Writing with Bees

Fellow Indies writers, and snobbish literati who give away your work to the paper-pushers for a measly ten percent, I’ve stumbled across a tremendous writing aid that I feel obliged to share with you.

If you’re like me, married with children, your biggest problem is finding time to write: kids yelling about their most recent light saber injury, the wife testing your fatherhood/manhood by asking you to pave the driveway with a rolling pin, etc., etc… You know the deal. To solve this problem I usually write from three to five in the morning, a time when children only wakeup to throw up, or scream about the family of Zombies living under their beds.

Well, I’m pleased to report; I recently stumbled upon a cure for this problem.

Bees! Yes. Bees.

I write in my basement, in a big office, in a big house, not paid for with my ebook royalties 🙂 This fall, about forty-five days ago, my office became infested with bees. Being an Irish bullshitter (See my previous post.) this means about ten to twenty bees. I’m sort of easy going about most things, including bees. So, I let the bees swirl about me. Two times bees got into my pants, but I smushed them before they reached my testicles. And, I got bit once, on the arm. No big deal.

It was all worth it, for the cohabitants of my dwelling, a.k.a. my family, are deathly afraid of bees. Accordingly, they did not come within thirty feet of my office. In short, they left me alone. I could write for a whole hour without interruption. It was a dream come true.

Sadly, last night, the temperature went down to forty in Western Massachusetts. So, as I am writing this blog, my bees are stationary at my feet. I considered attempting CPR, but I think my mouth is too big. Alas, it appears my bee gig is up. So, I think I need to move on… time to begin writing with snakes!

W4$

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Kiss Me! I’m…

I was working on my new web site (It’s going to be optimized for indie publishing – stay tuned…) when I noticed I had made a tremendous mistake. I had forgotten to include my nationality in my current bio. I write offensive comic fiction, in the hope of attracting hate mail, yet I had failed to provide the basic info required to inspire race-based hatred, which we all know is the force that keeps the world on its axis. My apologies. This blog corrects this terrible oversight.

Since I, Wright Forbucks, am the “bon” in bon vivant, I’m sure most of you have assumed I am a Frenchie or perhaps of Northern Italian descent. Worse, I’m certain others of you have assumed I was Eastern European, figuring my warped brain was the byproduct of a half a century of internment in a Soviet Gulag. Further, I’m certain the ten people that read EVEN STEVEN, my sci-sigh comic fiction masterpiece, assume that I am a Jew due to my Einstein-like understanding of particle physics. These are all good guesses, but the truth is I am Irishman. And, I am not the the average American-Irishman that’s twenty-five percent Irish, plus some of dis, and some of dat. I be a purebred, proof being a recent MRI which revealed my head was solid bone.

Since it tis what it tis, for those of you unfamiliar with a real Irishman, I offer the following characteristics and welcome you to use them as fodder against me should my fiction inspire a rant.

First of all, a real Irishman is a bullshitter. So, you’ll never be able to tell when we are telling you the truth. In fact, the only statement you should believe when talking to a real Irishman is “I got sh**faced last night.”

And speaking of drink… it’s advisable to never go drinking with a real irishman unless your health insurance is up to date, for even the frailest Irishman can drink his body weight in beer without fear of a hangover. In fact, we rather enjoy listening to our non-Irish “drinking buddies” heave about while we enjoy a traditional Irish breakfast, a can of corned beef hash and a warm Budweiser.

And speaking of health… a real Irishman never goes to the doctor unless we have a tumor that weighs more than a Volkswagen, or we have been shot more than three times. Doctors say bad things. Who needs them?

And speaking of death… a real Irishman is relentlessly fatalistic. In fact, when we answer the phone we do not say, “Hello.” We say, “Who died?”

Also, speaking of death again, it being our favorite topic… It’s the hope of any real Irishman to die of Irish Alzheimer’s Disease. This illness is characterized by a decade of sitting in a Lazy Boy Recliner (where you are occasionally spoon-fed boiled dinner by one of your thirty grandchildren). Symptoms of this disease also include the inability to remember the names of your spouse or children, but total recall of all grudges.

Also, most tragically, due to ancestors that include Joyce, Shaw, Wilde, Stoker, and similar riff raff… any real Irishman believes he can write. But, the truth is, when it comes to writing, most of us are hacks that have more ego than brains who think we are witty due to the cumulative effect the above mentioned attributes…

Hmmm, you might want to use that one against me…

W4$

Bless Me Father for I have Sinned.

I just finished my third novel, THE GENERAL STORE, and hit the publish button at Amazon.com. It is another work of comic fiction. This time an environmental/sex comedy set in the small town of Apple, Massachusetts. I wrote THE GENERAL STORE due to my subconscious desire to be excommunicated from the Catholic church. I’ve always wanted a bishop, or perhaps a cardinal, to knock on my door and yell at me like a home plate umpire, “You’re Outta here!”

I’m not sure how many sins THE GENERAL STORE commits because the sin-counter on my word processor has been disabled by a virus, but there is one chapter where every other word is mother f*!!*#* and another where an well-endowed young man does something improper with a Wendy’s chocolate Frosty.

I can’t say I’m proud about writing a book with no redeeming qualities, but I’m fairly certain it does contain a few scenes that will make most readers smash their Kindles on the ground and laugh until their sides hurt, and what’s wrong with that, especially if you got one of those new Fire tablets that constantly freezes and randomly shouts ‘redrum!” while you’re trying to read.

I also believe THE GENERAL STORE has a few noteworthy quotes, including the first rule of infidelity, “Don’t cheat with a woman that looks like an orangutang if your wife is a kick-boxer.” I also believe the book has one of the all-time great opening lines, but I’ll leave that to you to judge. (Go to Amazon and click on preview, if you’re too cheap to throw down the $2.99)

Now comes the hard part of writing a book, selling it.

With my last work, THE WALKING MAN (11/18 Five Star reviews) I did the twitter thing. This means I spent my time trying to sell my book to other authors who are generally too busy writing to read. I also did the Free Amazon.com KDP Select scam, giving away 10,000+ books to earn enough money to buy a pack of used condoms. This time around my plan is to advertise. Pure and simple. I’ve read there is no worse return than advertising an ebook, that readership must be earned by sending hand-signed letters to book bloggers, and begging literary rock stars for a retweet. My fear is this is true, but nonetheless I plan to advertise. Now I just have to find a web site with a million viewers that will accept an ad for a book about a man with a big one – a really big one.

Hmmm, maybe Funny or Die!