After harping on and on about the need to finish projects, I’ve come to a grand realization. Finishing projects doesn’t get the chicks. No manner of personal pride and sense of accomplishment is of any interest to women in any way, and unless a successful man sits tilted due to an enlarged wallet (no fair stuffing with tissues), all of the competence in the world can’t replace public expression of an air of frustrated bewilderment jumping to excited elation, back down to angst, and up to the thrill of a new premise. I’ve become aware it’s totally outward resource that fuels the pheromones of sexual selection, with survival of the wittiest a close Plan B.
So, toss all of those mid-book scenes and push your laptop to the extreme edge of the round Starbuck’s table. Give a big sigh, followed by an excited squeal of enlightenment, and let the fingers fly on the keyboard. When the little lady with the plastic chest inquires about what you’re writing, scrap any attempt to explain how the current scene is just there to set a complexity of characterization, and pipe up in those same tones that accidentally escape your mouth when you ask the pharmacist where she keeps the jock itch medicine, “It’s about a vampire who needs two root canals!” Then, in a tone more appropriate for a funeral reception, utter with your watering eyes focused on the straining fabric of the lady’s breast area, “He just can’t find his sparkle unless SHE can touch his soul.” And just to make sure the hook is set, slowly push the adjacent chair back from the table with the tip of your shoe. This lady will reinforce the value of infatuative ideas, while you describe in detail how you intend to show the hero’s emotional predicament through his eye color, the way he’ll let his hair flip over his brow, and how he’ll take to plucking every hair follicle below his manly Adam’s Apple with a pair of needlenose pliers as penance for his emotional conflict.
I have to admit it has become apparent the chicks want linguistic wading pools of piss-warm adjectives and adverbs, the musical chaises of POV promiscuity, and above all totally hot man-lumps of muscle, gristle, and gonad. And the more linguistic the off-the-cuff idea development, the more spontaneous her afterglow of short-attention-span interest translates into the growth of your apparent desirability. But don’t slide into complacency. Just as she is nodding to the unfolding clarity of your story, flick to a fresh screen and let your fingers go again. Let a new idea come out, since any pause in Sesame Street flashes of action will lull her into remembering where she is and why she came there. Keep her mental images in full lubrication. You have another idea. A new source of angst and frustration. “No. Wait. Here’s my next one. This vampire finds most of his women in Yoga classes, but he suddenly discovers he has a Vegan allergy.” And if the young lady sitting at your table is of a vegetarian leaning, you now have her on the meat hook.
So, guys. Remember the reason you got into the writing business in the first place—to get those chicks who are brimming with kiddie-pool sentimentality, and without having to show your intellectual prowess by smoking a pipe. And what better way to accomplish that dream than by flushing all of that mid-book drivel and touting the venti flavor of the hour ideas to such receptive minds. You are a writer. You translate words into actions. And what better actions than those of an adoring chick? It’s time to charge your laptop batteries. Would she like to accompany you to your place to help?
So, toss all of those mid-book scenes and push your laptop to the extreme edge of the round Starbuck’s table. Give a big sigh, followed by an excited squeal of enlightenment, and let the fingers fly on the keyboard. When the little lady with the plastic chest inquires about what you’re writing, scrap any attempt to explain how the current scene is just there to set a complexity of characterization, and pipe up in those same tones that accidentally escape your mouth when you ask the pharmacist where she keeps the jock itch medicine, “It’s about a vampire who needs two root canals!” Then, in a tone more appropriate for a funeral reception, utter with your watering eyes focused on the straining fabric of the lady’s breast area, “He just can’t find his sparkle unless SHE can touch his soul.” And just to make sure the hook is set, slowly push the adjacent chair back from the table with the tip of your shoe. This lady will reinforce the value of infatuative ideas, while you describe in detail how you intend to show the hero’s emotional predicament through his eye color, the way he’ll let his hair flip over his brow, and how he’ll take to plucking every hair follicle below his manly Adam’s Apple with a pair of needlenose pliers as penance for his emotional conflict.
I have to admit it has become apparent the chicks want linguistic wading pools of piss-warm adjectives and adverbs, the musical chaises of POV promiscuity, and above all totally hot man-lumps of muscle, gristle, and gonad. And the more linguistic the off-the-cuff idea development, the more spontaneous her afterglow of short-attention-span interest translates into the growth of your apparent desirability. But don’t slide into complacency. Just as she is nodding to the unfolding clarity of your story, flick to a fresh screen and let your fingers go again. Let a new idea come out, since any pause in Sesame Street flashes of action will lull her into remembering where she is and why she came there. Keep her mental images in full lubrication. You have another idea. A new source of angst and frustration. “No. Wait. Here’s my next one. This vampire finds most of his women in Yoga classes, but he suddenly discovers he has a Vegan allergy.” And if the young lady sitting at your table is of a vegetarian leaning, you now have her on the meat hook.
So, guys. Remember the reason you got into the writing business in the first place—to get those chicks who are brimming with kiddie-pool sentimentality, and without having to show your intellectual prowess by smoking a pipe. And what better way to accomplish that dream than by flushing all of that mid-book drivel and touting the venti flavor of the hour ideas to such receptive minds. You are a writer. You translate words into actions. And what better actions than those of an adoring chick? It’s time to charge your laptop batteries. Would she like to accompany you to your place to help?
Last edited:
