ChrisOkay, before we get to the literary stuff, I’d like to know what you’re wearing right now. Please include undergarments, jewelry and piercings
HawkeUmmm… Nothing. (Just kidding.) Let’s see. Jeans, a green sweater, really cute matching unmentionables, socks, runners, eight rings, a tattoo on my right ankle, a medic alert bracelet, and a necklace with two Chinese luck-dragon symbols and my dad’s wedding band. By the way, my keyboard and monitor want to thank you for the coffee bath.
And you?
ChrisOkay, from the top down: a little hair-band holding my ponytail which I have to wear for the restaurant, but sometimes leave on for the office because I feel it makes me look like Steven Segal before he got fat and retarded… well, fat anyway. A gray Value Village sweatshirt and a Clydesdale t-shirt, also from VV I’ve gone commando for the last two years (and highly recommend it, just keep underwear in the glove compartment for “emergencies”), so no briefs or boxers or anything. So really, everything I’m wearing (even my socks) is from VV--except my running shoes They’re my old squash shoes. The guy who used to own the blue-jeans I’m wearing for the first time today must’ve died or put on weight or something. I mean, the zipper works great and there are no holes. No holes! Except where my legs go in and come out of course. No piercings. No tats. No jewelry either. But, oh yeah, a condom--a new condom. It said on the package to put it on as soon as foreplay has begun. And I think it has now, don’t you?
Where are you right now? I don’t mean your address or the name of the institution or anything, just describe your surroundings, including people.
HawkeOoo purrrrrrrrrrrrrr Come here. *ahem*
Well, it’s not exactly an exotic setting. I’m in my kitchen, obviously at the computer desk which is situated in the corner of the room beside the patio doors that lead to the deck, my eclectic collection facing me on the desk’s shelves. Wish they’d stop staring at me. It’s unnerving, really. Smiling flowers and Anubis and two mice on a log and a tiny teddy bear and angels and fantasy pictures on the wall… and the dragons. The dragons!
Wha’der ya mean--institution?
Did the condom come with the jeans? Scratch that. I don’t want to know. Pretty sure no one else does, either.
So to back at-cha, describe the basement… I mean, your surroundings, including people.
ChrisDid you just purr, and tell me to come closer? …Wow, are these things ever stretchy! And yes, this one’s brand new. Value Village doesn’t carry “previously enjoyed” ones. And although I’m not above rinsing them out, being as today’s Valentine’s day, I thought I’d crack open a fresh package. Check it out. Notice that I’ve unselfishly fitted it so that the patented sensu-ribs are on the outside. Why are you squinting? You didn’t mention glasses or contacts earlier.
I’m at “work.” My desk, which is really a wooden table raised up on 2x4 blocks, is littered with numerous ATM and financial gateway manuals in white binders, 2 books on Qnx ‘C’ programming, 2 modems (neither of which has been used in years), my lunch (2 bananas), a cement stained-glass patio stone (sun), 3 ceramic cups (one with a splash of green tea, one half full of twist ties, and one with a dozen or so button-pins with stuff like “I’m surrounded by idiots” and “You’re welcome to your wrong opinion” on them), yellow post-its (of forgotten phone numbers), a can of Gouda lentil soup, a pair of hand exercisers, a phone (I mostly have no clue how to work), a few pens, an antediluvian 3.5 floppy and a CD, a thing that looks like a mousetrap but is really for holding sheets of paper that was given to me by my secret Santa 3 years ago and that I’ve never used, and 9 Transit Petroleum gas cards I was testing a Fuel Management System with back in 2004. In front of me is a cheap beige loveseat. To my far right is a real desk with two XBase manuals on it that hasn’t been sat at in almost a year, a metal cabinet full of obsolete documentation and covered with knickknacks, my favorite of which is a carving of a female hand giving someone the finger, followed closely by a photo of my long dead Himalayan cat, Princess (a.k.a. Poo), when she was a kitten and an even older photo of my wife standing on a beach in Tofino, BC and looking very skinny indeed. There’s a smaller filing cabinet in front of me containing herbal painkillers and stimulants, sunglasses and chocolate almonds, all of which I’ve been known to horde and/or collect There’s a cork-board with a picture of a guy in a suit with his head up his ass and an “anti-stress kit” which is really just a sheet of paper with the words “BANG HEAD HERE” printed inside a circle, 4 computers (2 of which I never use), a fichus in a 5-gallon pot and 2 hanging pathos. Oh, and a cardboard box full of Zehrs bags.
I’m sorry. I can’t seem to hit the ball back in a very timely fashion. But maybe now that I’ve lost everyone, we could fool around a little? Tell me, who was your first? Your second? No names of course--but scenarios, and don’t spare the details
Hawke…
…
…
Thank you, Chris, for that… very detailed… and enlightening… uhh, what was the question again?
Okay, let’s get it on. I mean, let’s get down to it. I mean… How about giving whoever is still reading a look at what makes Chris Miller tick. Describe yourself as person. As a writer. What are your likes and dislikes? What or who motivates and/or inspires you? Favorite and least favorite authors, and why. Favorite color (for no reason at all). And lastly, who was your first and second? Details, please. Inquiring minds want to know.
ChrisI’m kind of loath to describe myself as a person. I find that people who say, “I’m the kind of person who [whatever],” almost never are. So add them (me) to my dislikes. I also dislike the focus of the publishing industry on celebrity as opposed to product (Not just in writing either.) One of my favorite authors is Harper Lee. She only wrote one novel: a classic. She could’ve published anything after that, but didn’t. Compare this to Stephen Donaldson’s brilliant and successful first novel, “Chronicles of Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever,” followed closely by four more in the series (each much better than the next). Then his incomprehensibly horrible “The Gap Into [this and that]” sci-fi series, book one of which his publisher, while acknowledging was a very bad standalone novel, suggested become (and so became) the beginning of a truly awful and protracted *ilogy.
To me, the writing’s the thing. One of my favorite poems ever was published in a PC Magazine fifteen years ago. It was called “Ode to Random J. Hacker” and was supposed to be a funny parody of Yates or someone. I only read it once or twice, but bits and pieces from it still surface, still haunt me. I can’t find it on-line. It was written by “Anonymous.” The author never took “credit.” Whoever you are, I apologize for my butchering of the following snippets, and for my memory’s many omissions. Even so, your work continues to move and define me.
Let us go now, you and I
For fast Chinese and talk of years gone by.
#
Of frantic ten-hour hacks
To get that midterm off our backs.
#
Of code that twisted, doubled back and bent
And finally, set into cement,
Came through with an underwhelming B.
#
Don’t ask me what it was,
I don’t care what it does,
Just how it does it.
#
Wakened to my terminal’s insistent feep,
I see I’ve been logged in since late last week,
Take another slug of Jolt and fall asleep.
#
I grow old, I grow old,
Dbase II and Wordstar are no longer sold.
#
I’m no Bill Gates, nor would I want to be.
I’d rather parse the fish than own the knife.
Imagine, owning Moby Bux,
But chained to forty-million lusers,
What a life.
#
On Bix the experts come and go,
Bragging about how much they know.
#
Goateed, pallid, overweight,
Willing to pull a second shift, then, hell, a third,
To keep some session from a deadlocked state.
At times, to put it mildly, unrestrained,
At times almost a nerd.
#
I’ve heard the networks singing, sending packets each to each,
Nothing for the likes of me.
Where will I go, what will I do?
Dare I try to teach?
To take my handheld portable and hack upon the beach?
#
We hackers dream our hacker’s dreams
Of faster search and sort-merge schemes.
And linger by our leading edge,
Never wondering what is pending in the cache,
Till practice hurtles past us and we crash.
David Foster Wallace is my favorite author. I like how he’s managed to transcend the rules of not only form and grammar, but of publishing--his idea-density, how he “becomes” his characters, how his brilliant 1200 page sci-fi, “Infinite Jest,” according to legend, had marketeering types freaking, begging him to wrap it up. I hope he continues to write only when (and as long as) he has something to say, even if it means he has to starve or get a job--even if it means he never writes another word.
So what got you into writing Hawke? Why do you write? What, in your wildest fantasies, would you hope to accomplish though it?
Also, I’d like you to describe your job, what you do. I’m envious of anyone whose profession actually matters, who helps others. (All I do professionally is implement quasi-legitimate salami scams to separate the financially challenged or apathetic from their $.) I know how private and discreet you are, but I’d really love a hypothetical case study, sort of a personal composite example. Please. I touch your cheek.
HawkeTo be honest, I’ve been writing so long that I don’t really know what first got me into it. I suppose it was a combination of several things: the need/love of writing, a story to tell, being raised pretty much as an only child--my two older sisters grown and gone before I got to know them; an overactive imagination and no outlet, overprotective parents, a crush on my elementary English teacher, a desperate desire to please my family (which I never did) and find my niche (which I never have). I continue to write for the same reasons, mostly for the love of writing. But it’s also the need to control something, if that makes sense. To be taken. Transported. Swept up and swept away. They say the mark of a good work is to make the reader forget they’re reading. That’s true. But I’d add that the mark of a productive work is to make the writer forget they’re writing. That’s not to say all productive work will pass the mustard, or will even be liked. But oh the power of the written word. The ability to change views, hearten, steel, sting, inspire dreams. To bring alive hope and voice and focus and thought to whatever or whomever has none. Can anything (short of physically inserting someone into another’s shoes) do the same?
I don’t think in terms of what I hope to accomplish through writing, but rather, of what writing has done for me. Anything that comes out of it is just icing
As far as my job goes, there isn’t all that much to tell. I work with underprivileged/at-risk teens in a public middle school. I mostly listen and try to guide; it’s the kids who do all the work. Since every case is as individual as each teen, I can’t really give a hypothetical case study. What I can say, though, is that I’m very proud of “my boys.”
Now, to turnabout What got you into writing? Why do you write? What, in your wildest fantasies, would you hope to accomplish though it? Also, what is your definition of “success”? Please. I touch your cheek.
ChrisIt’s funny, but I just found out at lunch yesterday that my dad has a Masters degree in English Lit--that his (now lost) 150 page thesis was on the works of 18th century poet, Christopher Smart, as influenced by the library books he (Smart) borrowed after his release from St. Luke’s Hospital Asylum--that I am his namesake. So my dad’s 80, and only yesterday do I find out he has an English Lit degree and named me after Christopher Smart. Maybe this is because my dad’s never written any fiction It’s also funny that my dad didn’t find out until last year that I’ve always known I was going to be a writer. Maybe because English Lit is about the only faculty I never took any courses in, and because I’ve never “wanted” to be a writer. I’ve wanted to be everything from a great spiritual leader to a drug addict to dead, but never a writer. Writing’s just something I’ve always known I would do. Only in the last few years have I begun to enjoy writing close to as much as having written. Nothing makes me feel stupider than writing. There’s nothing like sitting with fingers poised over a keyboard, staring at blank page cum screen, to drive home the fact that I don’t know shit about anything, and that every idea that trickles into my head is a miracle
I fantasize all your usual writerly fantasies: wealth, fame, adulation--adoring nubile females pushing and shoving in long lineups pursuant to emotion-packed readings so that I might sign their intimate body parts before the finger-paint runs out--that sort of thing. I also fantasize making, if not the world (which I’ve sort of given up on), then one or two people’s lives more interesting and tolerable and understandable. I fantasize connecting to others through my writing. I fantasize being loved, but loving is my definition of success So I put my hand over yours there on my cheek, I trap it there.
Tell me, Hawke, why are you proud of your boys? Do they impact your writing? Hmmm. Maybe that’s a stupid question. I mean, how could they not? What I mean is, how do they impact or inspire your writing?--by which I mean your thinking, your worldview? What is your worldview anyway? What is it that keeps you from playing Russian roulette until you win?
HawkeI’m proud of “my boys” because of who they are. Some have gone through what most people could never imagine, yet they’re still good kids with good hearts who see things differently than everyone else, see with eyes far older than their age. But still, they see with hope. Unlike others their age, these take nothing for granted, not even help--meaning they appreciate literally everything and even look out for others who’ve slipped under the radar and letting me know, often taking them under their wing themselves. Kind of a domino effect that I can‘t really explain. All I know is how very honored and humbled I am to have their trust, and how they amaze me each and every day.
I think my main characters are bits and pieces of all of “my boys” rolled into one, which would explain why I write predominantly in the male POV. And absolutely they inspire me, both as a writer and as a person. As for me, my worldview has been jaded for a long time. But the boys are such that they’ve given back far more than I could ever give them Kind of reminds me of the saying Hope springs eternal or perhaps Strength from adversity.
What keeps me from playing Russian Roulette until I win? I don’t know that we don’t play it every day. I mean, if you subscribe to the chaos theory (Butterfly Effect), then who knows the wheel you set into motion; when that morning’s drive makes you forget to smile at someone you pass in the hall which puts them in an off mood, who in turn is short with somebody else without thought, who in turn goes about their day a bit put out and distracted and ends up snapping at another picking their kid up from the daycare at the end of the day, who in turn acts up in the back seat because they’ve picked up on their parent’s bad mood, who then turns in their seat to reprimand said kid instead of stopping at the intersection you’re crossing as you make your way home. (Yes, I think about things like that.) So I don’t pull my hand away. Instead, I smile.
The same questions back to you. And I’ll also add (if I may be so bold as to borrow from strangedaze and hisgaze’s pingpong): does your personal life influence what you like to read and write? If not, then what does? And thirdly, what are some of your eccentricities that readers might want to know about? Like for example what would be the largest object you’ve ever had inserted into your ass?
Chris(Note: I’ve taken the liberty of making a few minor edits throughout this conversation as a whole, and to your last entry in particular. Nothing that affects the voice or flavor or tone or anything. Just the odd bit of grammar, such as missing words and whatnot. You probably won’t even be able to spot my alterations, they’re so picayunish.)
In rereading, I was again impressed with your motivation for writing, i.e. to influence and affect others’ thinking. Yes, yes that is indeed a huge part of why I write too. Like you say, is any art form more compelling?—more literal?—and yet, at the same time, more symbolic? Although I tend to try more to persuade people that they are wrong about whatever it is that they believe in and hold dear than to convince them that my take is right. Maybe if I mature as a writer, I will discover some truths of my own.
Almost exactly 5 years ago, on Valentine’s day morning, I had what’s called a colonoscopy. I was wearing your basic flimsy open-assed hospital gown. There were four young female nurses on hand (which seemed excessive) all flirting with the cute young Guelph internist who’d be “doing me.” The treatment room was chilly. Residue from the few mouthfuls of green Jell-o I’d been allowed to indulge in the prior evening (after double oral enemas had cleaned me out) was trickling from my ass and I was shivering as much from nervousness as cold. A needle was already taped to a vein in my right hand. I was asked if I wanted “something.” My current wife is prescribed Lorazepam for her fear of flying. But when we went to the Dominican, we each dropped one. My ex-wife was once prescribed Demerol tablets for her migraines, which we then crushed up and snorted. So I knew I liked that too. So I said yes. After he hit me, I felt very droll indeed. Even though it was hard to form words, I tried to join in their Valentine’s day banter. Actually, I felt like the life of the party: butt-naked, shit-faced slurring, leaking green Jell-o out my ass not withstanding. The internist said I’d probably fall asleep, or at least forget everything that transpired. But I never did. I watched the whole 4-foot adventure into my colon on a color monitor and remember every word that was spoken. Afterward, I read a paperback in recovery. Later, at home, I played Go on igs—and kicked ass. So the reason I might not schedule another colonoscopy is not because I mind the day of squitters and fasting, or having a camera snaked through the entire length of my large intestine up into my ilium, but because I’m afraid I enjoy it too much. But, like this woman pastor at some spiritualist church in Cambridge I attended a few times in a failed attempt to salvage post-divorce relationship #10 quoted from someone else: “You live between the trapeze.” And like Saul Bellow said: “Use your life. That is your material.” So maybe I will, too. Anyway, I hope and believe this answers all of your above questions.
Although, I’m curious, I won’t presume to ask about any colorectal adventures you might’ve had. But I’m also curious about that crush you had on your English teacher. How’d that pan out? Was he your first serious crush? If not, then who? Maybe you could tell me a little about your first real kiss. Maybe you can’t. What are you reading right now?—as in literature-wise and not this of course. Do my hands feel cold to you?
Hawke(You didn’t think I wouldn’t notice “Like for example what would be the largest object you’ve ever had inserted into your ass?” lol I’m pretty sure I’d never ask that, actually. But please edit away—absolutely. I‘m sorry you have to. Should have checked it myself. Meh.)
The crush ended, predictably, and yet not. As I said, he was my elementary teacher. Grade 6, I believe. No word of a lie, the man looked /sounded/acted exactly like Paul Michael Glaser (Starsky) from the original Starsky and Hutch TV series. (To complete the picture, his best friend (another grade 6 teacher) looked exactly like Hutch So really, what was an impressionable young girl to do but fall for him/them? And yes, I still remember their names, being one of the chosen few privy to that info.) Then came the morning when he failed to show up. Naturally the class had no intention of informing the office of that, instead spending the next few hours going literally mad… until the principal pulled an intercom reverse, told us all off, and then demanded to know what we’d done with him. (Okay, so it was more like Where is he?--it just sounded better then the other way. So anyway…) Not long afterward, “Hutch” and the gym teacher found him in the janitor’s room directly across from ours and, with the entire class looking on like dumbstruck witnesses of a horrific accident, practically carried him out of the room and off to the office, his body completely soaked with sweat, his face and neck beet red. I never saw him again after that. Nor did I find out if it had been drugs or some medical condition (although the rumor mill leaned more toward drugs).
My first serious crush was in junior high with a boy so full of himself that he barely knew I existed. My first real kiss happened during the first year of high school. I don’t remember much about it, other than it was late evening and I didn’t expect to be kissed, so I didn‘t have a clue what to do. That, and he was a horrible kisser, almost breaking my nose and drowning/suffocating/crushing me all at the same time.
I had started Anansi Boys by Neil Gaiman but had to give it up when my muse got back to work, having made it a practice never to read published works while writing in case it subconsciously spills over into my own. Will get back to it though… eventually! Same questions back to you. And your hands feel very warm to me. Am I blushing?
ChrisNo worries You’ve spotted tons of my typos. I can’t even remember what my fix was anymore, it was so trivial. So that “ass” thing could’ve been it. Wow, I’m surprised you still like guys, what with your first two crushes both turning out to be gay stoners and then that slobbery kiss.
I’m also surprised by your practice of never reading while writing. I like having my style (and even thinking) influenced by the various authors I love the most. When I was younger I used to read shitty novels because they made my own efforts seem less bad. But now I only read (recreationally) what I think will influence me in a positive way. I steal others’ muses if I can (fickle, non-monogamous creatures that they are). It’s also a great way to broaden your voice and repertoire I think. In software there’s a saying that any language that doesn’t change the way you think about programming isn’t worth learning I’d almost say any “book” that doesn’t change the way you think about writing isn’t worth reading. Even deliberately trying to mimic what works best for you is a great way to reverse-engineer and thereby understand how and why it does. Plus, when aren’t you writing?—if you get my drift.
I think I was 17 when I got my first decent kiss. She was 21, liked to baby talk, and snorted when she laughed. At first it was really cute and endearing and sweet, then it got on my nerves. Then I went after her roommate and she dumped me. Doh! Maybe I have a fever… or something. No, no I’d say you’re more flushed than blushing. You seem out of breath too. Are you pissed off? Ohhhhhh…
HawkeGay stoners? lol No, not at all.
Ah, but you didn’t say anything about decent kiss. You said real kiss. Methinks you’re not playing fair here.
I’m an avid reader between works. Voracious, really. But since I tend to have a lot of plates spinning at once, reading while writing isn‘t for me. And I am writing right now. Sorta. In fact, I have four short stories on the go. Okay, so they’re the same short stories I’ve had on the go for the last little while. Even so… *sigh* Clearly I’m not at my usual speed. Guess I need to start pushing myself more instead of waiting for the stories to germinate on their own.
Maybe you do have a fever… or something.
You’re obviously creative. What other creative mediums have you used to express yourself (e.g. painting, drawing, wire jewelry making, etc.)? If you could impart three things to the next generation of writers, what would they be? And lastly, describe Chris Miller’s perfect day.
ChrisWell my first outlet was spool-knitting. Basically you just braid yarn into this long snake through a spool. Then I did some drawing and painting, just skipping over the whole “realism” thing because I sucked at it. Played classical guitar for years. Had a decent repertoire, even some compositions, all forgotten and lost now. Software used to be a creative outlet for me and I even had some machine language packages published for the C-64/128 by Spinnaker, Pro-line and RTC. In fact, I just googled one:
From
http://www.zimmers.net/bbs/docs/ebbs.txt:6) Chris Miller : Buddy 64/128 author. I must say this is the BEST assembler I have ever used. I use it exclusively now and without it EBBS wouldn't have xmodem or the machine language support file.
Wow, over 25 years old and still “out there.” I used to love programming, did it 16 hours a day. Now it’s just a pain in the ass though. The older I get, the better I used to be. But enough bragging.
I’m not sure my perfect day is possible on Earth any longer. Or maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be: imperfect Sometimes I see writers as oysters. We just lie there getting tossed around by the ocean until a little spec of grit or sand or whatever makes its way in, and which in order to make tolerable we construct a pearl around, and which, to continue the metaphor, leads to our being pried open and harvested. So to write, I think you have to be easily irritated, but also sort of passive and enduring, and not averse to being pried open.
I only have the following for the next generation of creative writers. Write for love By this I don’t mean so that lots of people will love you. I mean so that you can love them. This is true of any art. I think Jimi Hendrix, for example, got it backwards in his no doubt personal, “…searching for his heavens above, while dying to be loved…” lyrics (Easy Rider). Being loved is nice. But it really doesn’t feel much. I mean millions of people can love you to pieces and still not be enough. It’s never enough. So use your art to try to connect to and understand—and love—others. Loving—that’s what really schmecks—and that’s where this old hippie thinks it’s at.
So, before I throw all your questions back at you, my secretive Hawke, I want to publicly thank you for encouraging me to compile my first collection, then for reading and editing and reviewing the almost 3 dozen pieces vying for a spot in it, and then creating its absolutely kick-ass cover. I know we’re flirting and teasing and fooling around like I guess you’re supposed to in these things. But here I’m serious. Thanks for giving my art raison d’etre. (That there’s French for “reason to be” I think, and even though it’s about all the French I’ve retained from 6 years of classes, still makes me sound very worldly and cultured, don’t you think?)
Now I lick your nose. And back to you with your excellent questions.
HawkeI have to answer them? I thought asking would be enough. *grin*
My first outlet was music--specifically singing. I was in the choir every year of school and, afterward, a small band. There is a cunning way to sing in front of people Basically, the lights man would blind me so I couldn’t see the audience. I also sketched, but with Paint Shop Pro 8 it’s now manips (picture manipulations).
My perfect day would be to have a day to myself, a pot of coffee, and a really good, fully cooked idea. (Nowhere near as eloquently worded as your answer, mind, but… well, there you go.) Oh yes, and I’d also like to sleep in and, later, talk to my friends. What? Too much?
I’d tell the next generation of creative writers not to write for the money or to be a household name. If you do, you’re in for a rude awakening. Do it because to not do it is inconceivable. And while you’re at it, never stop learning. I should also say here that writing has given to me more than I’ve ever given it. Just look at the wonderful people I’ve been fortunate enough to meet; people I would have never met otherwise, had it not been for writing.
I thank you and I appreciate your very kind words, but I think you have it backwards. It was all my pleasure, so I thank you. Thank you, you dear, sweet man, for sharing your work with me, for listening to my thoughts, and through it all, for honoring me with your friendship. That means more to me than gold. Now I kiss your cheek.
So, when are you going to cut your hair?
ChrisWhen I was in University I once went two years without brushing or cutting my hair or beard (Yes, I washed!) It gave me something to do in class: twirl the ‘stache, pull knots apart. What I’m saying is, don’t hold your breath. But probably in May I’ll prune it back for the hot weather.
Had a thought for a themed “fun” competition here like the LM over at WF. But instead of one theme, there would two—randomly disparate ones. Because I think when a writer draws only one “shape,” it almost always winds up kind of anecdotal and shallow. But when she draws two very dissimilar shapes (the further apart the better) and then loosely connects them (like the way you draw a cube by connecting the corners of two squares), you get a cool 3-dimensional object, or, to lose the metaphor, a story with much more depth and meaning. What do you think of that idea?
I’d kiss your cheek too but, with you kissing mine, my lips won’t reach. I hope you don’t give me a hickey. My ex wife gave me a neck hickey very early in our “courtship.” Okay, maybe too early—technically—leading to the hardest punch I’ve ever taken in the face. Saw stars and everything.
So what kind of band was it? I mean what kind of music? What kind of gigs? Write your own music? Any recording? Since I know you own horses, I’m guessing CW? Too stereotyping?
HawkeI like your “fun” competition idea. One could really run with it. It’s much like an original idea (two or three or five previously unrelated ideas that come together and create something new), only with specifics. More depth and meaning--yes. More of a thinker and at the same time allowing for more variations. Where do I sign up?
My music tastes are much like what little I collect--eclectic. But no, it wasn’t country music; more mainstream, really. It’s a misconception that horse people automatically like country music. Reminds me of competitive cattle owners/showers, who used to blast their own individual “theme” music while they pulled up as a way to announce themselves Most played rock. A few, classical. Only one played country, specifically Fox On The Run.
What is your favorite word? Least favorite word? Favorite curse word? And now, I give you the floor. Please add anything you‘d like, or anything you wish you had been asked in regard to yourself or your writing.
ChrisThe floor? You give me the floor? Couldn’t we just both sleep in the bed? If you’re nervous maybe you could put me in one of those bundling bags like Eliza did Travis in your story? Wouldn’t that be fun?
Glad you like the competition idea. This whole “connecting disparate things” in writing is a recent almost epiphany for me.
My favorite word is “yes” if I’m asking a lover if she’s into it, and “no” if I’m asking my dentist if I need a root canal. In other words, context defines my favorite word… although I’ve always been attracted to “spoonerism” for some reason.
No Hawke, you’ve let me rant sufficiently I feel. And the deadline is upon us. I feel good. I feel spent. I need a smoke. I wish I smoked. I miss smoking. I miss red meat. I miss… ah, fuck it. I want to thank LiterayMary for giving me the opportunity to interact with you here in this way. I want to thank you for letting me too, of course. Thanks for the dance sweetie. It was a lot of fun. Thanks for being you, for sharing your beautiful self with me.
Screw the floor. Your side’s getting cold. Hop in. Tie this sucker up.
HawkeNo need for a bundling bag.
I feel good too. And I smoke… mmm, maybe later. Thank you to LiteraryMary for allowing us to play. And thank you, you dear man, for the dance and for sharing your wonderful self with me. It was a pleasure.
*hops in*
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