And She Sometimes Calls ME Freak Show!

Some articles write themselves. The words flow from our paws like the waters of a craggy spring flow through a clichéd old simile. Such trains of thought can't be broken; they're virtually unstoppable. Then there are the others: the articles we want to write but find wording them nearly impossible. These trains of thought stop frequently, backing up to take on extra, often unnecessary, cargo before dawdling forward at a painfully slow pace, and even when they do finally manage a decent speed, the wise writer avoids premature enthusiasm. He knows that there's probably a gang of dark, mustachioed bandits waiting around the nearest curve in preparation for an outline ambush. Yes, as I've said before, writing is a bittersweet trade. It's either bliss or bother with very little in-between.

I blame materials. Not software, pens, ink or paper (though handling these is admittedly difficult when lacking opposable thumbs), but rather the matter upon which we base our content. One's content is usually inspired by purrsonal experience, so when reality leads us by the paw and abandons us somewhere between The Far Side and The Twilight Zone, we're forced to modify it to suit the reader. This can only work two ways: we must either omit the absurd little details that initially strike us as interesting, thus toning it down for the mainstream audience, or we must inflate those oddities into something totally unbelievable, thus gearing it toward the next edition of The Weekly World News. Such inspiration is troublesome and usually takes the form of a malicious little fork in the already winding road of freelance writing.

I have a theory, and since this is my column, I'm going to share it with you: "Bat Boy" really does exist, and he really did marry Margaret Thatcher's "Mini-me". I'm telling you this, not because I want you thinking me an incurable sucker, but because it's a splendid illustration of my purrevious point. Let's assume for the moment that "Bat Boy's" real name is Gregory, that he really lives somewhere near Nowhere Idaho, and that he's married to a British-born dwarf called Maggie, whom he met at a vampire convention back in 1990. We'll also assume that this interesting duo lives up the street from Joe Writer, and that they were accidentally discovered when Mrs. Writer (Joe Writer's wife) happened to be selling an exceptionally rare, hard-cover copy of Anne Rice's Interview With a Vampire at her yearly garage sale.

Imagine the scene as Gregory strolls in, lifts the book from the makeshift table and clutches it excitedly to his chest. As his resultant euphoria gushes forth in a bray of spasmodic laughter, his artificially elongated incisors peer out from beneath his twitching upper lip, offering an ethereal display of his obsessive compulsive nature. (By now any writer worth his Biro has run his manners through the shredder and is staring shamelessly.) In machinegun fashion he rambles on about how he met his wife Maggie. He goes into detail about how both were lonely and never thought they'd find true love. (At this point, Joe Writer is not only staring shamelessly but is also taking notes in the margins of his newspaper with a broken crayon he swiped from a nearby box marked 10p.) Then, while queuing for signatures on their favourite vampire novels, they met and were married within a week.

Now, I can't guarantee the accuracy of this conjecture; but at least it's plausible, and, if nothing else, it shows how peculiar realities can both inspire a writer and boggle his mind all in one go. After all, Gregory is definitely interesting, but recounting the incident in exact detail isn't likely to hold the average reader's attention for long. Joe Writer is forced to get creative.

Again, this story can go two ways: Mr. Writer can either relate it as an exceptionally twisted, yet heart-warming, tale of how two people, destined to be lonely, cheat the fates and find true love, or he can spin it into "Bat Boy" (as Mrs. Writer later dubbed him while discussing her day over tea). Then, to the sensible writer, there is only one option: go to the fiction market and trump it up into something so sensational that someone would have to be a blathering idiot to believe a single word. After all, there's not a book on the shelves called Chicken Soup For The Blackened, Vampire-Loving Goth Soul, and even if you wrote one, the court costs and damages imposed during the copyright infringement suit would likely devour your profits.

Enter the fork: even the least successful writer has some semblance of pride. No one wants their name attached to a fictionalised tabloid, and the more reputable publications, say, Mad Magazine (if you can call that reputable), aren't likely to bite (pun intended) on the "Bat Boy" proposal, so we vainly grope for a way in which to tell the story without hiding behind a pen name that's only marginally more convincing than the content of the piece. More often than not, we fail miserably.

I'll be purrfectly frank, this article started out as a humorous account based on the all-too-bizarre-to-be-real creatures that crawled out from their respective holes and attended my self-proclaimed owner's yearly yard sale. That, as if you couldn't guess, is where my theory on "Bat Boy" was born. Believe me, with all the notes I collected from that fiasco, I could've written the current issue of The Weekly World News by myself, "Bigfoot's Baby" and all!

She had the tattooed man, the bearded lady, and a chap whose beer-belly might've contained his unborn twin. There was a bona fide lunatic, more than a few lost marbles, and so many loose screws that had she just removed the lot, she'd have collected enough to reinforce the floors of Buckingham Palace. Purrsonally, I think she should have hired a farris wheel and some elephants. The profits from admissions would've shadowed her sales like an aardvark shadows an anthill. (How's that for clichéd?) It was a rag-mag writer's virtual utopia, complete with clown cars and carnies! Were I to spell out each of these extraordinary people (for the lack of a better word), I'd surely have a novel to rival Ripley's. So, instead, I'll just leave it to your imaginations and call it a night.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)


READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send enquiries to: housecatwisdom@gmail.com.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.