AdminEssay: Howl at Life, Then Write It by Smellyia

Note: This article is only possible by the personal contributions of Real Life antics by siDEADde, emibella and tnuccio.

---

Last Saturday night my cab pulled up to a bar in Chicago called Howl At The Moon. My three homeslices, emibella, siDEADde and tnuccio, waited patiently on the sidewalk in balls-cold temperatures so I could finish my cigarette – the five pounds of tapas from dinner at 11:00 pm required it. I attempted to shoo them inside, but being loverly friends, they stayed with me in the potential Rapes-r-us climate of downtown drunk Chicago at 1:00 am.  They did this even though I was a bit dour over being stuffed and wanting nothing but my bed and warmth. Have I mentioned that this city is the American equivalent to the arctic? 

Dancers, Gagglers & Lechers

Once I got my very necessary nicotine fix, I was ready for the Goose jumpstart. It was 1:00 am afterall and if anyone wanted smellyia in tip-top shape, top shelf vodka is required. Directly in front of the large rectangular shaped room, there was a U-shaped bar. It was quite nice with its shiny wooden countertops and droves of people looking impatient for the three barkeeps to pay attention to them. I looked for a spot to wedge my petite self in so I could score me some booze, but siDEADde is a tall girl and spotted the bar in the back. I fell in love with that place.  

We made our way through dancers, gagglers and lechers. Everyone smelled like sweat and alcohol and my mouth watered for my drink of choice – cranberry juice, Grey Goose, club soda and a lime. No girly glasses allowed. Finally, we made it up to the back bar and wondrous of things – there's NO line. I wanted to marry the sod who built this place. I got my drink, paid ten bucks for it (It was half vodka so I had no complaints) and went on my merry little way north with emibella. North being the three steps we walked up to rest our beverages and elbows on a ledge to watch the revelers. This is the fashion in which most of my nights out begin and it is also the moment where I decide to be entertained or to be the entertainer for the evening.  

smellyia & emibella

It's amazing what vodka goggles and ridiculousness can do for the disposition. All around me there was foolishness to watch. My decision had been made. I would be entertained for the evening – which is probably a good thing because whenever I am the entertainer the potential for being the arrested is always there.  
And then we saw THEM. 

Who? 

THEM, you know?! The Cullens and whatever side characters we felt like utilizing. And here they were: standing, dancing, playing piano all around us. In a matter of minutes, Howl At The Moon had become a collaboration fic between emibella, tnuccio, siDEADde and I. This hot mess would most assuredly be crackfic. God, I hoped so. 

Jasper is in the house in all of his Britney glory. He is my pet in this parade as Britney is a pet of Madonna's. He was not beautiful, but he was absolutely darling in his petiteness and the conviction with which he sang a perfect rendition of Don't Stop Believing as he danced. The finger he used to point sky-ward for enunciation of the high notes was the perfect accoutrement to his shoulder bumping. He was positively Madonnaesque, thus showing me Britney would backup bitch. As he spun his partner right round like a record baby into a perfectly timed dip, I wondered which dueling pianist he would like to end up in bed with that night – Edward or Alice? I was also contemplating taking a turn with this perfect man and becoming his hag, but that would mean I would have had to write myself into this as an OC and nobody likes a Mary Sue. So I sighed and let tnuccio take us away as our attention turned to the dueling pianists. 

It was decided immediately that they were our favorite siblings – Alice and Edward. Alice will be a little heavier than usual, but it's human crackfic so I urged tnuccio to use this to her advantage. Alice has fallen in love. Yes, as she sang Queen and was just so damn happy that she had this job where she could play her instrument and make drunken dancers do all sorts of eye-bleeding movements, all she really wanted to do was serenade Madonna Jasper. Her love being unrequited, made her devotion to the Chocolate and Whiskey Gods secure – she drowns herself in both each night she goes home alone. Out of the corner of her eye she watched Madonna-Jasper and sighed whenever she had a break in the lyrics. But Madonna-Jasper was staring at our other dueling pianist – Edward. 

Edward was busy being harassed by all manner of Laurens and Jessicas. They were wearing corsets and brassieres parading as shirts while gyrating, hoping to catch this musician's eye. Whenever Alice could tear her eyes from Madonna-Jasper, she rolled them at her forever put-upon brother. He was exasperated and his hair was constantly falling into his eyes. His vintage tee was dripping with sweat as the amber glow from the rickety track lighting above cast a sheen on his skin. He was positively sparkly. He toiled away at his ivory keys as we describe this man in the purplest prose possible until he saw HER.
 
Enter Bella, but not our girl-next-door Bella. This was tore-upfrom the floor-up Bella. She was wearing a bodysuit from Fredericks. Her makeup was smeared and the muffin top she sported above her rear-zipping slacks was bending the boning of her top. Emibella swore she would be purchasing the same outfit as soon as the shops opened in the morning after she writes about how broke-down Bella has also recognized our Adonis Pianist and the looks of longing were palpable. Bella tried to get up on the stage for a pole-worthy ass shake, but James, the erstwhile rent-a-cop, cockblocked her. “No ma'am, you may not remove your CFM'S (come-fuck-me-shoes) as we have no idea what manner of growth could be happening on your feet and we run a clean establishment.” Edward, incensed, prepared to go to battle for this love he has only seen from across the room. He was hoping to get a whiff of her strawberry shampoo. Bella only shook her head and extended her hand as a promise for later if the fates will allow and thus they are established as our tragic Shakespearean couple for the evening.  

Madonna-Jasper was not blind to this exchange and he picked up his dancing a notch. His sing-alongs got more intense but his desperate attempts to get Edward to notice him were futile. We all know it is always Edward and Bella who are Meant To Be. Ultimately, after a public bitch slap (who the bitch may be is up for debate) and possibly some hair pulling (Bella's locks are riddled with split ends), Jasper admitted defeat and Bella became his latest hag in the pursuit of shampoo that does not smell like strawberries and can do something about the woeful state of her frizzed and over-treated hair.  

We still have the matter of Alice and Madonna Jasper's HEA. In walked our Tiger. We have designated him as Mike Newton. It is prudent to mention here that us four onlookers have secured a table closer to the stage right next to Newton and his compadre Yorkie. Yorkie was silent and only there as a babysitter for the clichéd drunk Newton. That was his only role and he faded with the bar tab at the end of the evening. However, Mike chose to grace us with his slurred speech, hand waving and ridiculous jeans. He purchased the tiger pocket pants a month ago and wears them every Saturday evening as he trolls for women. They have not secured him a romp in the bed or even a decent wank in the bathroom yet, but he his faith that this will change is stalwart. Who can resist the Eye of The Tiger? Unfortunately, he believed no one could and his amorous advances originated from the table right next to us. The characters of this crackfic brought us into play and thus we became the Mary Sues you never wanted to see.  

tnuccio, emibella & siDEADde

Tiger Newton begins with Emibella. He attempted to get her attention, but she was stealthier than I and was able to divert the fool with her back. I was sitting a little more accessibly and he pounces as if I were prey. What he did not know was that I am a mixture of Brown and Southern, so my skills at deflection are finely tuned. His initial hand waving from me to the stage and what I could only assume was verbal vomit that indicated I should dance with him was answered with a stern “I don't go there” and “No, THANK YOU” worthy of Kyra Sedgewick as tnuccio has told me. SiDEADde, not having had more fun in her life, laughed into her beverage consistently at us. Her and tnuccio's abandonment of Emibella and I had me screaming “MAN DOWN! ASSISTANCE STAT!”. Their laughter could be heard across the lake. For this, and more importantly siDEADde's humor, siDEADde regaled us with the rest of Tiger Newton's story. His jeans play a large part, because it was only a direct result of those that he finally won Alice's heart in the end. 

Eye of The Tiger -- Yes, these are the pants.

At the end of the evening Alice was sad. She sighed constantly and her main goal was to figure out how to pilfer a bottle of Jack from the barkeep because it was three in the morning and no one is selling liquor at that time. Her bottle at home was about out and that is just unacceptable in her time of need. Her pitiful hunch of shoulders and the tears glistening in her moss eyes drew the attention of our favorite Tiger. He walked up to her piano and slurred some form of bullshit. She smiled ever-so-slightly and thinks, “Finally, someone SEES me and he isn't gay.” Tiger Newton thinks, “Finally, the pants are working!” They leave together to participate in unsatisfactory debauchery and we four at our little table are scribbling our addresses down furiously for invitations to their shotgun wedding. We want to see if he wears the pants. 

Alas, Madonna-Jasper was still alone. All of his hags left, including his newest acquirement Bella. Her and his true love, Edward, finally embraced (Edward scrunched his nose up at the smell of her shampoo) and they rode off into the sunset. Madonna-Jasper made a note to purchase her some Aveda in the morning if he can find the brand in Chicago (which he won't). Thwarted yet again, he took advantage of last call and drowned his sorrows in his liquor. But wait! I, being Jasper's sympathizer, spied a man. He was a bit older and had ethnic features. He was tall and played the harmonica in the background with great skill. He saw Madonna-Jasper and fell in a silent love. It was not as apparent as the others because of his maturity, but it was still there and fierce like a wolf. I decided to call him Jacob and as he sat at Madonna-Jasper's table, he told the dear boy how his skill at harmonicas could translate into real life. 

tnuccio & siDEADde

And here we are – at the end of our evening and the end of our PWP Crackfic. PWP meaning 'Porn Without Plot' or Plot? What Plot?' All of our HEA's were intact and our players exited the building. Us four ladies of fandom were transported back to the real world of Chicago and twenty degree weather waiting for a cab while I smoked a cigarette. For the rest of that evening and many days after, we have rehashed this story and contemplated how certain things can never be written first, because they must be experienced first. Hence, the purpose of this story. 

Real Life translates to Fic. 

Actually, Real Life translates into any writing. Whether it be tragic, comedic or the greatest romance of our time. So much of what is written is based off of some experience the author has had. They have one situation that was lived and somewhere down the road it just fits in with the story they want to tell. The author takes creative liberty and while the actual events may not be the same, the gist is there as well as the emotions and lessons.  

I am constantly told of Real Life situations where I have to stop and say, “You couldn't write this shit.” And that's the truth. You just can't. You need the stars to align and the right people sitting next to you to truly get the vision of what the story COULD be.  

When stories are written that have a measure of truth to them that stem from Real Life, I swear I can feel it coming off the page. I get this feeling of really being there and I can almost see the author themselves living some parallel existence. This is not a Mary Sue situation I can assure you. These pieces of fiction that stem from reality hold something much more valuable in them – resonance. Because chances are, we have had the pleasure of something similar in the doldrums of everyday living. At least I hope so.  

Authors capture these moments in time by bringing with them a notebook or nowadays using their iPhone notepads. Unfortunately, during the particular evening of this tale I was in no state to record what I saw, but thankfully I have the memories of myself, emibella, tnuccio and siDEADde to rely upon – all three of which have contributed to this piece of silliness that will most likely never be fic (unless someone rips it from here and makes it their own), but it at least has found a home on this little blog to make a point. 

So I set this challenge forth to all of you out there in ficland and OG land. GO INTO THE NIGHT! LIVE! And then write about it so I can live with you. Why? Because Life is the Written Word. Show us yours. 
 

---

To see pictures or read about the Chicago girlcation enjoyed by smellyia, tnuccio, emibella and siDEADde, please visit smellyia's LJ page.

The soundtrack to this loverly evening can be found on emibella's Music Sundays Blog.

---

Smellyia is an administrator for this blog and will never live in the cold climates of the north. The next time she plays with her Erudites, it will be in the summer or down south. Her feet still hurt from the walking. Ugg boots did not prevent this. She is still a Man Down -- we missed you dearly Avalonia.