Wow, that was interesting!
I realize I said last week that on Tuesdays I would be starting my "Ten Stupid Writing Mistakes I Make" list, and I will. But I have to share this little tidbit with you, and it does concern a writing faux pas. So bear with me.
I had the most amazing . . . dream . . .
Six war commandos stormed the mall (yes, a mall) full of ordinary shoppers. But, wait! The customers were not ordinary people. Some of the people were an advanced alien race of fashion freaks, which I shall dub, the "Fashionista."
*Why are you rolling around on the floor? Oh, go ahead, get your giggles out. I can wait. Hum-hum-hum . . . done? Okay. *
The Fashionista were taking over the mall, infecting the humans and turning them into stylish divas, which I take it is bad for some strange reason. Normal weapons did not work on these hip alien folk. The only way to kill them was to rip off the front of their shirts. Just grab the collar and pull down. Their cheap, eco-friendly, wardrobe pealed off like a strip of paper as they fell to the ground defeated.
*What? Yes, this really was a dream I had. Let’s get back to the commandos . . . *
The commandos stormed the joint and started to rip off shirts from men and woman to uncover which were the real humans and which were the fashion aliens.
*Let’s stop again. All the guys out there, calm down. I know your jumping around in sheer delight at the thought of a male commando ripping off a female’s shirt, alien and human. Don’t make me get the garden hose out on you! *
The Fashionista weren’t mindless, slathering creatures. They were very organized, as they sent out their elite squads to take down the commandos. They all played a game of catch-me-if-you-can throughout the stores of the mall, which were mostly fashion outlets, dance clubs, a food court, and one section in the building that catered to the . . . ahem . . . the sensual pleasures of life. While in a spat, one commando becomes infected by the Fashionista virus, as his lover carried him in arms like a baby out of danger. She was strong!
*Here comes a sad part. Ladies, grab your tissues.*
The commandos now stormed the mall’s second floor with the woman warrior still carrying her sick man. Yet he was growing weaker by the moment, and she imagined him turning into an alien in her arms: a bloodsucker who would suddenly rear up and tear her throat out with his teeth. Crying, she doesn’t know what to do. She cannot leave him behind, but she also doesn’t want her throat ripped open. So she lowered his body to the tile floor as the other commandos gathered to go over their infiltration plan. Each person was given a sector to investigate (the female freedom fighter’s assignment was the south side into unknown territory), and then their leader asked the commandos which one of them was willing to carry their fallen comrade. Silence. None of the others wanted to do it and the woman was still torn in her mind about leaving her lover behind. Suddenly, they discovered the injured soldier up on his feet, feeling right as rain, and now willing to lead the group to freedom and glory.
Oh, no! The warrior princess tried to warn her patriots that this was a trap. Her man had gone into the fashion dark side - obvious, since his uniform had turned into trendy apparel. However, no one was listening as the Fashionista descended from the ceiling in an ambush. The group becomes separated. What was a girl to do?
She fought her butt off, that’s what. She threw shreds of cloth into the air while trying to get back to the other guys. But so many aliens impeded her. Then help arrived.
Yes, California Governor Arnold joined the fray, his bare chest showing these wimpy ETs who is the boss. He discovered that Red Sonja was not an alien (I bet you can guess at how he discovered this) and told her to go complete her mission. She marched off to her section as she busted through the outlet door to discover . . . grass.
Yes, I said grass . . . at least ten feet tall. The female amazon pushed her way inside with the Fashionista hot on her heels. Halfway through the greenery, she suddenly disappeared into a swirly blue hole at her feet. An alien portal. The woman was now in the mall courtyard, her body suspended in midair and chains around her ankles to connect her to the floor. There were other people next to her, but they were not her commando brethren. They were the Fashionista who had chased her, and the other aliens in the courtyard were holding a trial against them. Supposedly, two different factions of Fashionista with two different rulers lived in the mall. Yet, in the alien society, there could be only one (yes, I used to watch those "Highlander" movies when I was young.) So they had to decide which ruler would live and which would die before they reached their destination, which was a planet called . . . um . . . Ark-Akisen-Arkinenin or something. The messed-up part was that the two rulers were related: father and son.
Boom! An explosion in the courtyard and the woman was free from her chains. Yet she floated in midair. Curling her body into a fetal position, a white bubble surrounded her as she flew through the mall, ignored by the Fashionista who fought against each other. In time, the bubble floated into the . . . ahem . . . the sensual side of the mall as an alien bellhop directed her into a massage parlor and to a meeting with their own ruler, who happened to be the woman’s father.
*Go ahead, shake your head in awe and pity of me. I know. I know. Everything will be all right. Continue to bear with me through all of this. I am almost to the end of the dream.*
Well, her Pop was naked as a mole rat as he explained that he had no idea why he was there or how he became a king. He just figured he would stick around and enjoy the perks.
The woman grabbed the bubble and placed her father inside as she led him away, to the disappointment of the female massagers. The commando sneaked through the warring Fashionista until finding the exit to the mall. She blasted through the doors.
She was in the alien engine room.
Surprise! The mall was really a spaceship headed to the distant planet of . . . Aekinenininnnin? Whatever. The warrior woman left her father floating in the air next to the burly alien engineer - she figured Dad could probably talk his way out of trouble. Then she went off to complete her mission, which was?
Search for the female massagers to have a word with them about touching her dear old dad?
Help free the rebel Fashionista and decide the rulers' fate?
Find Arnold and tell him she has fallen madly in love?
Catch up to the rest of the commandos and tell them what she has discovered?
Tell her alien lover that she has another man now and he is invited to the wedding?
Discover the antidote for the Fashionista virus to save the other humans in the mall/spaceship?
Destroy the Fashionista and pick out that new pink ensemble she always wanted?
Decide to stay with her alien lover since now he will enjoy going clothes shopping with her?
The dream ends . . .
Okay, I realize this was harsh treatment for you. And the funny thing is, this was one of my boring dreams. I have others that are way more (strange?) entertaining. As for this story, I decided to give it a name and a place in my writing archives. I shall call the story, "Sing Mozart at the ballpark, Jack Benny!" It is the perfect name for the dream. It captures the very essence of the story.
Both are confusing.
Here is the moral - the writing tip - of the day. Make sure you know what you are writing about. Know what the plot is and have a clear path from point A (the beginning of the story) and point B(the end) without too much extraneous matter to sift through. I had so many plot curves going on in this dream that I felt like looking for a road sign when I woke up.
Sorry I was so cruel to you. Forgive me.
Planet A-Arkines-Arminesion-abbababbabkaka. Never Mind!