I have survived the initial Write Club session. I’ll be the first to hold my hands up and admit that my entry was not particularly eloquent, inspirational or emotive.
It was irreverent. It contained sweary words and hookers and a nasty hooded giant. This was not a piece of work that could be mistaken for another author’s. It had RatBastard stamped all over it. I’d had a hard week or so and wrote this at not quite the last hour on the last day.
I have since self-flaggelated until I resemble a slightly porky red and white tiger in the bathroom mirror. OK, maybe not a tiger. Closer to a wild boar I guess. Chewing a wasp.
Anyhow! I am determined not to come so close to a fuck up this session. Unfortunately 
True to form, I took this literally and battered on about virgins and monsters and small towns that need one to save them from the other. It was actually fun to write because it wasn’t intended as a serious piece, merely a poke in the eye for the bards of fable and myth and their fixation with the evisceration of female virgins. I mean, what town has a surfeit of eighteen year old virgins?
What’s that you say? Kettering? Where the fuck is Kettering?
In Glasgow, the only eighteen year old virgins are Goths. Male ones. I think. It’s difficult to tell under all that hair and make-up.
Billy Connelly – Glasgow’s finest smart-arse – once explained that the reason why Jesus hadn’t been born in the Gallowgate (a rather dingy part of Glasgow) was because nobody could find three wise men or a virgin.
Where was I? Oh, yes. Clearly Jordan thought someone was taking the piss and that the prompts were far too fucking easy ‘cause he’s come up with the whizz-bang plan of using a metaphor. I’ll say that again, the prompt is to use a metaphor as a device in your story.
Does anyone else think that’s cheating? No? Just me?
He gave us an example. It’s called Chicxulub and it’s an absolutely stunning short story written by T. C. Boyle and published by the New York Times. I beseech you not to read the fucking thing if you have a seventeen year old daughter.
Like me.
So, after the tears had dried and I’d wiped all the snot onto my sleeve, I got to thinking and thinking and thinking. Slowly a plan resolved itself from the creative ether. It involved a brand new droid, birthed from the carcass of its mother ship and hell bent on survival in a hostile universe. It employed nature, the whole tapestry of life, kill or be killed, evolution, revolution and out and out bad ass bullshit as the metaphor.
I was feeling quite proud of myself. Until I went to the Write Club voice conference and 
It’s not as bad as having to go back to the drawing board. This revelation just means that now I have two stories in my head and eight days to write them. I can only submit one to #writeclub so, if I do go down that route, you can expect the other one to turn up on Steemit.
Anyway, enough of this havering. I have virgins to erm… sacrifice, AI’s to terminate and pill bugs to resuscitate.
I’ll be back in a fortnight.
