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Friday, March 23, 2012

The Black Queen

Excerpt from Black Queen



You try the spa again. Mr. Sims is dead.  (You wiped your ass with his obituary.) You wrap yourself in your “Angelic White“ Martha Stewart Home bath towel and float next to the jism sticky walls. Eyes disturbed by the lines in your face, drop to the floor. But you strike gold--you think. A Spanish accent invites you to his cubby hole for “cake and cream.” Just when the “nicca” was opening the door, two college age boys black as sable cats, slim as gazelles, and hung like colts, walk by leading a parade of tented towels and tongues hanging from mouths. Your “nicca” with the Spanish accent joins the parade.

You had you a man briefly. Well it was for eight years--millennium for gay lovers. He had a job when you met him. You both dreamed of picket fence domesticity.  You yoked yourself to a thirty-year mortgage. At the  housewarming you caught him patting the ass of somebody’s friend. A week later, you caught him dining on that ass on top of the new Calvin Klein bed ensemble, the day after he declared he was a man and would never eat your ass and nobody else’s ass. You closed your eyes to all his enigmas and psychosises. His dick was so big it blinded you. He lost his job and became a “househusband.” You worked, he whored.  The bedroom was his kitchen.  When he wasn’t drunk, he battered more cakes than Betty Crocker. You came home to cold pots and a hot bed reeking of sex funk.  You quietly stopped paying the mortgage. The sheriff  hauled him clad in his polka dotted drawers and all the furniture to impoundment storage. Whiskey and coke wouldn’t let him get out of bed. Today, you imagine him still locked away in the storage shed--his teeth  the color of shit and the polka dot drawers hanging on his bleached bones.

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Monday, March 5, 2012

Writing Tips 8 -- Memoir or Catharsis

Harvey on Smashwords

Is it Memoir or Cathartic or Both

I ran across someone’s blog recently, where they were writing about some painful childhood experiences. I didn’t read deep into it, because, well for one it just wasn’t that interesting to me. I asked him what his goal was for the project? He said, “Heck at this point just to remember as much as possible and get it down. Suggestions?”

My response was, “I know the memories mean a lot to you. And it's very personal. But I'm not sure a stranger would understand. Augusten Burroughs had a not so great childhood, but he makes his stories so lively and engaging. Sometimes you have to look for the humor in the bad situation and hit us with a sort of irony.”
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