Last night, I went to the monthly Indy WordLab meetup, where writers of all types and skill levels come together at a great bookstore and try some new things with their writing. Erik Deckers kicked off this particular WordLab by talking about some of the mechanics of humor writing, and then we set off into our various corners to write something funny, based on his advice.
After a while, we came back together to share what we had created. Maybe half the writers (of around 14) shared their humorous works with the whole group.
I was one of them.
I was feeling pretty good about what I had written before I got up in front of the group, and the reading went (I thought) very well. The story won the chuckles I was hoping for at the pseudo-punchline, and got outright laughter at the final line. I couldn't have bought a better response.
|Erik "Don't You Wish Your Boyfriend Was Writerly Like Me" Deckers (Photo credit: BlogWorld & TBEX events)|
(You can read that story right here on Friday.)
It went so well, in fact, that my infinite ego thought I might have even been impressive. And, as a single man, only one type of person is worth impressing: women. Could it be possible that I had so impressed one of the young ladies that she might swoon, even metaphorically? (I wasn't kidding about the infinite ego bit.)
But then, anticlimactically, I drove home with nothing but my thoughts. I was alone, something I hate to be when I'm feeling so good. Joy like this is meant to be shared!
Much like the tires of my Nissan Versa across the dashed line, my mind drifted as I drove home. What must it be like to so impress a woman with one's artistic skills that all her modesty and clear thought is superseded by outright lust?
A few artists have some experience with this. Pablo Picasso surely had his share of obsessed female fans hoping to pose nude for him, as did Salvador Dali. The boys of Aerosmith, The Rolling Stones, The Beatles, and their ilk certainly have reaped the benefits of the raging hormones of anonymous women. Even Franz Liszt occasionally had to duck to avoid a flying corset during a performance.
Now, I've never signed a woman's bare chest, or awakened next to a naked woman I couldn't remember, or taken a paternity test, and I don't know any writers who have.
|OH MY GOD! LOOK AT HIS TIGHT PROSE!|
But why not? Literature can be just as sexy, if not sexier, than rock 'n' roll! Young female fans might not be able to see a writer swaying his hips as he writes, but they can certainly be affected by an author's lascivious description of said hip-swaying. I may not be a looker, but Cyrano de Bergerac proved to me that I didn't have to be. (Perhaps he made some promises that the literary world couldn't keep?) And besides, Mick Jagger isn't much to look at either, but he certainly got much more "satisfaction" from his art than I ever have.
Where are the groupies for writers?
Where are the literary nymphets? The screaming [18-year-old-and-above] girls who get hot for a nice turn of phrase? The buxom, blonde biblio-bimbos? The short story sluts? The promiscuous princesses of the published page?
It just doesn't seem fair, does it?
I suppose it's for the best, though. If writers did have groupies, I'd probably just be complaining about how all the hot ones went home with Erik last night.