For example, say you want to riff on the theme of shrubbery. One context in the entire history of our half of the universe dominates all others with respect to this word, so avoid it. Everyone automatically thinks of it anyway, so it’s there whether you mention it or not, so don’t mention the primary context, and it will still work for you as the substrate. Mention a secondary context instead. Bob Ross seems suitable, and now you get a bit of surprise working in your favor.
But don’t mention anything that immediately comes to mind in the Bob Ross context. Catch him on a bad day when the shrubbery brings clouds that are dark and angry, mistakes set him brooding, full of self-doubt and artists block, and the devil beats the bristles out of him!
Now and then weave in a famous punchline without the original setup and twiddle it to suit your needs. Like Delving did with “How a flat Phrygian got into her pajamas, she’ll never know.” And keep on truckin’.
There are no rules, but the only other exception to the rule that there are no rules (being its own exception as well as the exception that proves the rule) is don’t ever, never, ever call attention to your puns and references. Let sleeping dogs lie and lying dogs sleep. If you find yourself writing “No pun intended,” then stop. Go get a spoon full of peanut butter. Eat the peanut butter while basking in the glow of your glorious pun. Come back. Delete “No pun intended”. Move on. If you need to mention a reference because you feel self-conscious about possibly overstepping the boundaries of fair use (but really you really really want readers to know you’re as clever as you really think you are), then mention those references later, and as ironically as you can muster.
Monty Python, Bob Ross, and Groucho Marx walk into a bar. Groucho said, “Who put that bar there?” Bob Ross said, “The devil made me do it.” Monty Python would have said something about the violence inherent in the system, but the credits had already started rolling, and they only had time to squeeze in a few more clips of the Spanish Inquisition skit, so they left on screen a still of Harpo and Chico putting the dish rack to Mrs. Teasedale–to Groucho’s partial chagrin.
Other quivers full of arrows include stating the obvious when euphemisms run rampant; repeating repetitive repetitions repeatedly (next week we delve into variations on a theme of Rachmaninoff’s variations on a theme of Paganini’s variations on a theme of Rossini’s variations on a theme for clarinoboe and five and a half small orchestras playing variations on a theme of Rachmaninoff); and, finally, extending an idea long past its expiration date as if it were a loaf of bread with a bit of butter churned from a herd of arctic cows fleeing feral chickens unleashed by a flu of ancient pilfered conundrums developed by a government lab (secret by birth) in the bosom of a heart-rending rendering of an oratorio of prepositional and participial phrases by which you can extend any sentence off into the horizon of eternal eternity. Ad infinitum and imbroglio.
Sprinkle in a dose of ill-fitting adjectives and non sequiturs, to your partial chagrin, to feed the second stream of particles on the third loop of the large hexagonal collider of minds, rinds, and definite winds. Hints of new meaning lurk in the mist like the darkness that lurks in the heart of my cat.
Avoid the urge to dedicate three lifetimes to enumerating a complete catalog of such tricks (that’s what graduate students are for). Git while the gittin’s good, and let the partial list of chagrins speak to the monumental moment of your meandering existence (and theirs!).
- Avoid first things that pop into your mind. (Shrubbery)
- Negate common tropes. (Bob Ross)
- Crop and graft famous punchlines. (Groucho’s elephant)
- Swallow your punny pride. (Hemingway’s iceberg theory of short story writing)
- State the obvious when least expected. (Explode euphemisms)
- Repeat repetitively. (Again and again)
- Circumlocutionate. (Like Tolstoy’s peasant)
- Dash your lists off quickly and then dash yourself off to have fun storming the castle. (As you wish!)
It’s time for my morning spoon of peanut butter, so go and do likewise in as likely and wisely a manner possible such that your cat might not notice the improvement.
Discover more from Faded Houses Green
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
Very clever way to deliver that, thank you.
Thank you! 🙂
Wise words lie couched in the divot between the cushions of your divan, where sophisms yet lurk like the spare change in Bob Ross’ afro. Or, as someone once told me, “You need to quit over-explaining.” Sophisms – sofas, get it? No pun intended. Peanut butter sounds delicious.
And you don’t find that in a box of Cracker Jack, Jack! And the solipsisms slip out of your solar plexus nor solar nexus.
Philosophical solipsism, she interjects, though vexed as by the polar hexes of breakdancing bears at the end of infinity, where the mind is finally proven not to have existed after all.
You do have a thing for breakdancing, don’t you, in polar notation, no doubt, with a nihilists pleasure of Monsieur Lebowski, et al. to say nothing of the rug or dead flowers!
Dancing has broken, like the first dancing/Polar bear speaks just like the first bear/Praise for the breaking/Praise for the dancing/Praise for the life/of the new spoken word.
While father and son ride the peace train through a wild world, drinking tea with the tillerman.
😛
I’m curious to know how the flat Phrygian got out of her pajamas.
The eviction notice went unnoticed, so she decided to call it a feature, not a bug.
I don’t think Monty Python would have said anything at all — he/they would have allowed the cartoon foot SPLATT!! to speak for them…
So said the ministry of silly walks past the medicinal cheese shop full of dead parrots.
participants practising for the Upper Class Twit of the Year competition, with errant blobs of blanmange swirling overhead, escapees from the tennis match
and philosophers playing football under the larch.
as voice-over intones: “The. Larch.”
They don’t make em like they used to.
Thank you for such a wonderful read. As an amateur artist, I deeply appreciate how your words bring art and storytelling to life in such a relatable and engaging way. Your insights in The Painted Word have inspired me to think about my own creative journey in new ways. It’s a joy to read your work—thank you for sharing your talent
Thank you for the encouraging comment. Glad you enjoyed it. I can say it’s a lot of fun. 😀
Brilliant write! I only wish I could say as much about my capabilities in the area of reading comprehension on the first go through! What an absolutely delightful (stealing an overused phrase here and using it as a defiant method of punctuation) word salad from which no dressing has been spared.
There really are no words–you pretty much used them all! Fun, clever, and crazy all rolled into one. I couldn’t stop grinning. A great way to giggle away some ghastly life goobers.
It’s a lot of fun to write too. Thanks for the comment!
This is masterful misdirection—like a jazz solo on the topic of shrubbery that never plays the root note but still makes you feel it. As an art teacher and a scribbler myself (more charcoal than keyboard), I’m always encouraging students to surprise themselves—to dance around the first idea that comes to mind, not with fear, but curiosity. This piece reads like a manifesto for anyone trying to leave behind a breadcrumb trail of creativity for their kids or students to follow—just barely visible, but unmistakably theirs.
I came for the Bob Ross, stayed for the feral chickens, and left with peanut butter on the spoon and joy in my heart. Thank you for this. It reminds me that serious writing doesn’t have to wear a serious face.