It’s my turn to place our communal bottle of butt glue on my desk to keep me in my seat and motivate work on my Prod Your Muse novel.
To be honest, I’m having doubts about this assignment. This was the desk where my late father wrote his books, and since my brother used a desktop item to burn a hole in this icon, trinkets on the desk give me the willies. I just need my two stacks of notebooks, phone, lamp, clock, family pictures, chunk of the Berlin wall, and lucky rock. Then there’s the question of where this butt glue has been before I got it. My sheltie Teddy is a butt connoisseur, and he shows far too much interest in this bottle.
If I’m supposed to keep busy on my novel, why have I tied myself up with a blog about glue? The truth is, once I get in my chair, I am practically a permanent resident. I could write forever if not for the distractions, like the phone calls, Teddy’s compulsion to steal paper out of my printer, and the love of my life who bursts in to dump mail and his thoughts on me.
So color me skeptical. Nevertheless, I am always a good sport.
Looking at this butt glue, I spent quite a while thinking of ordinary glue, the kind meant for paper, not butts. I always liked a good jar of white school paste best.
Remember opening a jar of paste? Seeing the little brush hanging down from the lid into the jar. Do you remember how good that school paste smelled? In those days, no one accused us of substance abuse for a good whiff or two. Some of us used to eat it too. In my third grade classroom, we had a permanent craft table, with several jars of school paste. I remember one classmate’s grubby fingers flicked in and out of the jar. That sight almost put me off paste altogether.
Today the butt glue inspired me to write an entire episode in my series on Little Peanut. The young character pretends school paste is furniture polish. It’s right up there with “Little Peanut Makes a Baby.” The grandkids will love it.
I have to admit it. Staring at this inanimate object all day is a little sick. It reminds me how I fixated on a focal point when I gave birth. Today I contributed a nice bit to my memoir on childbirth, but it didn’t make me write anything romantic. Maybe I should pretend the bottle is a human being.
I named him Elmer—what else? Now I can’t stop looking at the big red pimple on top of his head.
I couldn’t stand how gross this was, so I used Google to find a head shot of a gorgeous actor to paste on the bottle. I write on the actor’s Facebook page and compose some background notes on the hero of my P.Y.M., who looks just like this.
Because of my decapitation phobia, it starts to bother me that Elmer is minus a body. I move him to my printer where he occupies my peripheral vision only. I google phobias and find some good ones for the future. This leads me to the phobias in last year’s P.Y.M, so I go back to that manuscript and touch up those bits.
Really, this was too gruesome. I decided Elmer needed a body, so I drew one and spent a lot of time making it fit under his head. Now he sits on the printer top, and his legs dangle down near the paper.
Tomorrow I really should add some details. At least some body hair to go with that beard. However, he needs more body parts. Drawing takes a lot of work.
This was a very good day. I had fun adding embellishments to Elmer—chest hair, a tattoo, a belly button, nipples, and, um, other doo-dads. This is better.
I wrote a love scene to use in another book. While I was at it, I rummaged through all the love scenes I ever wrote. Dang! I used to be pretty good before I got my inspiration from a glue bottle man.
I have trouble looking at Elmer this way. He needs trousers.
Today was not a good day for Elmer. Nobody will believe this, but you can’t make stuff like this up.
I enjoyed designing a wardrobe for Elmer, complete with a little hat. I was pretty darn proud of my artwork. I decided I’d better make a photocopy before I hand-colored it.
If you’re squeamish, read no further. What happened next wasn’t pretty.
While I searched the center drawer for my colored pencils, my hand became stuck. At the same instant, I heard the printer start its run. Teddy sprinted at full speed out of nowhere, hurled himself at the printer and grabbed poor Elmer, ripping off his doo-dads.
I don’t have to tell you what this did to my mutilation phobia. Elmer is no longer speaking to me, and he won’t come anywhere near my desk or printer.
This evening, I wrote two chapters on my P.Y.M. I cleared off the desk, except for a picture of the love of my life. He’s a flesh and blood man with real embellishments, and he’s the one who makes me write sweaty.
Latest posts by SSRA Blog Contributor (see all)
- IN WHICH BUTT GLUE IS NEGLECTED, and a writer goes crazy… - September 2, 2017
- Butt Glue… New Invention or Grecian Artifact? - May 31, 2017
- The W.A.R.P. Principle - May 15, 2017