One of my favorite writing tools reminds writers to put odd and interesting things next to each other [see Tool 28]. I think of this as the "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" strategy, the one in which the supposedly superficial Valley Girl becomes the chosen one, the savior of the universe. When I showed this writing strategy to a group of children at Poynter's Writers Camp, one of them, a girl named Rosie, caught the spirit, creating this imagined television series for herself: "Rosie the Dark Lord of Thunder."
Then I stumbled upon this lead for a Page One story in a recent issue of the St. Petersburg Times:
If you think love bugs are a menace to your car, try riding a motorcycle. Without a windshield. Without a helmet.
That's what "Malicious" Mike Clements was doing the other day as he roared through Land O'Lakes on his purple Harley-Davidson. Somewhere along U.S. 41, the president of Hernando's Warlocks Motorcycle Club ran into a cloud of love bugs and was blinded by their guts smashing against his glasses.
"I'd like to find whoever invented these bugs and beat him to death," Clements said. "They serve no purpose in nature."
This splendid opening for this offbeat story draws its energy from the collision of opposites. Perhaps it would make sense for the Malicious one from the Warlocks to ride his Harley through a storm of hornets. But no. What makes Biker Dude homicidal -- even, perhaps, deicidal? A cloud of love bugs.
Any time you can take advantage of such tension, do it.
