When my frog-like brain fails to catch any flies of inspiration, attracted by the literary stench of my current writing project, I can typically hop to another creative lily pad to get a fresh start, and my brain will miraculously fill with flies again.
That’s the secret to my success.
If you will permit me, I would like to introduce you to a few of my favorite pads.
I already mentioned my toyed-with Animal Farm ‘reboot’ in a recent post.
There is also a pure parody romance novella taking shape, featuring a likely pairing of a supermodel and an outlaw drifter.
But my principal goal is to write a series of amusing farcical novels about a character named Terrence Winkworth. They will be quick, feel-good reads (even though poor Terrence suffers some indignities along his journey).
The first Terrence novel is An Aspiration to Lie Flat, completed and going to market shortly. It introduces the recurring cast of characters and establishes their relationships.
The second Terrence novel is titled Travel Is A Bad Idea. Asked to attend a college friend’s wedding in Mumbai, Terrence takes ‘getting lost’ to a whole new level.
The third Terrence novel is ‘In Development,’ meaning ‘Stanton has some ideas.’
One of those ideas is this little sketch of a scene. For context, Reggie is standing in a doorway addressing Terrence.
——
“I wrote her a poem. I’m going to send it to her.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea, Reggie? Maybe you should reconsider. I don’t think women find men who write poems appealing, or at least they haven’t for the past century or so.”
“No! This poem’s different. Let me read it to you. You’ll see.”
He was using his body to block my path. There was no escape.
Reggie cleared his throat and looked at the screen in his hand, studying the poem one final time.
“It’s called ‘Her,’” he announced. “Are you ready?”
I nodded grimly.
“Plunk, plunk go the pebbles
Into the pool of my heart
Tiny waves of longing
Lap against the shores of my soul.”
Dear God! Absolutely not. It was appalling. There was no way I was sitting through the rest.
“Reggie, I just remembered…” I began.
Lost in his art, Reggie plowed on.
“A gentle breeze of knowing
Sweeps the tortured valleys within
Guiding me along the softened path
Because I miss her.”
He looked up expectantly.
It was as awkward a moment as I had ever experienced. Why didn’t life come with a little thumbs-down button one could press before walking quietly away?
“It’s really…good,” I said with the mildest enthusiasm, taking care not to appear so effusive as to encourage an encore.
Stanton Fenwick 