On Life as a Sarcastic Fringehead

I'm so behind on South Park this season. But I'm always behind on South Park. I watch entire seasons at a time on TiVo, that's my habit. This weekend, I watched three hours of it so I could see what happened to Chef/Isaac Hayes. That one was funny. But the one about the smug from the hybrid car drivers colliding with the smug from George Clooney's Oscar acceptance speech was my favorite. I could not stop laughing. Sorry about the lack of deep explanation...this post can only make sense to those who have seen the show. Anyway...

I try to avoid loving the smell of my own self-satisfaction. And sometimes I over-correct the potential problem by losing confidence in what I'm doing. Not having any idea if the work is any good unless someone tells me it is. I think I should already know. But I don't. There are days, of course, when I will stand in the contemporary fiction section of Barnes and Noble with a blow torch ready to burn the books written by writers with, you know, much less talent, yet much more, shall we say, published pages than I. The blow torch might get me arrested, but there is nothing illegal about my scanning a few pages of some delicate milky white hand carefully lifting the receiver of the pink Princess phone and whispering a breathy hello to her stunning new suitor--then throwing the book across the aisle into the trash can behind the customer service desk. I've done that.

Oh my God...here is more of what I've got so far. My new best friend (in the writing world, that is loosely translated as someone who has said the words "you're good") has suggested that I need a better working title than "current fragment". I never thought about that. Taking all suggestions in the comments field. Taking all suggestions that don't hurt my feelings. I may not be milky white, but I am delicate.

My placeholding notes for the next draft are in brackets.

Parker took my hand and stood tall—all five feet, no inches of her—and led me closer. “Her name is Magnificent and she raised me.”

The aunt touched my hand. Then touched my shoulder. Put two hands to my face. There was barely any space between us by the time she spoke to me again. “Not all of my life, Stillwater, but all of yours.”

[Here, I definitely need to explain the supernatural presence. Better for it to be explained before the following actions.]

She kissed my forehead and I fell into a chair at the kitchen table, crying uncontrollably. I do not cry. Even after broken bones, always mine, always because of her, my mother would brag to our crazy neighbors that I “cried not a single pussy tear.” Walking away from her that last day, not even tears of relief. Here, in a place as unfamiliar as I’ve ever been, I didn’t think the tears could stop coming.

Magnificent wiped them away and held me tight. The house darkened and I was vaguely aware of Parker’s movements in and out of the room. I don’t know how long she, Magnificent, held me and whispered to me. Hours, definitely.

[More exposition here. What Magnificent knows. How this affects Stillwater.]

In the silence following those final moments, Parker led me upstairs to a drawn bath. Such a beautiful girl as she quietly asked should she stay with me or leave me alone. She asked, but she knew. I wrapped my legs and arms around her as we dipped ourselves into the warm water. With her on this journey, on her search, I feel strong and capable as her protector.

[And, here goes Stillwater’s revelation that he is now on a journey of his own, not just as Parker’s foreshadowing sherpa. Today, I am incapable of writing the revelation without cliché and cheese, so I’m leaving it for another day. I like this bath thing they have going, though. Stillwater always makes his move on Parker whenever I’m listening to Maroon 5 while writing…]