Skip to main content

F: Failure, embraced


The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment, of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup.




There was a time when I thought that I might be a writer of explicit sex and horror. I have also tried my hand at constructing a romance. Some good sentences came of this; and some intriguing, disturbing short stories which I will hide in my papers to be uncovered by delighted ghoulish great children one day; but the overall attempts could reasonably be categorised as failures. These clumsy fumblings have become part of my more experienced writing though. Excursions into the barbaric and the erotic have given my pen a visceral tang, and the perils of love have made me brave enough to allow visible vulnerability (maybe I should have saved this sentence for V day!)
Once I tried to make a curry from a tin of syrupy sliced peaches, possibly the most revolting dish to emerge from any of my kitchens. From this I learnt you can take a sweet curry too far, but sometimes you can’t tell where the line is until you’ve crossed it. I think it’s quite balanced to see the line from both sides anyway. 


Comments

Huntress said…
Seems like you enjoy experimenting. The results of said experimentation? Eh, not so good.
LOL
Sharkbytes said…
I hate to admit it, but I'm often a line-pusher myself. I'm trying to visit all the A-Z Challenge Blogs this month.
Teresa Cypher said…
This is a wonderful post! I love it, Lily! We don't know--ever, until we cross the line. And boy oh boy, a lesson learned by crossing the line is one we don't soon forget. :-)
Suze said…
'the perils of love have made me brave enough to allow visible vulnerability'

I am going to snatch that bit off your blog page and put it in my Bishop's bag. Hope that is okay.
Grammy said…
Hi, I don't think I would be very good at writing erotic or esoteric love scenes. I have read some very steamy ones, but would not want my daughters, or their mates, or my grandchildren or great grandchildren knowing that kind of thoughts or language had come from my mind and mouth. I reckon maybe it ain't gonna happen. Ha. Best regards to you. Trying to hop to all the blogs before the end of the month. Ruby
Lisa Southard said…
More thank yous due for splendid comments, fellow line crossers! If nothing else, we have some good stories from our errors! Suze- I don't know what a Bishop's bag is, but I don't have any objections to your snatching :-)
Suze said…
I made it up for a novel. It is a leather satchel in which a young girl keeps all trinkets and small things meaningful to her.
Lisa Southard said…
Ah- now I know and I like it! :-)

Popular posts from this blog

Contact Pants Conundrum

There is weather today, I do note it: take a few moments to reckon the size of a cloud (big) and the frequency of rain (sporadic.) Centre of my interest though is a stack of magazines. Not the fashion kind. This is martial arts research. I'm not even sure what it is I'm looking for, but intuition calls loud. A range of old adverts skew some amusement. Contact pants, for example. Pants are not trousers where I come from. They are underwear. Professional contact pants: improved smirk value. But why would a person be likely to purchase a grappling hook and a lock pick set? For specialists and hobbyists only, the blurb assures. Guidance on the pheromone spray that attracts women against their better judgement? I doubt it works any more proficiently than the mysterious potion that defines your muscles while you sleep. But, then: I wonder is some sprayed on this paper? What was my intuition thinking, making this ghastly shout… Tea break time. There's a lot of words...

Back From The Future Blog Party

Another joint blog adventure- if you want to see who else said what the list of participants is here . The premise is this: 'You're up before dawn on a Saturday when the doorbell rings. You haven't brewed your coffee so you wonder if you imagined the sound. Plonking the half-filled carafe in the sink, you go to the front door and cautiously swing it open. No one there. As you cast your eyes to the ground, you see a parcel addressed to you ... from you. You scoop it up and haul it inside, sensing something legitimate despite the extreme oddness of the situation. Carefully, you pry it open. Inside is a shoebox -- sent from ten years in the future -- and it's filled with items you have sent yourself. What's in it?' Here's how I imagined it: Before dawn? Shadows outside, first forming. Sleep has gone, I don't know where. Coffee I can find. All the way from Machu Pichu, this fair-traded pack. Scissors are in the drawer, which ...

Hometime Foam Time

It was hot outside, cold indoors. When we were freed from the hall I opened my car thinking oven gloves might be required for driving. I was weary. I was lined up for a row of shifts- but the evenings are lighter now, and the beach was calling. I drove a wiggly route to Veryan (the road I chose was closed) and down to Carne Beach. Since I had checked the weather the wind had turned easterly, and the tide was in. There were waves smacking over a disappearing line of fine sand. Undeterred I wriggled my swimsuit on and went to play in the foam.  Neither air nor sea was particularly cold. Blue and cloud patterned sky, blue and turquoise patterned sea, flowers blooming and swooshed by the wind, and the warm brown crags of rock: to be here was to be directly connected to the source of all existence.  Home time was foam time, and vice versa. Afterwards I sat in my car, door open, eating a square of dark chocolate, watching the white flecks and trying to work out if the dark dot was a...