I hate when I don’t know what to eat for dinner. I feel confused, like the time I bought oregano from a small man in a big town. Brought it home. Used it. Yep, oregano.
I went with this thing, some recipe apparently invented by a Mexican man in 1943:
I am addicted to hot sauce. Not so surprising since it releases endorphins, like other of my addictions. Disc golf releases opiates. So does shooting a bow, or almonds crushed with Adderall. Sometimes there is a downside to my years as a psychiatric nurse–I know the core of my own undoing.
I play roulette, like Dostoevsky.
I write like him too. Never.
As you can most likely visualize, the nacho alignment is an arcading prism structure, pretty much standard anywhere in regions with the Pacific ocean on the west. Peru, etc. I don’t mean to bore you here. BUT, the refried black beans (top, right quadrant) I thought were a bit mischievous, and a homage, from me, to Nacho Duran.
Dude loves black beans, fried once, then fried. And tequila. Trust me.
I adore Scoville, and, honestly, wish I had married the man.
Teaching the Quest lately, in my fiction 2 class. To write the quest you must have:
1.) A down and out protagonist.
Why? Most folks are lazy. Most folks won’t even go on a quest. They’d rather smoke Salvia and lay garments on a counter and slip their arms through pineapples (not made of pine, not apples) and eat the exact place the sea and the sky meet.
So your narrator needs to be FUCKED UP.
Like maybe their foster parents were evaporated by stormtroopers? (Luke Skywalker, in one of the more graphic “Star Wars” scenes, before Lucas got soft and weirdly juvenile)
Like maybe a storm destroys your farm. (Dorothy, Oz)
Or maybe you’re drunk and dancing all Zen with a Colt .45 and burning cigarette holes through the forehead of your ex-wife’s photo (Captain Willard, Apoc Now)
Trust me, have a destroyed protagonist at the beginning of your quest narrative, please. Like mortgage loans, or sky diving, please pay attention to the beginning.
But why? Have them, and have them for a reason: bouncing conversation off, killing them off (drama–see Star Trek myth [if you wear a red shirt you will die in the episode]), fucking them, throwing them, setting them afire, whatever. Have your sidekicks follow the rules of dialogue: Do they a.) provide plot information? b.) develop character? c.) make my spleen throb like silver-tuffted clouds?
Holy shit have bad things happen. Please. Please. I am going to put your story down unless bad things happen. I want dance posture to collapse. I want the quilt to unravel. I want a boy’s voice to become manly, right then, and he can’t handle it. I want green smoke. Bad drugs done in the library stacks. Broken Aztec speech. Resinous New York muggings. Loud deaths, quiet deaths, deaths. Fucking, in a chemist’s office. Also puckered red and ugly Ebaying. Also maggots, with tongues of un-luck. A bunch of people awakening, for the first time, unto themselves, and FREAKING OUT ABOUT IT. Photos of prime ministers and flagrant red canoes–in bed. Also Christmas dinners involving heroin. And sorghum, spelt, wheat lubricants.
I have 14 other things I want to say about the Quest but I am getting bored now.
Blake Butler wrote some thing about rejection then tried to un-write it. I thought this was funny, then kind, then I don’t know.
I don’t know Blake (like had a beer know). But I know this:
Blake doesn’t give a shit about rejection.
Please…Rejection is the petroleum donut to his dime store. Yawn.
I feel like this today: