I mean, of course, the figurative “under the bed” where manuscripts go to die. Although, having a few drinks before looking under one’s literal bed isn’t a bad idea, either. That way when you find out the cats used those three rolls of wrapping paper to reenact General MacArthur’s ticker tape parade, you’ll be too drunk to catch them.
But anyway…yesterday, while stowing some post-tax-season papers, I got to rummaging through my writing boneyard again—and I’m talking stuff from way back in high school. I’m starting to think I only should only do so when highly inebriated, or as they say around here for some inexplicable reason, cocked’r than a mink. Why?
* I once named an extraordinarily spunky western heroine Sapphire Jett. (Yeah, I know, but I was a late 80’s teen. I couldn’t help myself. Getting a book cover with that flourescent blue eye shadow would have rocked my Poison-loving heart.)
* I found the line: She was swept away on waves of passion. (In my defense, I was a virgin when I wrote that one. While I had no idea what the hell it meant, I knew it was something that happened to romance heroines on a fairly regular basis.)
* I was tempted to again start rummaging through boxes, still looking for that hilariously bad poetry I wrote in high school so I could mock it on my blog. (It was that bad. Corny. Srsly.)
* I was slightly startled to find myself reading through a charming, if rough, scene only to find the couple gruesomely murdered at the end of it. I’d forgotten about the “next Stephen King” phase.
* I laughed my ass off at my hero, who I named Captain Hazard, having a spirited swordfight on the deck of his pirate ship with the extraordinarily spunky, stowaway heroine during which his expertly inflicted strikes slashed away at her puffy white shirt. (Pre-Seinfeld.)
I’ve decided that under my bed is like Vegas…what’s under the bed stays under the bed.