This is goodbye, dear friends.
But only for a while. The time has come to make significant changes to how things happen here at TWOS, and there’s no time like the present to throw a wrench into a perfectly serviceable system. This isn’t the end, though. It’s the end of the beginning. TWOS has evolved since it began, and we’ve learned much along the way. It’s time to use what we know to make TWOS better.
Remember last year when your New Year’s resolution was to write more? So how did that turn out?
Perhaps you’ve heard the old saying about shooting for the moon and landing among the stars, which never made much sense because you’d have to really, really, REALLY overshoot the moon to land among the stars. So does that mean you did far better than expected, or you just have unbelievably bad aim?
It’s the Friday before Christmas. Lets be honest with each other. The last thing you’re thinking about is writing a short story.
Frankly, we can’t blame you. But we can bug you about it.
So, if in this crazy upcoming week of family, food, falalas, fights, festiveness, friendship, and freaking out you feel the need to escape into your own mind, try one of these word prompts. Run away into a happy narrative about beaches that don’t allow your Uncle Harry in.
It’ll be the best gift you’ve ever given yourself.
Forget jetpacks, I want the future to bring me a device that can tell me the truth. By that, I mean tell me exactly what people are thinking about me at any given moment.
For instance, when a manager leans back in his chair after my presentation and says, “Interesting,” I want to know if he is unimpressed, actually interested, or just barely swimming up out of a daydream that involved custard and the lady in Accounting.
An Ode to the Desk, that once-sturdy piece of glued and compressed wood shavings, which had long since grown creaky and unsteady as the plastic Ikea joints holding it together loosened and broke.
How lovely you looked in your disrepair, old friend, with your faux-wood veneer peeling up at the corners. There, on the left side, was the shallow scar from when the loose corner caught on my shorts as I passed, tearing a hole in the fabric and chipping off a nickel-sized chunk, almost as if you were made of obsidian.
NaNoWriMo ends today. Did you make it? Congratulations or condolences, as appropriate.
Either way, you can look forward to more writing. If you stop now, you’re not a writer; you’re a poser. Doesn’t necessarily mean it gets easier. Just more familiar. Kinda like caring for a cranky armadillo. It’s just as hard as it ever was, but at least now it has a name, and you can tell when it’s hungry because it gets extra grumpy.
So good work on giving that armadillo a name.
It’s Black Friday, meaning you’ve got the meat sweats and terrible gas from all the eating yesterday. Oh, and it’s also the day when retailers openly invite you to brawl with your fellow man over something you don’t really want, but the deals sites tell you that you just can’t miss because, well, DEALZ DEALZ DEALZ!!!
It’s the modern Thunderdome of sorts: 463 enter, and only 461 leave. Or something like that.
Black Friday is the closest we have to a blood sport in modern times. Sure, you can watch MMA fighters, but they’re trained to be ruthless. It’s something else entirely to watch human beings who were otherwise normal and compassionate on Thanksgiving turn into merciless gladiators of the strip mall the day after.
Weep, oh ye fools and wretches! Loose the hounds of terror and languish in despair as they rip the flesh from our mortal frames with their glittering teeth of crystal and platinum. For truly the end times are near.
Surely everyone has heard the news on the television. It’s practically impossible to miss these tidings of woe that have defiled our screens ere these many months and years. The tinkling of service brass and the rumbling of war cymbals have echoed the unadulterated filth across the valleys of our great nation, framed on either side by majestic mountain peaks of gray and purple and, when the kissed by the gentle embrace of a blessed sunrise, gold.
How much longer shall we wait, compatriots and comrades? How long must we suffer in silence, certain in our misfortune that we are the only ones trod upon so harshly by the spiked heel of fate? Surely the time is not far distant when we are compelled by our God-given humanity and moral fortitude to stand forth and declare, “No more!”
I never stop laughing at the idea of non-conformists, simply because instead of eschewing all forms of conforming, as they claim, they conform to a different standard. That’s not non-conformist. That’s what we call normal.
So whenever someone mocks me for a particular life choice I have made, for conforming to what “the man” wants me to be, I chuckle inside because they’re just as guilty. The only difference is that their “the man” is different than mine.
Well, it’s here. NaNoWriMo snuck in while we were all distracted with Hurricane Sandy. Now it’s there, staring at you, daring you to type a single word… then do it again 49,999 times. Like a dog that knows you’ve got an unlimited supply of those doggie treats somewhere, and if he just stares at you long enough, with just the right amount of vulnerability and friendliness, you’ll break down and shovel more into his maw.
So what are you going to do about this NaNoWriMo Puppy, who’s so inexplicably demanding and encouraging at the same time? Are you going to feed him?