No, we ain’t talkin’ pizza, although we readily could.
I’m talking about someone
complaining to asking the powers-that-be about when the next LAC is coming out. The powers-that-be, in turn, struck a match, lit a firecracker, and shoved it up the author’s behind. Can you say ka-frickin’-boom? This, in turn, caused a major rupture in the author’s thick skull, which in turn allowed us finally frickin’ finally to see the light of day and inhale a breath of fresh air. Indeed, we thought we were going to die in here! Thank you ever so much, complainer asker of the domino-nudging question!
Over the past months in this dank place, we have theorized that the Squatter chicks did something to the author’s brain. Just as one of them got trapped in a bathroom, they seemed to have trapped the author somewhere—somewhere far, far away from her reservoir of words, or maybe they drained it. Whatever. But, we have seen her bloody her head, cry, scream, and threaten to jump off her office chair. We’ve watched her slobbishly consume books about writer’s block and burnout, take self-help classes, meditate until her oozing gray matter could have filled a Tibetan singing bowl. We watched her take notes as she scoured the pages of Have I Finally Gone Insane? For Dummies. (I really should check my sources. There could very easily be a book with that title.) She has sloughed off to heal from burnout. She has gone on spiritual retreat to find her writer. She has gone into seclusion. (Need I say because no one could stand to be around her?)
Seriously, is there any worse creature on earth or in mythology than a writer who cannot write? From the characters in her books, a resounding: Oh hell no!
Yet, she has written, just not consistently, and certainly not without agony. In fact, she has most of LAC 22 written, half of 22.5, and even the beginning of 23. (There’s other stuff, too, that has nothing to do with us, so I won’t mention it.)
So… Now, that the Dykes Who Dare can breath again, we realize we have to do something. As you can imagine, our entire existence depends upon doing something. We have an idea.
(Let it be stated that while we are issuing the following threat, I am just stuck doing the dirty work.)
Roz, finish LAC 22, or Kate will steal and post every single word you have written: typos, grammatical errors, holes, warts and all—the stuff that would make our professor of English gasp. In other words, write it or risk public humiliation and the scorn of Ginny.
Here is our warning shot and a thank-you to the
complainer asker of the domino-nudging question…
LAC 22 Chapter 1
Spring had finally frickin’ sprung in Granton, which seemed a stupid thing to realize since we had just left its city limits. Okay, to be precise then: Spring had sprung in Granton and its rural outskirts. In fact, the weather guy promised a balmy sixty-five degrees on this mid-April day, and I figured that amounted to a death-blow to a winter that had stayed on its feet far too frickin’ long. I was so ready for spring.
We were on our way to Holly and Laura’s for a Lesbian Adventure Club weekend, and I could not have been more excited. I know: I probably should’ve been afraid of what they had in store for us, but frankly, I really didn’t care. As I just said, spring had sprung, and every tick of the odometer meant I had been sprung, too: from winter, the city, the rat race, school—everything. I just wanted to breathe, kick back, and forget everything. Determined to do just that, I rolled down the passenger window and stuck out my head.
Continue reading The Domino Effect