February 6th, 2007
So yesterday I got going on about blogging in the life of the modern writer, looking at the pros and cons... the main advantage being the power a blog has to connect writers with their readers, and the main disadvantage being that keeping a blog can distract a writer from getting new fiction written. At its worst, obsessive blogging can be a way to feel productive without actually, you know, being productive. But wait! What if you made writing the blog, and writing the new story... one and the same thing?
Why can't you use a blog as a place to hammer out a new story? After all, I used yesterday's blog entry as a vehicle for assaulting you, the harmless, well-meaning Powell's reader, with my poetry. Why not assault you with a new story, made up on the spot? Now I have a deadline ? I have to get this entry to Powell's by ten in the morning of the 6th ? so I don't have a lot of time to diddle around. And as a rule, I hate to show first drafts to anyone, but in the name of literary experimentation (if you wanna call it that), I'm willing to make an exception.
Okay. Deep breath. If this gets too awful, do us both a favor, and just stop reading, because I really don't know what we're going to get here.
You Have An Instant Message From Ted Bundy In Hell
When Hell got wired into the Internet, a lot of people were completely freaked, but not me. I know my father got an email from his brother, like, the night Hell came online ? his brother who had been dead for six years ? asking for jpegs of the whole family. Uncle Willie is roasting on a spit, like a pig at some gross luau, over a bed of smoking coals, but otherwise he's free to decorate his personal space with family pictures if he can get them. Wow, did Dad wig! Hearing from Will like that out of the blue! I made Daddy send him the picture of me and my best-friend-forever, Katey, dressed up like giant iPods for Halloween. I always did think Uncle W. was an okay guy, even if he did run over a bunch of little kids and kill himself driving drunk through the playground behind the preschool.
And, you know, the Pope was really horrified when all those ye-olde-worlde Catholic torturers ? like, the Inquisition, or whatever ? started posting snarky comments in Latin on the official Vatican blog. But it's like, dude, get a tougher SPAM filter and move on already. And of course I know it's screwing up a lot of online businesses. Everyone in Hell keeps crashing Poland Springs's servers. C'mon guys, reality check here: they can't deliver to you, stop asking.
Speaking of online businesses, it turns out a whole bunch of the devils in Hell now have gainful employment, writing SPAM for Viagra, and junk stocks, and whatever. You can't get icewater down there, but I guess you can get, you know, a money transfer from PayPal. Naturally economists don't like the idea of US cash being shoveled into a different dimension, since most of the money just winds up getting heaped into piles and set on fire to cook sinners anyway. So that's a problem.
Then you've got Congress and the President and these moral majority types upset about the new Hell-based home pages. You hear them talking about kids seeing Flickr streams of blind three-headed goats munching the entrails of their beloved grandparents. Oh, and there was the YouTube thing of that demon, Ba'al or whoever, doing his little hip-hop sketch, "It's a Head in a Box." Which I have to admit I laughed at, especially when he opened the box and there was that musician's head inside singing along, the guy who actually got decapitated a few years ago when his limo rolled over. But a lot of people just have no sense of humor.
My thing is, now I can talk to my boyfriend again. It was kind of gross, the first time he IM'd me, and we tried a video chat, and he, like, didn't have a face... or he did, but it was peeled off and hanging on a hook right behind him. Now we just text message and stuff. And he's always sending me cute little messages, at home or on my cell, like, baby, I'm burning for you, and oh girl, if you'll just forgive me, they won't lash me with the steel thorns of the devil bush tomorrow. And it's so sweet, and it's so sincere, and he's trying so hard to make it up with me, and I just laugh and feel glad all over again that he tried to shoot it out with the cops instead of just surrendering, because I wouldn't be enjoying myself half as much if he was only in jail, not after what he did to my best-friend-forever, Katey. Now Kate, I never hear from. I guess there isn't email in Heaven. Boy I miss her.
But getting a message from the old BF is, like, completely the best, most coolest part of my day. Actually, it looks like he's pinging me right now. Oh, he says he just ate lunch ? they force fed him a big bucket full of these leathery maggot things that lay eggs in your throat. Got to go. Got to send him a reply. He says they were really awful, the demon-maggots. I want to tell him I bet they would've been better with salt.
Well, there it is. Total elapsed time in the writing of this story: 83 minutes. So what did you think? Leave a comment here, or pop by my message board, if you feel so inclined, and let me know.
Earthly denizens only, please.