I changed gears to focus on writing a graphic novel. Most of my creative output for the past week has been reading and absorbing the craft of writing comics. Later this week I am going to a local Meetup for comic artists and writers.
Each day I did produce some funny ideas, here are my top five:
* I like a solid belch where you can hear the vocal cords slapping together like a Predator mating call
* Dr Seuss book on pre-teen fashion: Crocs in Socks
* What is the Venn diagram of people with tattoos and car owners with 5+ bumper stickers? Is it just a circle?
* Going to a concert of a band I never heard of is great; I always try to guess who is in the band and who is a roadie.
I'm going to expand the "Dr Seuss Crocs in Socks" idea in case the comics creators at the Meetup want to do a "group project."
I had a slow week because of business related to my martial arts online school, but here are some of the things I wrote down.
The Big Idea: Write a plot outline for “A Christmas Carol Unwoke.” The story rewritten by Ron DeSantis. Scrooge doesn't change from being cruel and greedy to being woke at the end of the book, he doubles down.
A friend completed chemo treatment yesterday for breast cancer. She celebrated with a boob cake. A cake with boobs drawn on it. I was offered some but I just tested the texture and then sucked on the icing for a while.
Ron DeSantis has kicked off his presidential campaign. To celebrate he stood outside a women’s restroom and demanded to check the genitalia of each person trying to enter. Ron sure is obsessed over sexual orientation, isn’t he? Maybe he needs more boob cake.
My wife is meeting some of her girlfriends tonight for dinner. I told her I wish I had some girlfriends to meet for dinner. She said, “Go for it.” That’s the type of communication needed for an enduring marriage.
I got a new iPhone 14 a week ago. Not just an iPhone 14, but an iPhone 14 Pro Max. Yeah, baby. Go big or go home. Now I can join all the younger whippersnappers in taking dick pics. My new phone has a telephoto lens.
I heard someone talk about an older friend who has a serious illness and is "actively dying." What a strange phrase. "Actively dying." Are they taking up jogging? Handball? Thinking, "Well, time to die so let's hop on this recumbent bike and get it over with." (Expand this more into a bit)
I don't have time to die. I can be dead when I'm dead.
Another interesting phrase is, "He up and died." Really? He up and died? Seems like he died and down. (Play with this idea)
I'd walk a mile to get a mile away from you.
That's not a very good list. I need to write more this week. I'm also writing my philosophical memoir. I wrote a chapter about my parents and grandparents. The lead paragraph in the chapter is:
My mother had a tendency to throw shoes. She was born in a tiny town called Wayland in the hills of Eastern Kentucky in 1933 to a family in which alcoholism, domestic violence and shoe-throwing were skills carefully handed down from one generation to the next. She could whip a high-heeled shoe across a living room floor with the accuracy of a master ninja hurling a throwing star. My dad’s head was one of her favorite targets, and she could open up a gash. My mother’s name was Clotine, pronounced “Clo-teen,” and she was the only woman I ever met with that name. One was enough.
I changed gears to focus on writing a graphic novel. Most of my creative output for the past week has been reading and absorbing the craft of writing comics. Later this week I am going to a local Meetup for comic artists and writers.
Each day I did produce some funny ideas, here are my top five:
* I like a solid belch where you can hear the vocal cords slapping together like a Predator mating call
* Dr Seuss book on pre-teen fashion: Crocs in Socks
* What is the Venn diagram of people with tattoos and car owners with 5+ bumper stickers? Is it just a circle?
* Going to a concert of a band I never heard of is great; I always try to guess who is in the band and who is a roadie.
I'm going to expand the "Dr Seuss Crocs in Socks" idea in case the comics creators at the Meetup want to do a "group project."
I had a slow week because of business related to my martial arts online school, but here are some of the things I wrote down.
The Big Idea: Write a plot outline for “A Christmas Carol Unwoke.” The story rewritten by Ron DeSantis. Scrooge doesn't change from being cruel and greedy to being woke at the end of the book, he doubles down.
A friend completed chemo treatment yesterday for breast cancer. She celebrated with a boob cake. A cake with boobs drawn on it. I was offered some but I just tested the texture and then sucked on the icing for a while.
Ron DeSantis has kicked off his presidential campaign. To celebrate he stood outside a women’s restroom and demanded to check the genitalia of each person trying to enter. Ron sure is obsessed over sexual orientation, isn’t he? Maybe he needs more boob cake.
My wife is meeting some of her girlfriends tonight for dinner. I told her I wish I had some girlfriends to meet for dinner. She said, “Go for it.” That’s the type of communication needed for an enduring marriage.
I got a new iPhone 14 a week ago. Not just an iPhone 14, but an iPhone 14 Pro Max. Yeah, baby. Go big or go home. Now I can join all the younger whippersnappers in taking dick pics. My new phone has a telephoto lens.
I heard someone talk about an older friend who has a serious illness and is "actively dying." What a strange phrase. "Actively dying." Are they taking up jogging? Handball? Thinking, "Well, time to die so let's hop on this recumbent bike and get it over with." (Expand this more into a bit)
I don't have time to die. I can be dead when I'm dead.
Another interesting phrase is, "He up and died." Really? He up and died? Seems like he died and down. (Play with this idea)
I'd walk a mile to get a mile away from you.
That's not a very good list. I need to write more this week. I'm also writing my philosophical memoir. I wrote a chapter about my parents and grandparents. The lead paragraph in the chapter is:
My mother had a tendency to throw shoes. She was born in a tiny town called Wayland in the hills of Eastern Kentucky in 1933 to a family in which alcoholism, domestic violence and shoe-throwing were skills carefully handed down from one generation to the next. She could whip a high-heeled shoe across a living room floor with the accuracy of a master ninja hurling a throwing star. My dad’s head was one of her favorite targets, and she could open up a gash. My mother’s name was Clotine, pronounced “Clo-teen,” and she was the only woman I ever met with that name. One was enough.