I hereby proclaim today as “give me your worst writing day”. This is one of the nifty things about having your own blog, the power to make such momentous, world-changing declarations. * Feel my power, people *
Anyway, about bad writing: Sometimes I do it on accident.
Sometimes, I pretend it’s on purpose.
Here’s mine “on purpose” from Monday November 1st, regarding Nanowrimo. On that day, I had left my purse beneath a park bench after a picnic lunch with my husband Eric, and I wanted to tell the ubiquitous Heidi Dorey about it [I have no idea what the word "ubiquitous" means, but Heidi likes big words, so I'm using it to impress her].
I couldn’t just do it “straight up”, though.
As a writer with a lot of writer-y friends, we read and critique each others work. We learn a lot about each other’s style, strengths, and “challenge areas”, and our friends teach us about ours, sometimes painfully so. That leads to a gentle ritual known as MOCKERY. Heidi engaged in this tradition recently when she took my lovely book, Leaving Annalise, and renamed it Lube & Anal Beads. (For more on this, click here) See the art in her “tribute”? She’s a genius, y’all.
So, I took my purse experience, and I wrote the most awful tripe I could, but pretending to write as HER writing AWFUL. Gets confusing, doesn’t it? But, if you keep Lube & Anal Beads in mind, I think you’ll get it. She wrote that to be an awful version of me. Trust me, the woman has a gift for alliteration — she once strung six P words together in one sentence that had only ten words. And didn’t realize it. You’ve read her work, though (if not, click here), and it is clear she writes twisted shit beautifully. I want to be her when I grow up.
Here’s the a piece I sent to Heidi skewering her lovely manuscript The Mourning Cloak, which I hereby nominate for participation in my self-designated, “give me your worst writing” day:
Pamela realized belatedly that she had left her purple purse poised beneath the park bench in front of the reflecting ponds at Hermann Park. Idiot. You’re too stupid to live. You’re so stupid they can’t even use your brain for scientific research when you die. Unless it is for research on stupid people who don’t deserve to live. If there is even such a thing. Which you don’t know, do you, because you’re so stupid. Bereft, Pamela beat her breast and berated herself volubly, greatly belittling herself. She pointed her startlingly bright hot pink bike at the Park and pedaled as precipitately as she could, which was less than she desiderated, because she’d never exercised a day in her life — worthless — and she nullified her mundane, pitiful, ineffectual efforts almost as soon as she inaugurated them.
So there’s my entry into the crappy writing hall of fame. Do you dare enter yours in the comments below? Do you? Do you? Feel free to skewer me (or Heidi) if you want, while doing so.
p.s. OF COURSE I know what ubiquitous means. It means Heidi gets around. And not like *that*, people, it means she is all over my flippin’ blog lately. Someday soon she will conquer larger spaces. Go, Heidi!
p.p.s. Heidi and I took a stab at this ourselves last week in the comments to A Motivational Speech to My Procrastinating Fellow Nano. Don’t expect us to do all the work for you this time. Post something hideous, people.