Star Trek: the Writers’ Guide

OK, to the best of my knowledge, there is no such thing as a Star Trek Writers’ Guide, but think about it! To boldly go (split infinitive notwithstanding) where no man has gone before. It’s good advice. As a fiction writer (especially true for fantasy and SciFi writers), your job is to take folks where they’ve never been before. As Mr. Spock would say, “It’s only logical.”

Since space and inter-dimensional travel have not yet been perfected, about the best we writers can do is look for aliens, and interesting characters, away from our own backyard.

I recently made a trip to Wyoming to visit Devils Tower. While there, I noticed several things I’m not accustomed to seeing in Western Washington, let’s call them “appliances,” hanging from the backs of pickups. So I pull up behind this pickup at a red light and right in front of me, literally swinging in the breeze, are a pair of (wait for it)… testicles. Bull testicles by the looks of them – extra large – in bright silver.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not picking on people who drive pickups – or even those who have close relations with their trucks. I, too, love my truck. I polish it and equip it with all sorts of gadgets. I even talk to my truck, so I’m not picking on truck owners. Call me a wimp, but I have never had the urge to hang a pair of balls from my trailer hitch. It raises a serious writer’s question, however. What kind of guy feels the need to declare his truck’s masculinity in quite this way. Or is it the driver’s masculinity that’s being trumpeted? Or maybe it’s just a lament for days of old when one’s transportation actually did come with a pair of balls as standard equipment.

As I drove across Wyoming toward South Dakota, I noticed quite a few “male” trucks. I observed one of the owners at a gas station. Sure enough, he had a large cowboy hat, cowboy boots and a belt buckle that could have easily doubled as a silver serving tray. I’m talking large enough to handle an 18 ounce T-bone. And standing right next to Mr. Cowboy was “junior.” Junior appeared to be around 7 years old. His hat was just as big as Cowboy senior's. In fact, he was dressed just like his Pa. Cowboy and mini-cowboy. Cute. A bit scary, but cute. Without his saying a word, I knew the kid wanted nothing more than to grow up and be just like his dad. Admirable. Seriously.

I returned to my truck, stared at it awhile and pondered the meaning of what I have just witnessed. I squeezed a few more drops from the pump and read the warning telling me that the gas may contain up to ten percent ethanol. I wonder if they also add testosterone to the gas in Wyoming. There has to be an explanation for all this, right?

I decide that I just could not, under any circumstances, hang a pair of silver bull testicles onto the back of my truck. I did note, however, that testicles are diverse in Wyoming. They also come in black leather. Those actually looked pretty good. Maybe… nah… well, only if I can find a matching hat. Either way, I gathered some most excellent local color and filed my experience away under ‘male characters, western, wild and very intense.’

Happy Writing!

Bob