You’ve heard the expression lady-balls, otherwise known as gonads or ovaries? The rebel in me adores the term.
I bring this up because I own a pair. At least that’s what was said of me when I put up my latest post on Writer Unboxed.
The subject was deconstructing micro-tension, which happens to be Donald Maass’ area of expertise. I suppose that’s akin to going to Albert Einstein’s blog, putting up a rudimentary post on relativity, then asking not to be eviscerated by the scientific community. Contains the potential for blogging suicide, yes?
Ah. But there are good reasons why I wasn’t (overly) concerned:
A plumber, a hairdresser and a doctor walk into a bar. When the server returns, in addition to handing over their drinks, he issues each an identical box of 100 facial photos and a challenge: Sort the box’s contents into two piles–smokers and non-smokers–and whomever achieves the highest degree of accuracy will drink free for the rest of the night.
Assuming each person is representative of their occupation, who is most likely to win? Who is most likely to go home perfectly sober?
Does this sound like a joke to you, Zesties? In fact, it’s connected to a medical study I read years ago, and to the theme of today’s post, which is that of games connected to people’s occupations.*
Back to the study for a moment and the results. If you played along, did you place the participants in this order of ascending accuracy?
In most circles it would be considered rude to begin a suspenseful story one week, follow with a suspenseful update the next, then, having hooked your audience, fail to deliver the conclusion in a timely matter. I’m sorry, Zesties. As I’ve been gently reminded this week, I am a story-tease. If there were a story-court I’d be story-guilty in the first degree.
Hence, this post which aims to commute my sentence. blinks eyelashes appealingly
To what am I referring? If you follow me on Facebook, you might have read about our bee situation when I appealed for help from apiarists of the amateur or professional variety. Specifically, we found a bee hive in our yard this summer and wanted to know how to handle it. (We actually found two. One nest was under our front sidewalk, accessed by a tiny crack. But it was a nest full of friendly bumbles. You could stamp on the sidewalk for a full minute before a single bee would appear, look around half-heartedly, then head to a nearby blossom with all the aggressiveness and agility of a Boeing 787. In other words, we had no objection to letting them stay.)