Never Too Late for a Born Writer

This is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), and some of my buddies is participating. What the deal is that you pledge to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. People I can think of who is doing this gig include Angie, who seems to be doing well, as is Raehan. Struggling but plugging are Born Fool, along with Vicki and Jona.

It is kind of late to start, but I think Ol' Hoss is also up to the challenge, since I don't got nothin' to do but read your lame stuff, which I can catch up on later. So, here goes:

Fear and Loathing Amongst the Pecans

Clem Hackleberry stood at the makeshift altar, lookin' a little peaked. It is no wonder, for he has had a hard life. He has rode the railroad and been railroaded. He has been cussed and discussed. Clem has been shot and shot back, shit shot and shot the shit. He has owned dogs, wore dog tags, got dog-tired, tired out his dogs, ate hot dogs, and bedded some dogs. He always says, "Bein' a 'bo ain't easy, so if it's all the same to you, I'd rather have a handout than work for food."

Emmy Demons stood at his side. She appears to have been rode hard and put away wet. She is visibly pregnant, volubly pregnant. "Hurry it up, preacher. I think my water just broke," she said, brokenly. Emmy is about 5'5" in all directions; sort of a crooked-toothed Tennessee girl, the kind that some people --- but not many -- like. She and her Pap raise pecans around Dyersburg, near ol' Poopsie (Janie S.), a smart, genteel lady who is somewhat fearful of the annual dropping of the pecans but has not yet lost her mind.

Hovering behind and slightly to the left of Clem is Lucifero Demons. Lucifero is a hard-bitten (note to self: pretty stale characterization; maybe hard biter, instead?) pecan merchant. Not exactly a pecan merchant; he sews burlap sacks to put the pecans in. He loathes pecans. (Publisher's note: "I like the way Ol' Hoss has worked in the 'Fear and Loathing' right away in this bodice ripper. Let's get that on the book jacket.")

"Yah, I urge you to get with it, preach," Lucifero says, urgently. He gestures with the shotgun, which is loaded with double 00 shot, which can make a serious mess of your buttcrack. (Publisher's note: "Mention that there is some comic relief from all the tension. People always liked Mark Twain, and this writer reminds me of Ol' Mark.")

The preacher obliges. "We are gathered here today to make a union in the old confederacy -- did you know I made that up? -- of Clem and Emmy..."

Clem bolts for the door. A blast of double 00 is heard. The preacher's wife drops a hot pan full of brownies, which are devoured by six coon dogs. It is bedlam, which was the name of insane asylums in years past.

(To be continued...)

(Note to self: Preacher's characterization needs some work. For instance, is he wearing spats? A Pepsi guy, or Dr Pepper?)

(As you can see, Hoss ain't no johnny-come-lately in the writin' game. This is 10,000 words, easy, so I'm a fifth of the way done. Writin' comes a lot easier than 'rithmetic. It is fortunate for us writers that computers can do math, but not "Beowulf." And even if a computer COULD do "Beowulf," why would it want to?)

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My favorite word today is clandestine. N., the appointed place. Def. Where the Tan Lucy Pez or Unga Chunga families go on vacation.