Had a great writing night last night. I killed. I got those stories and I made them my bitches. At first they were all like: but mooooooom, I don't waaannnnnaaa. They whined like the little bitches they were. But I showed those stories who was boss. I whipped them and when they cried, I whipped them some more.
And then I tried to go to sleep at 9am, and they wreaked their unholy vengeance on me. Oh-ho-ho, they said. You thought you were gonna get away with riling us all up like that! You thought you could just walk away and leave us now that we're all bum fucked and whip marked and left tied up with a huge boner.
Well see how you like this, Charlotte Stein: BAM! Seven pages of a new story I had hiding under my left testicle that has to be written now or YOU WILL DIE. Take that, beyotch. Write that story. NOW who's the boss, huh? NOW who?
That's what I thought.
Dear God, how I love almost being a writer!
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Wahey, crack that whip! The leather all-in-one suits you so well too ;).
ReplyDeleteOh man does the leather suit me. In my head, where I would never look like a sausage crammed into too little skin.
ReplyDeleteI think I was drunk when I posted that last blog. Drunk on writing for five million hours until my eyelids peeled off, because of course I don't actually drink.
Oh, the elation of having a good writing night after weeks of 500 a day or less drought!
How've you been doing, bebe?
Fair to middling, I think - no all-nighters but some good Sunday morning action today *winks madly in 'Carry On' style manner*.
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