Fiction Weird Science First/Personals Kitchen SyncronicitiesSatire

Writing, it would seem, would be an obvious occupation for the denizens of this site and the net as a whole. Yet, yet, but and yet, there are a whole lot of people in that whole who don't regard writing, y'know typing and putting words in a space for other people to read, as WRITING, the real stuff. They have this writer's brick that was installed by their teachers and parents and, sad to say, by WRITERS, the whole steaming pile of them.

Look, it's simple. Writing is talking. Writing fiction is telling lies. Narrative technique to a college student is not the same thing as narrative technique to a steel worker or a charwoman or a clerk at an inconvenience store. You have to find your own voice. Anyone who tells you that you don't have one, here, have one of mine, is lying and stealing your time. You don't have that much of it to begin with, so ignore those corrugated dictators of line and space and do your own thing. I mean, if you are not going to succeed doing it in a way that is uncomfortable, ie, their way, then you might as well fail doing it your way, ie, the real way.

Anyway, I write. I don't WRITE. I can't. I tried. I sucked. I've got the rejection letters to prove it. Well, I've got the rejection letters to prove that they thought I sucked. If they don't know what they are doing, then maybe I don't... and the odd direction in which I've turned was unnecessary... aw, piffle. Who am I, an Emily Dickens character?

Now, I don't know where this came from. It started as a name. That's all. The name of the club. I thought of it, wrote it down on a yellow Post-It note on my keyboard and there it stayed for about a week.

The Pregnant Widows Club, a novella.

Then I was in a conversation thread with a person about a collaborative effort they were working on. I was invited to participate. I said I had enough weird stuff of my own going on. The person said,'Like what?' I said I had all kinds weird crap on my personal space. Then I got to thinking...

The Pregnant Widows Club, a novella, part two.

...and Iridella sprang full-fledged from the nest of my subconscious and the story began.

The Pregnant Widows Club, a novella, part 3.

I had no idea where it was going. I'm still not sure where it went.
I don't care. That's what writing is, storytelling. The story rules.

The Pregnant Widows Club, a novella, chaptella 4.

Now, I know that there are inconsistencies in the story. If it were a documentary, it would probably be more inconsistent. Life don't run in straight lines. Neither do lies.

The Pregnant Widows Club, a novella, Chaptella five.

And that's what this is, a series of lies. I am lying to you. These people don't exist outside of the story. Any truth you find was something you knew all along, but it just hadn't floated to the top of the stew of your mind.

The Pregnant Widows Club, a novella, chaptella six.

Any philosophy or deep thinking that you think you find in here is most certainly part of your own catalog of personal problems. You deal with it. This stuff keeps me off the streets, and the community is really happy with that.

The Pregnant Widows Club, a novella, Chaptella 7.

I have been asked, time and again, 'How do you come up with this stuff and why do you write that way?' I don't come up with anything. Words are words, people are people. If you write enough words, eventually some of them will be about people. I write this way because my fingers tend to cramp easily and they curl up in this strange manner and I have to force them to find the right keys. Plus, I don't type the way you are supposed to...

The Pregnant Widows Club, a novella, Chaptella 8.

Some fingers never touch the keys they are supposed to. I don't even bother to look anymore. It seems to work and I don't have to correct as much as I used to when I typed. I use a lot less correction fluid, too.

The Pregnant Widows Club, a novella, Chaptella Nine.

I'm running out of things to say on this topic, so if I start to ramble, just ignore this and go on to the next chapter of the story.

The Pregnant Widows Club, a novella, chaptella ten, a la finito.

Ah, good, that was the last one. I was starting to despair. These entry windows seem so cramped. I know my fingers are. Bye.

This week's collation was written by some odd fellow I am no longer talking to.
If you see him, tell him I want my Betty Page colouring book back. He better not have filled in page 18!

This (whatever it is) chewed up and spat out by(tonsil revenge)!

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