This last week, a friend and humor hero of mine Kimmy Dee released her book of personal essays (and a couple of short stories thrown in for good measure) titled most appropriately Pussy Planet. Much like her blog, Turd Mountain, it is filled with irreverent toilet humor, dick jokes, and straight talk about her lady bits.
Not only is it a great book, but Kimmy is a great person. So I decided to let her take over my blog for a day. She shares with us a Cool Story, Bro.
Cool Story, Bro
My brain is a dick. Not literally, obviously, but much like those rascally male appendages my mind likes to fuck with me pretty much nonstop. It overwhelms me with anxiety one moment, only to drown me in depression the next. So when I set out to write a book of essays two years ago, I knew I was in for one hell of an uphill battle against a phallical foe. But of all the negative brain bytes force fed to me by my cockeyed mind during the conception of Pussy Planet and Other Endearing Tales, one recurring thought plagued me more than anything else: Who fucking cares?
You see, I’m no one special. I’m basically the girl next door, assuming that your neighbor is a reclusive cat lady with a plethora of mental health issues and a penchant for drunken outbursts, not to mention an unhealthy obsession with her own crotch. I haven’t seen the world and I’ve never done anything profound – so who the fuck would want to read about my stupid life? Even my therapist tends to nod off half way through each session, but that probably has more to do with my bargain basement insurance’s covered provider screening than my life’s lack of excitement. Still, I wrestled the entire two years with this question, and I think I can finally answer: no one. No one fucking cares.
No one gives two shits about my phobias, my family, or the misadventures of my unruly uterus. But everyone loves a well-told story. And that’s what I went for in Pussy Planet– tales from ordinary life told in a unique (and maybe even a kinda sorta extraordinary?) way.
This revelation came about during an online conversation with a good friend, in which I was chronicling in detail my failed attempt at masturbation. (Why, what do you and your friends talk about?)
“This needs to be in your book,” he said, after I finished laying out the sordid details of self-love gone awry. “Exactly as you just told it to me.”
You see, more power lies in the storytelling than in the story itself. My story could have been told much faster with, “I tried to get myself off, but it didn’t work. Bummer.” But where’s the fun in that? By going into humiliating detail I not only entertained the shit out of my friend, I also virgin-birthed the last essay in my collection, Anti-Climax. And it wasn’t a virgin birth for lack of trying, if you know what I mean.
Obviously, very few readers are emotionally invested in whether or not I can pleasure myself. If they are, well, I would gladly recommend them to my crappy shrink– he accepts scratch-off lotto tickets and Camel Cash in exchange for a mediocre mind fuck. But that doesn’t mean the average reader can’t cringe and chuckle a bit at my masturbatory ineptitude.
Since writing nonfiction for purely entertainment purposes isn’t as easy as it sounds (try it if you don’t believe me), I’ve decided to throw together a few pointers for those readers who yearn to reveal their own vaginal hijinks to the world. I’ve sold a few books now, so I’m basically an expert. If only I could say the same for my self-pleasuring prowess. Anyway, here’s how to tell stories good, by Kimmy:
-Don’t skimp on the dialogue. Reading an active conversation is way more enjoyable than a boring summary of what went down. Make the reader feel like they’re within bitch-slapping reach of your stupid ass.
-Give every character a unique voice. This one is especially important if you’re telling your story aloud, as no one wants to listen to the same mimicked “angry stroke survivor” inflection for all parties represented. We all know someone that adds a chromosome or two to their voice whenever mimicking someone else – if you don’t, then it’s you. Knock that shit off. It’s offensive and ungodly annoying. Every character deserves to be developed, especially in nonfiction. You know, because they are real fucking people.
-Be honest. You don’t have to be the hero in all of your stories. In fact, you’re probably much more relatable to readers when you fall on your stupid face. Or fail to locate, let alone stimulate, your clitoris. Nothing makes readers feel more connected to a story than realizing the writer is a bumbling dunderhead.
-Remember you are creating art. Whether you’re lamenting a tragic loss or reminiscing about the vibrator that got away, choose your words carefully. If you don’t love them, choose new ones. If you don’t know how to spell them and you’re so far off that even spellcheck can’t save you, scrap that sentence completely. You don’t need that kind of shit. It’s art, not rocket science. Get over yourself.
-Mention your genitals whenever possible. Trust me on this; I’m an author.
So, there you have it… you’ve now been schooled in nonfiction creative writing by Kimmy Dee. Use this knowledge wisely and sparingly; with great storytelling power comes great accountability, especially on the internet.
Oh, and please buy my book.
Thanks Kimmy. If you are so inclined to buy her book, here is the link. I got my copy, and so far I could not put it down. Maybe that is because of how sticky my Kindle is, but check it out for yourself. https://www.amazon.com/Pussy-Planet-Other-Endearing-Tales-ebook/dp/B01I1Y61J0