Val is not a large fan of playground games. Large is about as far as she goes. However...that rapscalliony Sioux has whacked me smack dab in the middle of my back, nearly dislodging a lung. Since I'm not in Ferris Bueller need of hacking one up for my tenth sick day, I shall lay around the shanty, Mama, and get a good buzz on. WAIT! No I won't. That's just a song lyric. Really.
I would like to lay around and do nothing. That's a fact, Jack. But I will put that off until tomorrow. Unlike a lady, who reveals nothing, I shall let my unladylike flag fly, and reveal all. But not in a circus side-show kind of way.
What are you working on right now?
I've been kicking around an idea that might fly one Friday at The Muffin. And by "working on right now" I mean that I think about it every day or two, make plans to sit down and write it, get busy with family things, watch some reality TV, take a nap in my recliner, jot some notes in my little flip-top spiral, and tell the whole blogosphere that I might possibly be thinking about writing it. Right now.
Yes, I'm kicking around that idea like Beaver Theodore Cleaver kicking a tin can down the sidewalks of Mayfield, past Metzger's Field, on his way to the firehouse to visit Gus, before being sidetracked by a giant bowl of soup on a billboard.
As far as something longer, more substantial, to stick to your ribs and tide you over until snack time, I'm thinking about kicking around a little venture in the vein of "Sh*t My Dad Says." Only mine would be...YOU DIDN'T THINK I'D ACTUALLY GIVE YOU MY WONDERFUL WORKING TITLE, DID YOU? The world conspires against Val too much to reveal such a gem. But it goes a little something like this: "Barnyard Excrement My Significant Other Spouts."
How does it differ from other works in this genre?
Val is no wheel re-inventer. It doesn't differ by much. Why mess with success? I am flattering by imitating. My tales are not from somebody's cool old man, but rather from my uncool country spouse. If only viewers of Duck Dynasty and Here Comes Honey Boo Boo were aficionados of fine literature, I might have something here.
Why do you write what you do?
To please myself. I find ME absolutely hilarious, and delight in tickling the keyboard every evening to lighten my mood. Don't like it? Don't read it. Don't cost nothin' to look away.
What is the hardest part about writing?
Trying to make myself socially acceptable on pieces I choose to submit for publication. I don't want to appear a complete idiot. But I don't want to lose my voice.
Now it's time for me to tag three people. Uh...not gonna happen. I'd rather sit down and put my feet up. I'm a taker, not a giver, by cracky! Anybody who wants to play, run up and jam your back against my hand. There. You're it!