The Confabulator Cafe

Tag: Murph’s Law

  • The Evolution of an Idea: Murph’s Law

    People often ask writers where they get their ideas. There are a lot of answers to that question. I think everyone does it a bit differently. A month ago, I published the story “Murph’s Law” on this site. You can find it here. A couple of readers wrote me and asked where it came from.

    On May 28th, 2013, I awoke with an opening line in my head. “When I pissed on Bobby Smith’s grave, I didn’t mean anything by it.” I logged in to Evernote on my phone and recorded it. For those of you who don’t know Evernote, it is a program that allows you to take notes, voice recordings, or pictures and access them from either your phone or your computer. It’s a wonderful program that I don’t use as much as I should.

    A good opening line is a baited hook for a pantser (someone who writes without any plan). I liked it, but I didn’t know what it could catch. I toyed with a couple ideas, including the vengeful spirit of Bobby Smith who wasn’t keen about getting pissed on. I tried a version of the “Resurrection Mary” story. I wrote a few opening paragraphs. It didn’t do enough for me. (more…)

  • Murph’s Law

    When I pissed on my best friend’s grave, I didn’t mean anything by it. I had good intentions. But what can go wrong, will go wrong. I stopped at the cemetery after the reception to pay my respects to Chuckles: the man, the myth, my friend since grade school. The bar had been packed. I devoted myself to drinking for both me and Chuckles and drank roughly the equivalent of Milwaukee’s gross domestic beer product.

    After the Sheriff threw me out of Billy’s House of Brews, I stumbled across a goddamn acre of the mayor’s snow-covered corn fields, cutting through to the cemetery on the opposite side. Chuckles had been laid to rest in the Fairfax Community Cemetery after a tragic incident involving a bottle of cheap grain alcohol, a sled, and a Ford F150.  The snow drifted in waves across the open field. Patches of bare, trampled corn stalks exchanged glances with windswept snow dunes. Each step was a leap of faith. My feet crunched through the icy crust and jarred against hard soil. Hidden corn stalk punji sticks jabbed my feet. I tugged my ankles from the sucking grip of the heavy, wet snow. I tripped. I fell. I crawled, and I stumbled. By the time I reached the cemetery, my church slacks were soaked through. (more…)