A writers’ game
This is the story of the funnest writers’ game in all the land, even better than the dictionary game. It came about for me with my best pal Don Kraus, five or maybe even six years ago now, when for some godforsaken reason we started emailing one another back and forth as imaginary characters, he as the legendary Baron Figmar Munchmuffin, and myself as Zoltar the Unruly One.
It was such a hoot that the next time I got a chance to do it in an actual writerly setting, with my teacher the South African Englishwoman/Worldite, Sandra Jensen, I leapt in with both pens. The result was The Mordant Misadventures of Wodanaz and Lily-Rose, which ended up to be 81 letters long and a production of eleven months duration. God bless Sandra Jensen.
The next sucker I lined up was a wonderful woman from Georgia, called Claire Born, with whom I had become acquainted in Sandra’s writing workshop online. We had quite a time during The Mystic Mindadventures of Norman Jinks and fleur. It lasted only 29 letters and ended up rather unhappily, alas, but that makes sense, since most writing projects end unhappily. Thank goodness we are still dear friends. Clair Born is love incarnate.
And now I’m hanging with William Saunders. I got his attention with my want-ad on Twitter: “Failed writer looking for another failed writer to collaborate on another failure. Optimists only please.” We just got started but already are 8 letters down the pike, as you may see if you visit The Cosmic Cowadventures of Hank Pickens and Liam Kilgour. Don’t know much about William yet, but he seems real nice, and is a good writer.
My main problem with writing is it’s so darn hard. Sitting there by yourself, trying to make up interesting plot doohickeys, etc., can get kinda lonesome and difficult. Well, if you’re playing an imaginary character, writing to another one, you get to find inspiration and consolation from your partner, while still being relatively autonomous.
Freakin sweet,
LWIII
Unbelievable!!! I’ve been replaced by a HILLBILLY! I hold you solely responsible, Unruly One!
After all our lofty adventures… After the perils we faced against the Marmigans of Wolowitz… After our near-fatal encounters with the Queckian Bumfuddles of Primatene… Even after our amorous dalliances with the Racknoodle Twins, it has come to this! To know that you and I have reduced such a powerful bond as to allow one or the other to retreat to the rural decadence of DOGPATCH would have Quixote and Sancho tossing in their graves… Oh, the Humanity!
Alas, I’m cut to the quick… and once I find my quick, I shall apply a Bandaid… Now, I hie to the Feterlands of Glombroggan to lick my wounds (y-yecch!) and recover from this woeful undoing of my reputation as your faithful Master… Would it be that it not be so! I cry unto the heavens, “Where hath my Unruly One gone?… To the hills? To the bosom of another? Warmed beside a hearth in some forsaken leanto nestled in the forests of forgetfulness? Ne’er to return to once again take up arms the Labaschmucks and the Poffmidgens of Fondodor?” This would I cry to the heavens if the heavens had time to listen to all that.
Still, my saber be pledged in loyalty, O Unruly One. Matter it not what you do, who you do or where you roam… The Baron shall fight at your side, if only in spirit… or in my paisley pajamas, depending on the day of the week. (Let’s see, … Paisley is for Tuesday… Gingham is for Wednesday…) Well, nevermind. No mind to the day of the week nor time of day nor rain nor sleet, even these shall not keep The Baron from his appointed rounds.
And, so in closing I say unto thee: If the duck crows at midnight, shouldn’t the quag be on the mire? Or, to put it in other terms: Fight on, Notre Dame… rip their fuckin’ throats out! …No…Wait… that’s not it…
You see what you have done…? I’m witless at the news that you have forsaken me. Shall I find comfort in drink? Shall the nectar of Bimboozle quench my yearning and still my tears? Or, mayhaps, i shall snuggle in the arms of Madame Refundula Lathgong in Minsk… Yes. Good idea. She has big tits!
Farewell,
The Baron
My Dear Figmar,
Desertion – moi? Never be it so. It’s not my fault I was kidnapped by the Lilliputs and carried via monkey underground to Fallopian Tubeolia. They have been holding me there to be reborn, despite my desperate entreaties to the contrary.
I didn’t mean to be reborn as a hillbilly. My Aunt Whatshername must be rolling over in her grave. Good thing she’s undead, and a good roller.
It has been many long and thirsty years since the sweet nectar of Bimboozle touched my yearning lips. Could do with a spot right now, actually, though as a hillbilly I’m more partial to redeye these days. Glad you hear you’re still in touch with the blessed bosoms of Madame Refundula. Used to use them as a hammock, as I recall.
Well, shitkicker duty calls, my dear Baron. I must be off. And remember, I shall always remember remembering….
Onward to World Dominion!
Your devoted friend ever, and thirsty servant,
Zoltar the Unruly One/Hank Pickens