Last night we were lying about, basking in the AC before sleeping, and reading cookbooks full of South Beach Diets. Bridgette came across Tofu Cacciatore. Cacciatore, I am told, means “Hunter Style”. I had a little bit of fun thinking about big game hunters out after tofu, and the dangers of getting too close. We snickered a bit and returned to the cookbooks.
Bridgette did. I stayed out on the veldt with the tofu.
After a couple of minutes I hopped out of bed. “If this takes me longer than ten minutes,” I told Bridgette, “come tell me I don’t need to play anymore tonight. I’m just going to tap this out, really quick.” My intention was to have a mildly humorous journal entry.
40 minutes later, I had the first draft of a mildly humorous short story, 1,117 words.
I feel like I was possessed by the ghost of Patrick McManus. Very odd. I liked it. I sent it to Ed, just to make sure that I hadn’t read something by Patrick M years ago and half-remembered it, writing it as mine…’cause the tone is very like, I think. He says not.
So, I’ll let it sit for a while, and revise it, and send it away.
Crossposted from Epinephrine & Sophistry