When Life Gives You Lemons, or Gynecomastia.

FatMike, (Wiki.) That is one ugly broad.

Constance 'Dusty' Miller

I was having tea with our editor here at Long Cool One Books, he’s some guy called Mike.

He said he had a headache, and he had just taken his last two aspirin. Some kind of beer-clot, a beer-embolism in the brain is what he said. It’s either in the pre-frontal cortex, or possibly right down in the brain-stem, the primitive fore-brain of song and lore.

Reaching into my purse, I offered him a Midol.

“Oh, no.” He said he was afraid it would give him gynecomastia.

Mike knows a lot of big words, that’s why he’s editor.

“I don’t want to start growing breasts, although I would probably appreciate them, ah, probably as much or more than the average bear. Hell, knowing me, I’d probably never leave the house.”

I started laughing because we’re never entirely sure with Mike, whether he’s serious or just pulling our legs.

“No—seriously. The last thing I need is for my hips to start spreading. Next thing you know, I’d be developing a bit of a camel-toe and then I’d have to start buying real tight slacks so I could sort of show off that big old thigh-gap and that nasty old camel-toe.”

Then there’s the whole male pattern baldness thing.

“Honestly, I’d be the ugliest woman you ever saw, Dusty. It’s okay for you, right—you’re pretty.”

He crossed his arms and sat back. There’s just no way he’s going to take that pill, which is really more of a symbol than anything.

“Oh, come on—you can’t be serious.”

“No, I am. Look. If life gives you lemons, you make lemonade, right?”

“Ah…sure.” Not too sure where this one’s going.

“Yeah, I got to be honest with you. If I ever started turning into a woman, the first thing I would do is get right on the phone to the Glamourous World of Ladies Wrestling. I’d be chucking them little ladies right out of the ring in no time at all, left, right and centre—”

Mike’s about six-foot-five and I reckon he probably would be tossing them around like Cabbage Patch Kids and dead little fur-babies. He would knock the stuffing out of them. It would take quite a few whacks across the back of the head with one of those ubiquitous folding chairs to take a big guy like that down…

“Yeah, I’d endeavour to be the best gynecomastia-guy that ever lived. And they’d be pissed off too, and who can blame them. But basically, if I can avoid it, that’s probably better as it’s not really what I want.” Apparently all them female hormones, coupled with the loss of testosterone as he ages, sort of compounds the danger.

“Ah. Oh. Okay.”

“So, really, I’d be foolish to take that kind of a risk.” All those precious bodily fluids or something…not quite being what they should be.

It seems he was serious after all.

Anyways, sometimes you’re better off to live with that headache.

With a brain like that no wonder it hurts sometimes…

< ring…ring…ring… >

“Hey, Dude! What’s up?”

Okay.

Mike’s on the phone. Apparently some guy named Caitlyn.

They talk sometimes, God knows what about. This is the psychological moment and I must make my exit.

Byee!!!

Smooches.

END

(I can't believe you did that, Dusty. Oh, well. It's your blog, but... - ed.)

(Oh, come on. It's a good story. - Dusty.)

(Do me a favour--next time call me Earl or something, okay? - ed.)

***

On the Importance of Not Listening.

"Ignore them? Wow."

Constance 'Dusty' Miller

I think that my first novel is done.

It’s kind of hard to say.

That’s it? It’s over?

But of course it’s not really over until the book is published.

For some reason I’m a bit shy about doing that.

It’s not like there’s a big deadline for it.

I can sit down and try to read the thing three or four times, and there is no doubt that once I tuck into it, there are changes that can be made.

I could screw around with the ending a bit.

I tried to explain the feeling to a buddy.

Let’s call him Mike.

Mike laughed.

“How long have you been doing this?”

I told him a couple of years. I didn’t know what to say.

“The problem is that you are still listening.”

“What?”

“You’re still listening.”

“To what? The book?” (Mike really is a bit nuts sometimes.)

“No.” He looked me right in the eye. “No. You’re still listening to them.”

Them.

Oh, yeah, here we go.

He sat back a little bit, and then he took a long, slow breath. There was some hesitation there.

“You’re still listening to the other writers. You’re still listening to the people who are telling you how to write a story. You’re still listening to the people who are telling you how to manage a career, and this is your first fucking book for Christ’s sake. You’re still listening to the dos and don’ts and the whatnots, the fucking adverbs and dialogue tags and prepositions and it’s all fucking bullshit.”

“And you’re saying I shouldn’t do that?”

“I’m saying you’ve had enough. At some point, it is extremely important that you stop fucking listening to all of them other voices. For if you don’t…they will go on forever. And nothing is more guaranteed to fuck you up as a writer, quicker than listening to a bunch of other writers. All the fucking time. Look. Read their stories—their fiction, for crying out loud, and stop reading their fucking opinions. They don't know anything more than you do. Ignore all that other bullshit about craft, and business, and publishing, and How to Write a Fucking Book, and all that shit about the industry. Just forget it. It’s nonsense, Dusty. All of it.”

Whoa.

Shit.

“So…so…”

“So what?”  (Man, you smoke a lot. I could see it in his eyes.)

“So what do I do?”

“Listen to yourself. What’s your next story? That's the only thing that's important. Follow your own instincts. And ignore everything and everyone else. Otherwise, you are fucking doomed to follow them. And I don’t see you as a follower at all. You've got all kinds of stuff. It's busting out at the seams. You're the only one who don't fucking see it.”

That fucking guy was dead serious, too.

(Wow.)

“Okay.” I thought about it for a minute. “You mean, everyone who comes after this, right?”

He grinned from ear to ear.

“Now you’re catching on.”

What the hell.

I will try anything once.

I have to admit, though. That was a new one on me.

It does make a weird kind of sense, though.

END

(Dusty’s just a bit shy, ladies and gentlemen. She’s put a lot of work into it. It’s not a bad book and if she can’t think of anything to add, then the thing is done, isn’t it? I promise that I won’t let her stew too long.– ed.)