I exchange emails on a daily basis with my critique partners. Sometimes, we send the same sentence back and forth a few times in an attempt to make it perfect. If you’re reading this, chances are you’re a writer and you know a well-timed sanity break is a good thing.  A little hilarity shakes things up, gets the creative juices flowing and like they say…(cliche alert!) laughter is the best medicine.

Last week, I’d spent half the day moving scenes around in my ms, and while I wasn’t quite bald… yet, I still wasn’t satisfied. I banged out a silly blurb and sent it to one of my crit partners, the one who favors chainsaws. She added to my blurb. It was the first time I’d laughed all day. So, I sent it to another crit partner who added her magic.

What emerged was a week long exercise in insanity and creativity. I’ve attached a copy in case you’re interested. And if you’d like to add to it, have at it! 


The salty ocean breeze blew through her blonde-streaked hair as the sun warmed her face like a lover’s caress. She shoved the remainder of the Hostess cupcake into her mouth and wiped away any trace of chocolate flavored icing from her mouth with the back of her hand. Reclining back on her elbows, she sucked in her stomach and waited for him. (Jen) 

A moment later, she turned, laying on her side, her knee bent to showcase her long, coltish legs. She practiced her come-hither look – full lower lip pout, a discerning glance over her shoulder with bedroom eyes at half mast. A few minutes in that position, and long after her right leg had fallen asleep, she wondered if he was ever going to show. (Carrie)

Ten minutes later, she was sweating like a stuck pig, the sand was giving her a rash and she could feel her cellulite rippling. Her fake tan was smudged, her Brazilian was itching, and lover-boy still hadn’t shown up — probably getting his hairy toes waxed. She needed a frou-frou cocktail with a double-shot of tequila and a handful of cherries, and if the cabana boy gave her any lip she’d dip him in salsa and have herself a testosterone taco. (Becke)

Just as she was ready to pack it in and head back to her hotel room, she spotted him. The mere sight of him, in a floral print of screaming yellow and moss green board shorts carelessly slung low over his narrow hips, made her melt like a junebug stuck on a praline that had been left to rot in the blistering sun of a Piggly Wiggly parking lot. Spotting her, he slowed his approach and then stopped in his tracks when he saw her reach into her beach bag.(jen)

The look of guilt on his face said it all, but the garish lipstick smeared across his ferret-thin lips said even more. She fumbled through her Oakley beach bag (the bright red one that brought out her inner sun goddess). She’d had enough of this two-timing weasel and it was time to put an end to his philandering ways. (Carrie)

“Moon-doggie, you two-timing weasel, I’m deprogramming your Sleep Number from the bed!” She whipped out the can of spray-on tan and emptied it into his baby blues, ignoring his pleas for mercy. It was about time he learned a hard truth – nobody messed with the Gidge. (Becke)

 He swiped his eyes and said, “What’s with the Bain de Soleil crap? You know I’m a spokesman for Coppertone.” 

“And what about that lipstick on your face, you rat bastard?” She’d been a fool to give him all the cherries in her fruit cocktail. (Jen)

He jerked her to him and kissed her passionately, right smack dab on the lips. The not-quite-dry Bain de Soleil spray glued them together temporarily, until she pushed hard enough to separate them with a suctioning sound, kind of like when Drano clears the hairclog from the shower. With an fearsome cry that sounded like a peacock being run over by cable car, she hauled off and decked him one. (Carrie)

He reeked of Bain de Soleil, maraschino cherries and that bitch’s Chanel No.5 knock-off, and yet still she wanted him, the two-timing manwhore. “You shaved your back for her – did you think I wouldn’t notice?” She was furious already, but when she eyeballed his new tattoo she went into a full nuclear meltdown. (Becke)

“Barbie? That’s my sister’s name!” Gidget wailed as the tears sprouted in her eyes. Her shaggy dream man was a philandering Sasquatch with zero scruples. Popping a cherry Lifesaver into her mouth to rid the bitter taste of hirsute infidelity, she picked up her cell phone and scheduled a Brazilian wax for Moon Doggie—he wanted smooth, by God, she’d give him smooth…(Jen)

Gidge reached into her bright red Oakley beach bag (sun goddess alert) and searched through her Swarovksi crystal studded Blackberry for her wax stylists phone number. She choked back a sob but unfortunately sucked her cherry lifesaver into her esophogus, and was only saved by a sharp pounding on her back that not only dislodged the Lifesaver, but ejected it from her mouth and into some poor souls mushroom risotto. Turning around to thank her savior, she gasped in total shock and not a little bit of lust. (Carrie)

What had she ever seen in this fish-bellied bozo, anyway? She might not be a Victoria’s Secret model, but with a Wonderbra, a tanning bed and a few thousand dollars worth of MAC makeup, she could make grown men weep. She gave her hair a saucy flip, pursed her lips into a bee-stung pout and wiggled her world class ass — some cabana boy was going to get lucky tonight! (Becke)

With his size fourteen foot on Moon Doggie’s back pinning him face-down in the sand, Alpha Andy, major man candy, treated a slack-jawed and gaping Gidget to his trademark red-carpet smile and offered his hand. Grinding Moon Doggie’s face further into the sand, he flashed another lethally sexy grin that made her tummy feel like a lava lamp amok on acid and said, “Hey, baby girl, lose that zero and get yourself a hero.” (Jen)

Gidget took Alpha Andy’s hand, the rough callouses from his side business of creating Amish-style furniture scratching against her palm and raising goose bumps in her girly parts. Moon Doggie lay at her feet, a bruised and battered man, covered with bits of sand and a tiny hermit crab clinging to his left nostril. Without further ado, she clicked a pic wth her cellphone for facebook photos, stepped once in the middle of his previously-hairy back with her bright red flip-flop stilletos, and strolled away, hand in hand with Alpha Andy. (Carrie)

An hour later, Gidget straddled Andy and forced him to lay still while she measured his size fourteen Birkenstocks against his recovering stick of rock candy and was amazed at the result. Holy crap, wait till she told Sandie about this — her BFF had always insisted the shoe/hand/man candy comparison thing was just a myth. Gidget had hit some high notes in the past hour she’d never reached before and, hand to heart, that last scream had shattered the big old conch shell on the dresser to smithereens. (Becke)

Alpha Andy had been in the bathroom for over an hour, and Gidget was sure she’d heard the shower turn off before the Judge Judy show ended. Curious, she cracked the door open and peeked in side and bit back a scream as she saw her All-American perched on the edge of the tub, with his hair wrapped in a towel, polishing his toes with her bottle of OPI Rodeo Sunset Mauve. “Hey, Sunshine,” he said wiggling his toes, “this shade totally is awesome!” (Jen)

And yes, the shade was awesome. She’d loved it herself dearly, and even used it on her pussycat Fiasco’s little claws. However, seeing it on the better-pedicured-than-her-own toes of the man who less than two hours ago had her screaming “To infinity and beyond!” started an intense craving for Cherry Garcia ice cream and Cabo Wabo Tequila shooters. (Carrie)

Gidget slipped a bird of paradise sarong over her bikini, hitched her bag over her shoulder and would have booked it to the bar, except for one teensy problem. When she threw open the hotel room door, she came face to face with a long haired dude with a mustache pointing his sword at her, and she meant a freaking real sword not a man-sword. He said, “My name is Inigo Montoya” at the same second she said, “Holy shit!,” and before she could ask who the hell would name a kid ‘Inigo’, he said, “You killed my father – prepare to die,” and, really, that just capped her whole craptastic day. (Becke)