I said, “Is that what you look like when you mechanically fuck your vanilla wife in the missionary position?” 

Come on, man. You’re just trying to be shocking. 

Maybe. But you don’t dare to stop reading. 

Holy fuck. Neither of us knows what we’re doing. 

Maybe you should start with dialogue. 

Huh. Okay, uh . . . 

“It’s so hot I think my balls are stuck to my knees,” I said. 

What did I say about the weather? 

Yeah, but— 

He’s right. No one wants to talk about the weather. 

Well fuck. 

Let me try. 

“Holy shit! Look out!” 

I didn’t know who tried to warn me, but I turned my eyes just in time to see a severed head coming at me quicker than a hummingbird. It struck my chest and caved it in. I couldn’t even scream as I collapsed. That was how I died. 

No. 

No. 

We can’t have the narrator die. How is he telling us his story? 

It’s his story in the afterlife. 

Oh? Shall we end it with it was all a dream, then? 

Okay, okay. You made your point. 

Maybe we’re just not sharing an understanding of the story we want to tell. 

No shit. 

Maybe we should think about it. Alan Moore said every story has to have a point. What’s our point? 

I figured . . . 

Well . . . 

I mean, I’d just figure it out as I go. 

Maybe that’s the problem. 

You think? 

Guys, stop it. It’s been, like, fifteen minutes since we checked Twitter. 

No, we have to write. 

Write on Twitter. You know, in posts. 

That doesn’t count. 

*sigh* Fuck it. I can do this tomorrow when I’m less stressed out. 

All right! Hey, there’s also a new show on Netflix we should check out . . . 

THE END 

HEY FUCKERS #11: MY SLIGHTLY MASOCHISTIC STREAK

Has anyone here ever seen this movie?

In case you haven't, it's about a guy whose life turns to utter shit. Everything goes wrong. It gets bad. His wife dies, he loses his house, his career is a shambles. Rough shit. He screams at the skies for God to explain Himself, and in response, his dog is struck by lightning and killed. This guy then decides that he's going to dedicate his life to breaking all Ten Commandments. Yeah, that's kind of a weird subject for a romantic comedy. (No, I'm not kidding. This is a romantic comedy.)


I remember seeing this movie when it first came out, and as I watched this guy try to fulfill his quest, I started thinking that he was wasting a lot of time breaking them one at a time. And then I tried coming up with a single act that would break them all at the same time.


These are the kinds of thoughts that run through my head when I see a list of things someone's not supposed to do. Which leads me to something else.


I've tried to get published a few times in STRANGE HORIZONS, and I sent in a new submission this morning. They have an interesting list of things writers shouldn't do, which you can read here. They update it sometimes, so I thought I'd read it again. This is a great list, and I agree with almost all of it. But there's that slightly masochistic streak in me that spoke up, the same part of me that wanted to think up of a single act to break all Ten Commandments at once.


God help me, I suddenly wanted to write a story that violated every single item on this list. 51 rules to break, to say nothing of the 65 sub-rules. And I actually started brainstorming what such a tale would consist of. Just for a writing exercise, of course. But still.


I think I might have a problem.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #113: A LACK OF IDEAS

Sorry, my head's all fucked up right now. I'm trying to think something through. I received a letter today that threw me completely off, and I'm not even feeling like myself right now. I don't even know what I was going to write for tonight's GF, anyway. For nights like this, I have a list of back-up ideas, just in case I can't think of what I should talk about. They're not written beforehand, though; they're just ideas.


For as long as I can remember, I've always had something to write. I'm sure when I was in elementary school, there were gaps, but to the best of my memory, I've always had something to write ever since I started.


Often I wonder what I would do if I didn't have an idea to work with, and I rarely find myself in such a situation. There's always something to tinker with, at the very least. There is occasionally a fear in the back of my head that when I get through the list of ideas I have on tap, that I might not have any more ideas after that, and I frustrate myself by trying to think of what I would do in such an instance.


Except, now that I think about it, there actually WAS one time that I had nothing to write. It was many years ago, maybe 13 years. I didn't have a single idea to work with, but I still had to write. I couldn't just waste away in front of a blank screen. I recently discovered a collection of writing exercises I did back then. There are about 15 of them, one for each night, just to make sure my writing abilities stayed sharp.


They're kind of odd to read because they're not exactly stories. They're descriptions of mundane things. One time I wrote about my commute to and from work. Another time I described someone I saw walking down the sidewalk. Hell, there was even a time when I described a time I jerked off. That's how bored I was, but I had to write. The compulsion is in me. If I don't, I start feeling weird. The world doesn't connect with me. I start doubting my own existence. Sometimes I think that writing is the only thing that stands between me and a healthy dose of schizophrenia.


Luckily, this has only ever happened once in my life. I hope it never happens again. To writers who wonder what to do with themselves when they don't have ideas, I highly recommend this type of exercise. I don't know what the fuck I would have done if I hadn't occupied my mind like this.















































Some of you might wonder about the letter I received. I can't talk about it right now, as it is of a very personal nature. Maybe I'll write about it some day, but I need to sort through a few things in my head before I ever do that. It has nothing to do with writing, though.

FOLLY

[NOTE: BACK WHEN I WAS IN COLLEGE, I USED TO DO WRITING EXERCISES TO WARM UP BEFORE WORKING ON SOMETHING WITH MORE MEAT ON IT. THEY WERE USUALLY SHORT AND SILLY, KIND OF LIKE A JOKE. I NO LONGER DO THE EXERCISES BECAUSE I NO LONGER HAVE AS MUCH TIME AS I DID BACK THEN. (I DO THEM, HOWEVER, IF I HAVE NOTHING ELSE TO WORK ON. I HAVE TO STAY SHARP, YOU KNOW.) SOME OF THEM ARE KIND OF GOOD, THOUGH, IF ONLY FOR A CHUCKLE. I'VE DECIDED TO START POSTING THEM HERE ON TUESDAYS, SO I WILL NOW BE PUTTING SOMETHING HERE EVERY . . . FUCKING . . . DAY OF THE WEEK. I HOPE YOU ENJOY.]



Charles Darwin’s boat approached the shore of Tierra del Fuego, and he could see upon the beach a group of natives. They were stark naked and had multicolored paint swirls all over their bodies. He could see them looking at him, foaming at their mouths, eyes wild, their muscles tensed up, ready to attack. Jesus, hadn’t he heard somewhere that they were cannibals?

“My God!” he gasped. “Stop the boat! They’re savages! They’re going to kill us! Turn around! Turn AROUND! Quick! Before they attack!”

Darwin’s boat retreated from the shore, headed back to the main boat, leaving Tierra del Fuego and its inhabitants behind.

“Huh,” a Fuegian said. “That was weird.”

“What do you think he wanted?” asked another.

“I don’t know. Well, anyway, welcome to Starbucks. Can I take your order?”