Can I? I’ve been wondering about this. I have written posts/stories about pinecones, killer chipmunks, scraps of fabric, Shakespeare, two rocks talking, invading fashion aliens, karaoke cats, mean boars, snow devils, ghost pets, werd imps, musical nights, lottery addictions, therapy sessions for writers, agents cursing out Blogger . . .
*puff-puff, takes deep breath*
. . . stalkers(current work-in-progress), apple hurling, dandelions, pranks, electric fences, bats, hockey, wedding disasters, credit card fraud, boyfriends, the human senses, wayward mail, theme music, toilet explosions, little red riding hood(my ms under consideration) . . .
*another gasp for breath - wipes sweat from forehead*
. . . bulldogs, gun shootings, marathon races, annoying neighbors, sexy avocados, ”School House Rocks!” videos, beehives, skiing accidents, rocket launchers, albino opossums, genres, imagination, fried chicken in ATMs, shingles, slaphappy children . . .
*wheezing coming from chest*
. . . fishing trips, headless chicken reapers, limericks, being color-blind, EPA arrests, contradicting proverbs, fruit, detached pigment in my eyes, wasps, sketches, car accidents, funky toenail polish, doctor’s visits, shattered windows, rural roads, magical slippers . . . etc-etc.
*leans back in seat exhausted - yet with a strange happiness*
And still I don’t believe I have told enough stories. For me to live up to my moniker as being “The Surly Writer,” I must make a weird, funny, ironic story out of everything while giving it no practical meaning whatsoever.
Why does this sound so easy for me?