Tagged: clothes

Routine Sets You Free

People become writers for all kinds of reasons, but one thing no one ever says is that they just really love sitting and staring at a blank page. Writers want the freedom to create, to express, to put their ideas into other people’s heads. We don’t daydream about pecking on our keyboards; we daydream about readers saying our stories changed their lives.

Writing takes a lot of work. No matter what kind of process you use, whether it’s formal or informal or utter chaos, it’s a lot of work. Here in the Writing Cave, we do have an opinion about this matter. Our process is pretty formal. Not top-hat and cumerbund formal, but it wears a tie. Lots of people would say that the time and energy we spend on pre-writing might as well be spent on actual writing.

Maybe. There’s no one-size-fits-all solution, so do what you find works for you. But a simple trade-off of one task for another isn’t the only perspective to consider.

The thing we like about having a good process is the predictability it brings to the sitting-at-the-keyboard part of the job. We don’t need to devote energy to figuring out if we’re working on the right thing at any given moment, so all our energy can go into figuring out innovative new ways to torment our characters. The creative freedom lies in being free from the burden of infinite pathways.

The expression “having your work cut out for you” is generally meant as facing a big task. Well, if you’re writing a novel then you definitely are. What that phrase really means, though, is that the leather to make the shoes is cut to shape already — you might have lots of shoes to make, but the materials are set up and waiting. That’s what a strong process gives you.

A writing partner is someone who’ll make sure you have your work cut out for you.

The Groom Turned his Masked Face Back to Me

  • by jenapplied a laser wand
  • “Dad? Daddy?”
  • each guest puts on a pair of pajamas
  • gracious meals and gourmet tastes
  • pretty bananas

Tune in next time part 701      Click Here for Earlier Installments

The groom turned his masked face back to me, threw open his green tuxedo jacket, and gestured extravagantly at the aquarium belt encircling his waist. Muddy green eels swam in circles through his belt loops, past colorful strands of fake plastic seaweed.

“Very nice,” I said. If I understood the tradition correctly, this little show-and-tell meant that I wasn’t going to be stabbed. It was the best I could hope for under the circumstances.

The rest of the ceremony took place in total silence. No music. No speaking. The officiant and the happy couple did the whole thing in pantomime. This was very unlike any of my own weddings. Contrarian rites and ceremonies have dozens of sub-variants depending on multitudinous factors. If I was remembering correctly, a silent wedding meant that neither the bride nor the groom were native-born Contrarians.

After Mother and her beau exchanged earrings, they each applied a laser wand to the wedding certificate, drawing a stick figure man and woman. The officiant took the wand and drew a heart around their doodles, making it all legal.

Fleur appeared beside me. “Are you going to call him Father?” she whispered. “Dad? Daddy?”

“None of the above,” I whispered back.

The officiant glared at us to be quiet. Then he mimed changing his pants while eating something held in his fist. Fleur translated. “Now is the part where each guest puts on a pair of pajamas for the reception. It will be a grand party, in Contrarian tradition, with gracious meals and gourmet tastes, and a table piled high with bunches and bunches of really pretty bananas.”

“Bananas!” A banana buffet at a Contrarian wedding reception meant that the groom was an old friend of the son of the bride, and also bad at cyphers. “It can’t be!”

“I’m afraid it is,” said John, pulling off his mask. “And don’t even think about calling me Papa John.”

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Fleur Turned Me to Face Her

  • by jeneither stab you or laugh
  • I have become used to this propaganda
  • look at his new fish tank
  • apart from its odd shape
  • your telephone’s been ringing

Tune in next time part 697      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Fleur turned me to face her, and took a moment to straighten my uniform. When the silver dove was dangling just so from the brim of my hat, she twisted its beak to switch on the light inside. A deep red glow emanated from the bird’s eyes.

“As the groom walks down the aisle, you must tell a joke. When he reaches the altar, the groom will either stab you or laugh, depending on how good the joke is.”

“Stab me?”

“I rather hope he laughs, but it all depends on the joke.”

“Fleur, I’d like to say I have become used to this propaganda, this ‘Contraria is so extra’ stuff you always say, but–”

“If the groom laughs, you’ll be fine. He’ll invite you to look at his new fish tank belt, which, apart from its odd shape, is just like any other fish tank. The eels swim in circles around his waist. It’s quite something. You will need to compliment it.”

“Excuse me, Your Majesty,” a butler said, tapping Fleur on the shoulder. “Your telephone’s been ringing for nearly ten minutes.” He held out a silver tray with Fleur’s phone vibrating noisily on top. She reached for it.

“But who is the groom?” I asked, grabbing her hand. I needed to know how likely it was that the aquarium-belt man would try to stab me. I might be the new leader of the stand-up comedy battalion, but the emphasis was definitely on “new.”

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While Jim Waxed Rhapsodic about Agriculture

  • by jendo you really want to be the groomsperson to a deeply unreasonable person
  • spanked me on two nonconsecutive occasions
  • random forks lying around
  • glorious carnality, rapturous eroticism
  • so they can watch him peel his jeans off

Tune in next time part 695      Click Here for Earlier Installments

While Jim waxed rhapsodic about agriculture, I was finally able to work my thumbs deep into the blue fur and release the child safety lock on the panda head. A prerecorded message came from a speaker somewhere deep in the panda suit, a woman’s calm voice saying, “Witnessing a surprise mascot unheading can be traumatic. Please make sure no children are in the vicinity.”

We were in a petting zoo full of children, and Jim couldn’t wait. He had to get that head off. The zoo staff were quick to react. They summoned all of the mothers, and together they formed a human wall to screen the children and all the baby animals from any view of Jim. And just in time! He popped the panda head off and dropped it to the floor. He was exceedingly sweaty. Esmerelda unzipped the fur suit and he stepped out of it, steaming and dripping.

The mothers of all my children suddenly inched closer, attentive. “Ah,” I thought. “Jim’s a good-looking guy. They’re doing that so they can watch him peel his jeans off.”

And that’s just what he did, in an act of glorious carnality, rapturous eroticism, and decadent sensuality.

Just then Fleur strode up. She kicked the chilled fork out of her way, and said, “Why are there random forks lying around the petting zoo? And why is Jim naked?”

“Would you believe me if I told you those things were related?” Jim asked with a smirk.

Fleur ignored him and turned to me. “Why aren’t you at the wedding? You’re supposed to be the groomsperson.”

“Wedding?” I asked. “Who’s getting married?”

“A man who spanked me on two nonconsecutive occasions.”

Before I could ask any questions she took me by the arm and marched me away from Jim and the women. I asked myself, “Do you really want to be the groomsperson to a deeply unreasonable person, the sort of person who spanks a warlord’s daughter?” The answer was no, I did not want that. But did I have a choice?

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I Stared at the Teeth in my Palm

by jenMandatory Festivity Alert! Each year during the thick of the winter holidays, we search out seasonally appropriate sources for our Stichomancy Writing Prompts. This year, we’ve chosen to pull random lines from that 1964 Rankin/Bass stop-motion classic, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Off we go to the North Pole!

  • I’d like to be a dentist.
  • better known as the North Pole
  • I’m cute! I’m cute! She said I’m cute!
  • square wheels on your caboose
  • you’ll go down in history

Tune in next time part 653      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I stared at the teeth in my palm. “I used to think I’d like to be a dentist.” I dropped the horrible little things into a vase on Dr Ferguson’s mantel. “Right now I’m happy I’m not.”

“Stop stalling and put on the uniform,” Dr Ferguson ordered. “My orders are to start our encounter with Position #34.”

Position #34 is better known as the North Pole Vaulter, and that at least meant she’d be doing most of the work. I doffed my makeshift toga and stepped into the awful, scratchy pants. My copious body hair protruded through the crochet holes in a very unappealing fashion.

“Well don’t you look cute?” Dr Ferguson tried to suppress a laugh.

I feigned enthusiasm. “I’m cute! I’m cute! She said I’m cute!”

“Stop bellyaching and choose your slug.” She handed me the tray and finally took her coat off. She was naked underneath. After folding her coat into a neat square, she turned and placed it on the coffee table, and I spotted an unexpected tattoo.

“What’s with those square wheels on your caboose?” I asked.

“They were a gift from Chartreuse’s brother Deuce.”

“Deuce Pamplemousse? The disco artist?”

She nodded. “That’s who the third slug is for.”

I froze, even though I was standing practically in the fire. Dr Ferguson erupted in laughter. “I’m just kidding. He’s only here musically.” She tapped her phone, and hidden speakers in the rafters started pumping out the driving disco beat of “Hop on My Caboose.”

“Then who is the third slug for?”

“You! One for me, two for you. After tonight you’ll go down in history as the first person to use two icicle slugs at the same time!” She snapped on a latex glove and scooped up a pair of clear gastropods. “Well, maybe not history, but in the organization’s files anyway.

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I Gazed at the Moose

  • by jenlong puffy sleeves
  • bees cannot live when their stings are broken
  • dream about mousetraps and poison darts
  • result of our extra-marital affair
  • “I DESERVE this!”

Tune in next time part 649      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I gazed at the moose as snowy air stung the skin of my bare arms, jutting as they were from my duvet-toga. “What I wouldn’t give for some long, puffy sleeves,” I muttered.

“And some shoes?” Dr Ferguson asked, handing me a pair of slippers from the hotel’s spa.

I grunted my thanks and put them on. “Why the hell did you enter a moose raffle?” I asked.

“Everyone knows bees cannot live when their stings are broken.” She smiled the smile of a woman who has a recurring dream about mousetraps and poison darts, and, what’s more, enjoys it. Her statement would sound to many people like a coded message, but to me it sounded like a metaphor. But for what? I studied her from the corner of my eye as I stroked the moose’s velvety snout. It seemed quite docile.

“You’re trying to figure me out,” she said. “But don’t worry. The result of our extra-marital affair will be complete understanding. And maybe a little rug burn.”

“We’re not having an affair.”

“You won’t be able to say that tomorrow,” she said. “At least not honestly.”

“Lady, I don’t have time for this. I need to find my way off this island.” I held the reins out for her to take. “Your moose is ready.”

She ignored the reins. “Who do you think you are, turning me down? I worked hard to get to this desolate place to save you. I went against all of my training, and a direct order from your mother!” She stamped her foot in the snow. “I DESERVE this!”

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The Only Clothes I Had Available

  • by jenwe are famous for our punctuality
  • shoulder-length hair and softer features
  • “I can’t believe people actually buy this.”
  • a lot of celebrities
  • create a new surname entirely

Tune in next time part 645      Click Here for Earlier Installments

The only clothes I had available were the ridiculous tinseled ankle cuffs I’d worn to the wedding, and without a fan to lift the streamers they were not only useless but a tripping hazard. While Dr Ferguson watched with keen interest, I wrapped the relatively pudding-free duvet around myself like a big puffy toga and secured it with a tinsel belt.

“Surprisingly stylish,” Dr Ferguson admitted.

“In my family we are famous for our punctuality and our fashion sense,” I said.

“You look so much like your brother,” she sighed, “Only with shoulder-length hair and softer features.”

Which of my brothers did she mean?

From his seat on the ottoman, Spex held up an empty butterscotch pudding tin. “I can’t believe people actually buy this.” He wrinkled his nose. “Homemade is so much better.”

I tried to tune out his snotty comments and figure out why Dr Ferguson was so familiar. I frequent all the cool websites, so of course I know about a lot of celebrities in the ophthalmological world. She was not one of them.

Hildegard’s father stumbled over, drunk on peanut butter. “What a mouthful it will be to hyphenate Pamplemousse, van der Zhößængrüüpåbergschløssenfußmeister, and your last name. You ought to create a new surname entirely!”

Oh shit. How had I not known that Hildegard was a van der Zhößængrüüpårbergschløssenfußmeister? Had I known from the start she was a van der Zhößængrüüpåbergschløssenfußmeister things would have gone entirely differently.

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A Sharp Rat-A-Tat-Tat

  • by jeniconic metallic wardrobe
  • and last, but not least, Dr Ferguson
  • mermaid-themed birthday parties
  • in many a hipster coffee shop
  • just because you like to destroy

Tune in next time part 643      Click Here for Earlier Installments

A sharp rat-a-tat-tat on the door snapped me out of my reverie. I looked up from the note to see the door swing inward, and Chartreuse Pamplemousse strode into the honeymoon suite. I recognized him as much by his iconic metallic wardrobe as by his trademark goggles. An entourage of ophthalmological sycophants rushed in after him and stood in a semicircle at his side.

“I’m sure you all know my crew,” Chartreuse announced. “Spex, Lenz, Iris, and last, but not least, Dr Ferguson, my protégé.”

The bunch of them looked like the henchmen of some Batman villain who specialized in swindling children at mermaid-themed birthday parties. I’m sure you’ve seen people dressed like them in many a hipster coffee shop, but it was startling to see so many all gathered together on a team.

“Chartreuse!” Hildegard shrieked in delight. She ran to him, arms outstretched, but he deflected her with raised palm.

“Just because you like to destroy your own clothes with butterscotch pudding doesn’t mean I’ll let you destroy mine. Even if we are, apparently, now married.” He turned to me. “And us, too, I take it.”

“It wasn’t my idea,” I said. “None of this was my idea.”

Meanwhile I kept my eye on Dr Ferguson. There was something about her that was incredibly familiar.

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I Glanced Over My Shoulder

  • by jenprizes to promote mingling
  • licentious, creative French culture
  • into a leather diaper
  • she will marry a son of Zeus
  • “Hello, Doctor.”

Tune in next time part 619      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I glanced over my shoulder, hoping to see someone else — anyone else — the old man could be talking about. I saw no one. And before I could make my escape, the two of them descended on me with so much back-slapping and hand-shaking it was as if they were attending a conference where the coordinator was awarding prizes to promote mingling.

I gathered from their excited exclamations that they had mistaken me for someone else, an expert in the licentious, creative French culture they loved so much. Something about my horny necromancer getup gave them that impression, although they kept trying to turn my cape into a leather diaper, despite my numerous protestations.

“Pleasure to meet you, gentlemen,” I said, “But I need to return to my hotel.” The sooner I got away from these randy geezers, the sooner I could track down John.

“Hotel!” cried the marginally older of the two. “I won’t hear of it! Any son of Zeus Pamplemousse who dares to chance our fair Isles of Bumpengrynd will sleep under my roof!”

The other one nudged me in the ribs and whispered loudly, “He wants you to meet his daughter. The prophecy says she will marry a son of Zeus Pamplemousse, and you’re the first to show up. As soon as you blow the lid off this whole thing, he’ll get the two of you in front of the shaman.”

I had, of course, heard of Zeus Pamplemousse. Who hadn’t? And given my current attire it was understandable that people would mistake me for one of his relatives. It was even sort of flattering. But what my life didn’t need was any more complications. I turned to dart away and ran right into a beautiful woman with a familiar face.

“Hello, Doctor,” she said. “Daddy told me you’d be arriving today.” She hooked one elbow with me and one with the oldest old guy. “Shall we head home and discuss the wedding?”

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Before I Could Race After Tessa

  • by jencaptivate and confuse
  • shaped like a yellow submarine
  • suitcase full of raw meat
  • Uncle Gossamer
  • licking her partner’s fingers

Tune in next time part 609      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Before I could race after Tessa, a hand gripped me by the shoulder. A hand with long, elegant fingernails that glowed in the dark. Startled, I whirled around and saw two women dressed to captivate and confuse. The two of them shared a single luminous bikini, shaped like a yellow submarine but colored like a suitcase full of raw meat. In addition to their phosphorescent manicures and swimwear, they each wore a vibrantly glowing green wig.

“Hi,” said the woman on the right. “I’m Uncle Gossamer.”

The woman on the left stopped licking her partner’s fingers long enough to say, “And I’m Uncle Marigold. You’ll need to come with us.”

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