Writing neurosis

For the past month or so, I've been working on a little story inspired by Sherlock Holmes. It's the first time that I can recall where I haven't given up after the 20th page and wandered off to do something else like make sure my kid isn't setting stuff on fire.

If you want to see it, it's over at my LJ. Yes, I have a livejournal account. Which I used to leave comments on other people's journals. Now it's being used for literary fanfic. I haven't put it here because I feel like that's separate from my little rants about my life.

Now I have a conundrum. I am very proud of this work (Hell, at 57 pages so far written, and more to go, I feel like I deserve a cookie). I also feel like maybe, just maybe, it could be published. Friends are saying it's good. Do I keep putting it on the livejournal for free then? If I got paid that would be awesome. If it was on paper so I could love it and give it to others like how crazy evangelicals hand out pamphlets, that would be awesome.

But is it wise to publish everything on the LJ? Even if it's in rough draft form? How does one get published? I think that part of me is torn -- I like this and I'm very happy to write it just for my amusement, but I believe it could be more than just a livejournal entry. But if the whole story is published online, why would a publisher print it? Would they even take a look at it online?

I need advice, and if people are willing to offer their thoughts, that would be great. Right now I'm not sure what to do and I feel like I've just put myself into something that could be good or it could be a disaster.

And this is on top of my usual writer neurosis. And they wonder why Updike hid from the world -- some days that looks like a tempting option for me. Then the narcissist exhibitionist takes over and I write some more. So yes, advice is welcome. I could use some, since I have no idea what the hell I'm doing.

NaBloPoMo: Not with a bang, but a whimper

So I did it! I completed all 30 days of NaBloPoMo. This post is the last one for the month, and I have to say that it's been an interesting month overall.

I have to say that I don't feel like I accomplished anything at all. I don't feel like my creative muscles got stretched or that I feel more creative. Really, I feel like I half-assed my way through this month. It could be that I am unnaturally hard on myself, but that doesn't matter. If you don't have the results you want, you're not happy. And really, I am the person I have to live with. If it's not good enough for me, well then, I'm pissed.

Reading my friend K.'s post about her finishing NaNoWriMo, I was struck by this:

So yeah, do something pointlessly creative today, if that's your thing. Draw a cool picture, strum a little song, punch a poser in the face (oh wait, er...) Anyway, do something fun and creative. You don't have to share it. Unless you want to :)

Besides the idea of punching a poser in the face (which I'm always tempted to do), I think that her post is a reminder of all the little half-projects I have sitting around. The half-baked concepts, the cool scenes, the random characters that swim around and are written about, but then left half-finished.

I will start with a whine -- I've noticed that since I had my daughter, it's harder to write. Which is weird. I had a job that I worked 10-14 hour days sometimes and I still managed to write on this blog and come up with ideas. I noticed that with NaBloPoMo, after the Empress of the Universe went down for the night, I would often sit and stare at the screen, drooling slightly like I had lost my damn mind. No words would flow. I couldn't write about all the ideas that I had in my head.

They say that when you have a kid, some of your brain cells die. I think that there's something to that. I mean, I can't focus on writing sometimes anymore. I don't feel like I have anything to say. Or what I have to say is proto-thoughts -- they're not even at the point where I can write them down.

This isn't an announcement that this blog is shutting down. Oh hell no. I just don't think that I can do a post everyday. The fermenting time for my ideas is taking longer and requires more patience. I suppose it's because most of my brain is now occupied by this:



Seriously, the pitch that this kid sings in is enough to make you do that "Dog-In-Pain-Thanks-To-High-Pitched-Whistle". This isn't a slight against the kid in the wheelchair -- I think it's a good educational tool to point out differences and how kids shouldn't fear them. I'm just saying that the pitch the kid is singing at is PAINFUL. And it's one of my kid's favorite videos. I think she's trying to torture me.

So yeah, I can't promise that I will post everyday or that everything will be a gem, but I would say please be patient with me. I think that right now I have to learn a new way of writing that meshes with my family life and other responsibilities. I know things may change years from now, but that's YEARS. I don't think I can keep my narcissism and exhibitionism bottled up for that long.

Creativity and madness -- are they linked?

A few days ago at the grocery store, I picked up the new Rolling Stone magazine -- which was a bitch to find because they changed the format to a narrow page. And that was just disconcerting to see, but that's a different rant.

I picked up the magazine not for the Obama love-fest on the cover, but for the feature on the last days of David Foster Wallace, who I consider to be one of the great writers of our time. The article is an interesting and heartbreaking look at someone who was a genius, but also had some really dark, evil demons following his every move.

It admittedly got me to thinking about all the great writers I know and love. Hunter S. Thompson, Anne Lamott, Tom Robbins, Terry Pratchett. Out of that list, one writer killed himself, another one had a drug and alcohol addiction, one's a hippie nutjob at times, and well, one's British and sees the world in odd ways.

Other great writers and artists had demons following them around -- Hemmingway killed himself. Sylvia Plath died by her own hand also. There's plenty others we can name, and maybe even others that aren't so famous, toiling away trying to make it.

I started reflecting on my own life -- I don't have the same disorders that plagued some of my favorite writers, but admittedly, you can't say that I'm of a "normal" mindset. I've gotten some funks that required outside perspective to get my mind right.

Then I stumbled on a CNN article where experts ponder that connection:

Creative people in the arts must develop a deep sensitivity to their surroundings -- colors, sounds, and emotions, says Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, professor of psychology and management at Claremont Graduate University in Claremont, California. Such hypersensitivity can lead people to worry about things that other people don't worry about as much, he said, and can lead to depression.

So, I guess, knowing the creative types that peruse this blog, I gotta toss out the question: Do you think there's a connection or not? Why?

Still alive....

For the two of you wondering why the fuck I'm not being all chatty and all that, I just wanted to pop in and say that I'm still alive and that the nose-hair singeing scent of Benevolent Dictator's poopy diapers hasn't killed me.

I've just got some stuff kicking around in my head, a freelance writing gig due at the end of this week and random oddities going on right now. I guess that the best way to phrase this is that I'm fermenting ideas.

So, in conclusion, not dead. Just fermenting.

This is a love song of sorts

Yesterday was my first Mother's Day with Benevolent Dictator. I got to sleep in until 11 a.m. (which was better than sex), then we went out for dim sum and spent the rest of the day hanging out at the house and watching Benevolent Dictator empty her toybox. After she went down for bed, I got to go bowling with friends for free! Hurray for Mother's Day specials!

Anyways, I was talking with my mother-in-law today about how this Mother's Day feels more special to me than in the past. In the past, I'd just call my mom and wish her a happy day. Yesterday, while I wasn't with my mom, I sent her flowers and was thinking about her and my mother-in-law.

This Mother's Day feels heavier to me. I think it's because I'm on the other side now. I'm not just the kid who needs to be reminded about all the stuff that a mom does for them, but I'm a mom now -- I know what some of the sacrifices are you make to try and be a good parent.

It sounds dumb, but I'll compare parenthood to writing. Everyone can do it. There's nothing really special to it -- I mean, with writing you combine a subject and verb, and voila! You're writing. With kids, all it takes is to bump uglies, get the right genetics to match up and voila! Kids!

There's nothing special about writing or parenthood on the surface -- anyone can do it. The trick is doing it well. That's the hardest thing. People make sacrifices for writing (sleep, sanity, self-esteem at times) and you make sacrifices for your kids (sleep, sanity, self-esteem). If done well, you're putting your whole heart, a chunk of your soul into this endeavor and hopefully things will turn out all right.

I once told K. that I think that parenting at times is learning how to let your heart break in tiny increments. You spend years raising this child only to see he or she grow up, rebel, leave the nest and maybe remember to call you on important holidays. It sounds terrible. Why the hell would anyone give up that much time and go for that stress to have that end result?

Maybe it's because if you do it right, it doesn't matter about the pain. It doesn't matter knowing that your heart will get broken, because it also gets mended along the way. For every tantrum, there's a big happy grin, for every "I hate you," there's a "I love you," and for every departure, there's the memory that remains.

In the end, it's pretty damn sweet. Maybe a little bittersweet at times, but it's still pretty sweet to me.

Black and blue

I have bruises all over my chest. Teeny-tiny, sickly-yellow bruises.

It's not from my husband. It's from my daughter.

Benevolent Dictator has been pinching me as of late. Hard, with her teeny-tiny pincer grasp. Methinks its part of her way of experiencing the world and that she doesn't know the concept of being gentle yet.

I think right now those bruises sum up my mood as of this week (or since my in-laws left). BD hasn't been sleeping well thanks to her cold. She sounds like Patty and Selma on a smoker's binge. At night, I can hear her coughing -- the baby monitor's lights also blink on and off with each cough. Sometimes she wakes up crying, sometimes she doesn't.

It's like the T-Rex scene in Jurassic Park. I often find myself staring at the baby monitor in horror/fear, waiting to see what will happen next.

It wouldn't be so bad if she wasn't so overtired. When she's overtired she's more demanding, her moods more mercurial. One minute she's giggling and entertaining herself, the next minute she's wailing loudly for me or something she can't have (like the laptop computer). It's like living with a teeny-tiny drunk:

"OMG!ILOVEYOUSOMUCHMAN! LET'S GO TO TIJUANA AND GET TATTOOS! WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME FOR? YOU WANNA FIGHT? LET'S GO!"

Yeah.

As a result, I've been in a funk because I feel defeated at each turn. Nothing lasts long enough to keep her amused. I feel worn out for some reason.

I also feel like the world's weakest mom. My tolerance for any deviation from the norm is very low. My tolerance for having my life interrupted is very low. I get immature, meaner, crankier.

Part of this is also that I'm starting to feel the pull to be a writing merc and get it off the ground (either that or it's me fantasizing about putting BD in day care so I can have alone time for a bit). I'm just feeling paralyzed right now by indecision and a fear of the pitch letter.

Admittedly, there's an ongoing dialogue in my head with several different voices about Benevolent Dictator, writing and other things. That's why I'm so indecisive at times. I don't have me at the helm -- my decisions are ruled by committee. And right now it's annoying because I want to make a move. I want something to happen writing-wise. I wantBD to get over her cold and her cough. I want something, anything to happen.

Hell, I want a martini and sushi right now.

Mom: Personal Assistant to Naomi Campbell

Trolling the parenting blog sites -- Strollerderby in particular -- I stumbled on something from another blog called The Poop. Called Six Word Memoirs, it's pretty simple -- six words about parenting from famous and not-so-famous folks.

My personal favorites include: bpmucd's "For my sins,God created Barbie." and catmom06's "Our minivan: living room on wheels."

So I started thinking of some for me:

Parenting: The job that never ends.
Before baby? "Fuck" After baby? "Crivens!"
Our house -- Fisher Price warehouse explosion.
Toothless grin and giggle worth it.

Yes, the last one is a little sentimental. It's hard not to be sentimental when you've got a girl as adorable as mine.

Black footed ferrets, romance novels and plagerism oh my!

Recently, the romance novel world was rocked by news that one of their writers, Cassie Edwards, plagiarized heavily for several of her novels. I'm not saying allegedly, because, good gravy, when the women at Smart Bitches Read Trashy Books did their research, it's like the woman lifted passages from encyclopedias, a Defenders of Wildlife article about black footed ferrets and even Longfellow's "Hiawatha."

Now, in my mind, plagiarism is kind of like that hoary chestnut about pornography -- "I'll know it when I see it." I've never really had a problem with sampling in music as long as the original source was used to make something completely new or made the listener view the world in a different way. It's why I can forgive Danger Mouse for The Grey Album, but not P. Diddy for shitting all over the Police's "I'll be Watching You" (seriously, changing the lyric from "I'll be watching you" to "I'll be missin' you" is not a revision of the original source material).

They say that there's no original ideas anymore -- that everything is based on some other influence, and I think that's true. Writing coaches often encourage people to write verbatim text that the budding writing likes. But they don't encourage them to pass it off as their words. They use it to teach people how words work. How they read and play on the page. It's similar to doing scales on a musical instrument, in my view.

I'll admit to using structure and writing styles similar to my heroes. Hell, I'll fully admit that a lot of my high school stories I wrote were HEAVILY influenced by Tom Robbins. Right down to the insane imagery and free-wheeling style. I'll admit that I used the structure of "Like Water for Chocolate," which intermingled recipes in with the story for an article I wrote for a college class about how to play Mancala.

But there's a difference with the Mancala article and the Robbins' influences -- I wrote my own stories. I wrote about Mancala as how to play the game. I didn't take verbatim their words and pass it off as my own. And to me, that's the key. If Cassie Edwards acknowledged the fact that her research was based on these texts, that's one thing, but to clumsily copy-and-paste text into her writing and then pass it off as her own -- that's something that a junior-high school kid does. And they get busted by their teachers!

I wonder how the hell the editors at Signet didn't notice the sudden change in tone with her writing. From heavy-breathing bodice ripping to sudden shift to an academic tone must raise eyebrows somewhere. I mean, in this day and age, while people argue about intellectual property, lawsuits, etc. someone must've thought, "Wait. This doesn't sound right."

What bothers me the most is that Cassie Edwards is an established writer. And she got busted for doing something that a kid would do. One becomes a writer because they believe they have something to say to the world. However, what's said shouldn't be recycled words clumsily shoehorned into their own text.

Going to the well for some inspiration

This is from writersdigest.com:

You're a pizza delivery driver and it's your last stop of the night. The house is on an unlit, unfamiliar street. As you ring the doorbell, you're greeted by an unusual character who invites you in while he gets cash--and abruptly knocks you out cold. When you wake up, you're tied to a chair. What happens next?

It's hard to applaud when your hands are tied behind your back and your legs are tied to a wooden chair. Still, I had to give a little cheer for this guy's solo performance of "The Sound of Music."

Even though I knew I was going to get in trouble for not reporting back to Pizza Planet right away, I just had to stay for the second act. No, seriously. I HAD to stay for the second act. Dude wouldn't let me leave. I should have known that something was up when he answered the door in a dress made out of what looked like drapes. But seriously, you get all types when you deliver pizza pies. At least he was dressed in something. He invited me in, saying he needed to get his wallet and then everything went black.

When I woke up, I was tied to the chair and he was standing before me. Suddenly he began performing "My Favorite Things." I asked him to stop and untie me because I had to get back to deliver other pies. But he ignored me and continued to perform. Every role. Every song from "The Sound of Music."

Dude was pretty good too. His Maria was about as good as Julie Andrews and he had the right severe/motherly tone for the Mother Superior. By the time he got to the end, when the family escapes to Switzerland, I was amazed by the sheer talent of this guy.

Afterwards, he bowed, untied me and paid for his pizza. Dude's a good tipper too. Next week he said he's performing "Flower Drum Song." I'll have to remember that for my next shift.

In anticipation of the upcoming holidays

I thought I'd swipe this meme from Writer's Digest:

You've heard the old adage, "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all." Write a sincere thank-you card for the worst gift you've ever received.

Dear Uncle Herbert --

I just wanted to write you a quick note thanking you for The New Sugar Busters! cookbook. I suppose it was about time that I began watching what I eat as well as my weight and this cookbook was the perfect reminder that one can make meals without relying on sugar for flavor.

I do appreciate learning more about cutting back on refined sugars, rice, flour and other food products (which I have been trying to reduce in my diet as of late), but I never thought that I could use Cheese Whiz in a recipe instead of real cheese. Nor did I realize that bananas and carrots were bad for you. That's something I never considered before.

I tried making one of the recipes for Jeff, and his reaction was one of complete surprise, to say the least. He was definitely speechless for a long time.

In any case, thank you for the cookbook. I'm sure it'll be something I look forward to experimenting with in the future.

Your niece,

Viv

In honor of the upcoming holiday:

I present you this meme from WritersDigest.com!

You’re out with some old friends and they’re all rehashing amusing holiday stories. You tell them that you have one to top them all. In telling your story, there are two rules: Your story must begin with, “I remember that Thanksgiving like it was yesterday” and must end with, “And that’s how (fill in the blank) got stuck inside the turkey.”

I remember Thanksgiving like it was yesterday. The entire family was gathered at the house for the usual festivities and Jeff and I were cooking the turkey (like we do every year), except this year, one of our friends brought their little dog, Robespierre with them. We had just finished roasting the turkey and it was sitting out on the counter resting. Jeff, me, Mom, Grandma and our friends were sitting around chatting, when we heard a loud crash.

Running to the kitchen, we saw that the turkey was moving around the counter wildly and a little fuzzy tail was wagging merrily. Apparently, Robespierre jumped on a chair and then leaped onto the counter near the kitchen sink. From there, the mutt got onto the kitchen island and well, began feasting on the turkey. We had no choice after that. We called Glass Nickel and ordered pizzas and chicken wings. And that's how Robespierre got stuck inside the turkey.

Sliding in under the wire

Because I'm out with friends, but have quick access to the computer. Here's my post for today!

Wooo!

Wow. I'm such a shitty blogger sometimes. But at least I'm adhering to the spirit of NaBloPoMo! Actually, I'll give you a random 50-word story right now:

It's been three weeks since she left and her scent still lingers everywhere. There's a vacant spot where she used to toss shoes tossed carelessly in the corner. Sometimes I wonder why she left. Was it something I did? Was it something she did? There's no answers in the silence.

Because I'm too tired to think straight...

And normally I don't post if I'm really tired, but this is National Blog Posting Month, here's a meme from Writers Digest!

The country is in dire need of another holiday that everyone can celebrate, and the government has given you the task of picking it. What event will you add to the holiday calendar and why?

I would create National No-Pants Day to celebrate our ability as men and women to be free of the binding leggings known as pants. No one would wear pants -- men could wear kilts, while women could wear sarongs. The holiday would have to be during the summer, so no one's legs got too cold as they attempted to live up to the spirit of the holiday.

It wouldn't matter if you had hot, hairy, fat or skinny legs or if you had a cute skirt or kilt. The goal is not to wear pants of any type for 24 hours. Underwear is fine (even though they are called pants in England), because really, a good gust of wind could create a lot of havoc in one day. And that's a lot of genitals to look at.

I'm a fuckin' Diva! Where's my chocolates?

Doing a post every single day sounds easy, but it's harder than it looks. I think it's because really, I'm not the type of person to do the "I got up, went to work, had lunch, came home and watched TV" kind of blogger. I like writing mini essays about the world around me.

But some days, the well runs dry. There's not much ideas floating around. So I'm heading to WritersDigest.com for different ideas and inspiration, which is where I got this gem:

You're a celebrity and are able to make demands on what must be provided in your dressing room (Jennifer Lopez insists on white couches). What are your top five demands and why? You can post your response (500 words or fewer) here:

1. A tub with Kiss My Face Anti-stress formula. There must be enough hot water to fill the tub for at least a 30 minute soak. I need a bath after whatever the hell I'm doing to relax and unwind.

2. Good. Chinese. Food. None of this "American Chinese" food. I want authentic Chinese dishes such as ma po tofu, beef tenderloin in black pepper sauce, shrimp in the shell with spicy salt and pepper and other delights. A good meal consisting of those items makes me full, happy and ready to rock.

3. A masseuse who can work out all the knots in my back and body. Being a whatever the hell I am is hard work and it takes toll on my body.

4. An arcade Dance Dance Revolution machine that's free. I need to keep my elite dance moves to impress my fans.

5. A waxer, makeup artist and hair stylist. I need to look good for whatever the hell I'm doing.

Well, I might not be able to do NaNoWriMo...

But I can do this:


National Blog Posting Month!

Wish me luck (and does this count as my first post?)!

Blarg.

Ever have those days where you want to write, but can't? Where you know you want to have the words come out, but they won't? It's like lingual constipation, and it's irritating.

I mean, stuff happened this weekend -- I went to the Bristol Renaissance Faire with Jeff, Em and Mike and had fun, but I don't really feel like talking about it or the people who were dressed like gothy rejects or the three teenage girls all agog over some act called Molotov, who was basically doing a rip-off of an Amazing Jonathan act. Hell, I don't even feel like talking about how deep fried macaroni and cheese is one of the best ideas in the world.

What's bugging me is a longer story that I've been working on for a few months now. I feel stuck and worn out on some of the stuff. The story hinges on certain things occurring, and I can't see it occurring in reality. I mean, why the hell would my characters do the stupid shit I need them to do to propel the story?

I guess, for a little emotional perspective, let me pose this question to ya'll: What was your favorite mistake -- the mistake that you knew was a bad idea, was going to end badly, but you couldn't stop doing? Why did you keep doing that shit, despite all logic in your head?

Confessions on a blog

I've been toying with WritersDigest.com and their writing prompts, which are inspiring. Coming off of "Clerical Error" I couldn't resist answering this question:

You've been living a life filled with lies and it's time for you to come clean. There's one lie in particular that's been eating at you and you have to make right. Start off your response with: "I have a confession to make. I never really . . . " and explain the harm the lie caused and how you intend to rectify it.

I have a confession to make. I never really cooked that dinner for your parents when you first introduced them to me. I know it looked good -- the salad, roasted chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, stuffed mushrooms, roasted vegetables and creme brulee. But really, the dog ate it. I accidentally left all the food on the counter, near the edge and the dog went counter surfing. I heard the crash and saw Murphy eating the food.

All of it was ruined and I had no idea what to do, so I went out. I smelled something good and followed the scent to where this meal was laid out on a picnic table. No one was around, so I just grabbed everything and ran. I stole someone's picnic to feed your parents.

I've never roasted a chicken before -- I just make stir fries. But I'm glad that your parents liked the meal. I just hope they like stir fries.

Oh this CD? Ummmmmm......

I had to steal this on from Keidra (which can be found at the Writers Digest). It's too damn funny not to:

Your friend asks to borrow a couple of your CDs. While rummaging through your collection, the two of you stumble upon what you consider to be the most embarrassing album that you own. You definitely don't want your friend to know that you actually like that record, so make up an excuse as to how it got in your collection. The more elaborate the reasoning, the better.

Oh that? That CD of Face the Music by New Kids? Yeah. See, I was in Boston for a trip. Yeah, I was in Boston -- what? I never mentioned it to you? *shrug* Sorry, it was awhile ago.

Anyways, I was out checking out a flea market or something, when I see this guy selling CDs who looked really familiar for some reason. I mean, I couldn't place the face because he was older and a little more craggy, but he looked familiar to me.

"CDs for sale!" he shouted, with a sound of desperation in his voice. "All good shit!"

Me being me, I wandered over and took a look. None of them were good. I mean, they were a lot of Step by Step, Hangin' Tough and some weird CDs by Menudo. By this point, because I was close enough to see him clearly, I saw who it was.

HOLY SHIT! IT'S JORDAN KNIGHT!

He just looked so sad and desperate that I felt bad for the guy. I mean, it looked like he hit hard times or something. Maybe the Surreal Life wasn't that good to him, but he looked harsh.

I couldn't help it. I just grabbed a random CD and bought it from him for like $5. He asked if I wanted him to sign it, but I declined, because I just wanted to get away from him. The stare he had was getting a little too creepy.

So yeah, that's why it's in my collection.

I get knocked down and I want to stay down

I wish I had something deeper to say right now. I feel like I haven't written in a bit on this blog -- and when I say write, I mean more than the "WTF is Judy Dench and Ewan McGregor doing in food costumes?"

Part of it's work -- the end of a rather stressful period is on the horizon. It wasn't as bad as the past and it was an interesting challenge stretching myself in ways that I thought were impossible, but I'll be glad when it's over.

Another part is that I've been slowly working on a writing project of my own (not for blog consumption). Most of it is for my amusement -- I've got these two characters coming to life, with a world slowly built around them and dammit, I'm curious to see where this mess goes. I've been logging about 100 words or so a day, when the moment strikes me, which I'm pretty proud of. Most of the time I just take a few scenes, scribble them down and then drop it.

Oh, and I'm getting some much-earned vacay as of Thursday. We're heading to Puerto Rico because Jeff's cousin is getting married there. But now it's the joy of prepping to have projects I promised for work done as soon as possible, packing and getting my ducks in a row.

So yeah, in short, don't be surprised if I'm not in a very creative, snarky mood right now. I don't mean to sound bitchy, but I guess that I'm not exactly inspired to write right now.

Coming soon....from two insane fangirls

There's some backstory to this. Keidra and I often get on really silly pop-culture riffs and discussions. It's like we keep encouraging each other to create more imaginary mayhem. She's a huge Sean Bean fan and Sharpe fan. Sean Bean's the star of the Sharpe series. She also likes Horatio Hornblower, even though Horatio's a poncy, arrogant workaholic in her eyes. Both are set during the Regency era, so we got to wondering what would happen if Sharpe and Hornblower met.

Well, that spawned this toy, which is currently in preproduction. We're still trying to get Sean Bean and Ioan Griffudd to star in it, but we may need to resort to action figures and sock puppets in the meantime.


RABID POPCULTURE WEASELS PRESENT:

SHARPE VS HORNBLOWER

Scene 1.

Lt. Richard Sharpe of the South Essex is at some poncy event in London celebrating a military victory or whatnot. He sees Saffy from Absolutely Fabulous mingling and looking vaguely despondent.

He can't help himself. She's got great tits and is in a skirt. The man's a slut and will sleep with anything that isn't nailed down.

SHARPE: Beggin' pardon ma'am, are you alright?

SAFFY: No. My husband, Horatio, is at sea being an asshole.

SHARPE: Oh. Shall we retire elsewhere so we can talk? Maybe your place?

SAFFY: (considers it. Mulls over the amount of time needed to undo all those stupid buttons) Yes, it'd be good to talk to someone. The only one around is my insane bitch of a mother and a shoulder to cry on would be nice.

CUT TO: A bedroom. It's nearly dawn. Sharpe's been buttoning up for the past hour or so.

SHARPE: Er. Um. Yeah, so I'll call you?

SAFFY: No need. This was quite lovely and you did have a reputation that I had to try out. Not to mention, the telephone hasn't been invented yet.

SHARPE: (turns red) In either case, have a nice day ma'am.

CUT TO: Ship. Horatio Hornblower's on it looking like a poncy git. He's reading a letter from someone.

HORNBLOWER: My wife did what? WITH AN ARMY MAN? I KEEEELLLL YOU SHARPE!

CUT TO LONDON: Sharpe's house with his wife Jane (who's just returned from shopping) Hornblower's out waiting at the door.

HORNBLOWER: Mrs. Sharpe? My name is Horatio Hornblower. I came to tell you about your husband cheating on you.

JANE: Oh, I already knew about that. He's a slut -- can't be helped you know? Anyways, I just finished cleaning out his bank account. You look rich. What say we hook up?

HORNBLOWER: Sure!

CUT TO: Some battlefield out in a rock quarry. The same 12 war reenactors are killing each other in the background.

Sharpe's in the middle of a conversation with Harper, who let him know about what's going on after a recent visit to London.

SHARPE: He did WHAT? I'll kill that sonuvabitch!

STARWIPE TO: Hornblower's home. Jane's in bed with Horatio. Sharpe kicks the door down and stares at Hornblower.

SHARPE: Beg pardon sir, but I need to kick your ass.

Commence two hours of sock puppet fighting -- on land, on sea, in front of the rock quarry. Hornblower soon has the advantage, and Sharpe is cornered, with no resources to save him.

As Hornblower prepares to have the final blow, Jane come running across the street to him.

JANE: KEEEELLL THE SLUTTY SOLDIER!

But before she can reach Hornblower, Saffy comes barreling around the corner in a carriage and runs over Jane.

Hornblower: NOOOO!!!!

He falls crumpled over. Sharpe takes that open moment and kicks Hornblower in the goolies.

Sharpe hops into the carriage with Saffy and they drive off.

The end. OR IS IT?