Short, Hard and Just Six Long

Ernest Hemingway—aside from being an impossibly narcissistic bastard, rampaging alcoholic, chronic womanizer and full-time jackass—was [sigh] a brilliant writer and a master storyteller. His greatest strength just happens to be my greatest weakness—the man could hold his liquor. Alright, not really. Although, scotch for scotch, I'm betting Ernest-o could soundly drink me under the table, and then some.

Unfortunately my digression evidences my originally intended point perfectly.

All alliteration and adverbs aside, Hemingway's strength was his relentless commitment to efficient prose. He did not waste a single word—he was the consummate literary tightwad. For example, he once wrote a story that was just six words long: Baby shoes: for sale, never used. Hemingway [supposedly] regarded it as his best work. Told you he was a narcissistic bastard.

Allow me to rebut with a six-word story of my own: Yes. The man can write. Bastard.

Please continue dear reader because, trust me, you have no idea where I'm actually going with this.

I am currently in the process of rewriting and reworking Addicted, a short story about sex addiction, that I submitted with my application for a summer fellowship with the Norman Mailer Writer's Colony (for those interested, the colony smartly rejected my application). Don't worry, I am not bitter and the preceding statement is completely venom-free. I knew rejection was a certainty because Addicted was little more than a rough draft at the time of its submission. In the interest of full disclosure, of course I secretly hoped that what I thought was a hastily written and sloppy short story would be recognized as pure genius, and I would be hobnobbing with literary giants as I penned the next great American novel from my writing quarters in a Massachusetts colonial overlooking the majestic Atlantic Coast.  Alas, it was not meant to be.

Let this be a lesson to everyone: use of the term "hobnob" or any conjugated derivative, even if you just think it, rightfully dooms you to failure.  Still, I consider Addicted a success.

Following the birth of my daughter, there was a significant period of time (almost five months) where writing fell to the wayside because my wife and I were adjusting to the day-to-day realities of raising an infant—an adjustment that is about as subtle as taking a cruise missile to the head.  Let it be stated officially on the record that I would run barefoot across broken glass just to make my beautiful little girl smile (after which I would get her into therapy post-haste to discover the source of her macabre sense of joy and affinity for the sadistic). Off the record, however...those first few months are a time marked by spastic emotions, little sleep, and a newfound fascination with the most rudimentary of life processes. I'll be blunt, there are times when it is pure hell.  At least for me, I kind of lost myself in the whole new parent thing, because every waking moment was somehow dictated by this little person who, for quite some time, didn't really give a shit about me.  Infants just want to eat, defecate and sleep—but never on a schedule remotely convenient for you.

My whole purpose for writing Addicted was simply to flex my long quiescent writing muscles, preferably on a topic as far flung from infant care as possible (hence my conscious exclusion of any references to paraphilic infantilism in the story). My application to the writer's colony simply provided an external deadline to serve as a finish line.  Anything beyond simply finishing would just be gravy.

So how does all of this connect?  While writing the first draft of Addicted, I tried to keep Hemingway's six word story in the back of my mind at all times to remain focused on writing efficiently.  By the time I finished the first draft of Addicted, I was thoroughly worn out from composing endless sexual innuendos and researching alternate terms for an erection. Coupled with the lack of sleep from day-to-day infant care and work, I was your basic drooling crazy person.

The morning I mailed my application to the writer's colony, and in the aforementioned sleep deprived state, I thought to myself, "If Hemingway's best work is, by his own admission [allegedly] his six-word story—and some of the greatest works of literature are rife with rampant sexuality—why is there a distinct lack of six word erotica?"

I've had worse ideas, relevant examples merely elude me at the moment.

Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov.  Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller.  Lady Chatterley's Lover by D.H. Lawrence (there's more of course—especially contemporary examples—but Internet lists are for slack-jawed mouth breathers and, therefore, shall be neither encouraged nor tolerated here).  All relevant, respected works of literature.  All brimming with raw human sexuality.  All more than six words long.  Something just did not add up.  So? I endeavored to fill that void.

Did it. Twice. He faked it? ~ How was he? In and out.

Liquor softens judgment. Among other elements. ~ Wanted just one thing. Got it!

Shelly? Looks great, smells like beef. ~ Long hard day. Short disappointing night.

Should have known. Now it burns. ~ "Good morning...sorry. Your name please?"

Best he's had. I've...had better. ~ Kinky? I'll get the branding iron.

That was great! Got to go. ~ I guessed correctly. Like a pencil.
 

Consequences of withdrawal method?  Conception, mainly.

Penis-centric Neanderthals always end up neutered.

These stories...resemble some dude's junk.

Her fetish? It involves greased llamas.

His dog...really likes peanut butter.

Turgid flesh goes limp with rum.

Nine women. One guy. He died.

They meet, then fuck. The end.

Don't bite so hard next time.

Great party. She's still here though...

Screw Richard Gere. Gerbils bite hard.

Him?  Not good.  Really fast though.

Sweaty flesh flaps in the dark.

He came. She faked. He left.

Frightened yet?  If not, be sure to check back for Addicted, which will be posted in its entirety following completion of my full overhaul and rewrite aimed at shaping its flaccid storyline and limp characters into a rock solid piece that will make you scream, "Yes!"