
I was immersing myself in women’s literature the other day—by that I mean I was reading a cookbook—and that’s when I knew what I should do. I will write the next Great American Woman’s Novel. It’ll be part romance fiction/journal/doodles/musings/sestina about kittens and friendship/an illuminating treatise about the way we live now/word cloud, and it will cover the typical subject matters women write about: marriage, motherhood, yogurt, dating as a competitive sport, emotional warfare, housework, tampons, rainbows, midwifery, gardening, hysteria, beauty products, weight gain, weight loss, the art of being shrill, divorce, magic, and light bondage.
One chapter will be an audio file of Taylor Swift songs.
One chapter will be just emojis.
One chapter will be my grocery list.
One chapter will be a link to my Pinterest page.
One chapter will be manufactured with drops of my blood, sweat, and tears.
One chapter will be me making a sandwich for all the “American Novelists.”If I have any deep, universal, logical thoughts or opinions, I’ll write them down on Post-Its and then chew them up and swallow them to maintain the illusion women don’t write about those things.
FUNNY WOMEN #100: Writing The Next Great American Woman’s Novel by the inimitable Elissa Bassist
Ted Wilson Reviews The World #179: Slimer gets 4 out of 5 stars.
His actual name is not Slimer. No one knows his real name or who he was before he died. Nor does anyone know how he died. His missing legs may be a clue. Perhaps they were blown off in combat and he bled to death. Or maybe he just never had legs. Whatever the circumstances of his passing, something kept him here on Earth. Possibly his search for his missing legs.
It makes no sense that he would eat. As a ghost, his physical manifestation has no way to metabolize the food he consumes. My guess is that it’s an emotional based eating, possibly a cry for help.
The Rumpus Interview With Ted Travelstead
While a freshman in college, I earned a yellow belt in Karate. That being said, I do not think I could fight them off. So, if I happen to get hit by a drone strike while eating at Blimpie, you know where to look.
(Psst, Ted’s also on Tumblr.)
Start with a hook.
Vomit splashed on my shoes. Another bullshit night on the suck party circuit. (Too Nick Flynnish?) Or: The sheets were sticky. Someone was in the bathroom but I couldn’t remember who. (Don’t overdo. Save scene for later.) Look at good beginnings and think about. Call me Ishmael. The past is a foreign country. Happy families … (check Google).
Notes For A Twenty-Something’s Memoir by Jacqueline Doyle