Wednesday, August 10, 2011

A Writer's Life—I Don't Get Out Much

When I say I don't get out much, here's proof. My wife drove my Explorer today and filled it up with gas. Probably the first time in four months. Inside the gas cap, she found a mud dauber's nest.

Sure glad that didn't fall inside the tank.

Regards,
Mac
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Working on novel number nineteen!

6 comments:

  1. Yikes! My husband started up our Suburban which hadn't been driven in months also and there were wasps nests in every available nook and cranny. Dumb things!

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  2. Ahhhh, Angie. Don't be mean. They just like dark, safe places to raise their little ones.

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  3. Insects, you can't trust them. They're just waiting to take over.

    mood

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  4. NO!! Say it aint so!

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  5. The reason I go to exotic snake shows put on by a VFW and just came from an exotic dancers club (a client, had to drop off some drawings) is that there’s always a story in one place or another. Always. Ever try to discuss something technical and complex surrounded by partially clothed women?

    Short of that, there’s a character or two that are worth remembering. Or at very least, the odd affair spurs something from memory. You gotta get out guy. I now have lifetime passes to the Gentleman’s Club on West Shore. You good?

    If a dirt dauber is all you come across each day, sooner or later, you become as dull as the determined but single-minded creatures building those little dirt cocoons. I purposely go to the Castle in Ybor with the twenty-one year old stepdaughter to the “experience” the vampires dressed in latex. It doesn’t get any more real than that, my sci-fy friend. My FaceBook feeds are equally bazaar, given the variety of my “friends”. I had no idea there’s spray on latex.

    I like weird people. Not because I’m attracted to their lifestyle, fetish or whatever. I’m not. I prefer vanilla ice cream over butter pecan, but strawberry is a close second. I like to observe how an exaggerated characteristic plays out. It helps me flesh out the essences and interplays of ordinary characters with more subtle interests and predilections. Helps me appreciate the girl next door, the one that was standing behind me at the gentlemen’s club dressed immaculately sexy, someone’s sister or daughter, who commands anything in her sight. Except the cigarette machine. That took an extra quarter.

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  6. I always told everyone, John, that you were a wild one. Me--I prefer a sedate evening on the couch, where I can lean over and scratch the head of a Lab or Rottweiler.

    Even my fantasy is filled with realistic characters, ogres and trolls that could be your next door neighbor whose most dramatic life challenge is the resentment the hold for the dragons who moved in next door.

    Of course there is the ocassional wizard with a Caesar complex.

    I like my entertainment closer to home. It doesn't have to wear latex.

    ;O) RMW

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