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This blog is all about the many facets of an apocalypse, but especially about writing one and surviving one. I've been asked to add my two cents worth to the whirlpool of ideas, and so I've ruminated and studied it from many different angles…from my desk, lying flat on the floor, spinning round on the fan, and from a very secure survival bunker that you ain't getting the co-ordinates to without some serious green stuff passing across my hand. And no, though green, I’m not talking grass.
So…surviving. I have come to the conclusion that writers are really keen on studying how to survive after the zombies/ aliens/ little nasty germs/ demons take out ninety percent of the earth. Writers will therefore be fitter (I kid you not) faster, cannier, have some kick-ass survival bunkers dug beneath their garden sheds, and they will know all the weakpoints of everything.
After this epiphany, I began the delicate process of mapping out the current abodes of all apocalypse writers.
When closely pursued by a wee zombie horde, I’ll simply nip into the dwelling of a writer, borrow their shotgun and food stores, then zip out the back door leaving them to deal with the ensuing screaming, growling, teeth-gnashing creatures on my tail.
With one of those down-looking views of the world, you’d be able to see my red dotted zigzag path as I go from one writer to the t’other.
The second type of citizen obsessed with survival is in the US and often has an arsenal big enough to equip a small army, or one rampaging Schzwarznegger-type. These are the survivalists. Cracking their barricades may be tougher, but by then I’ll be towing a posse of my left-over writers. And what survivalist gun nut can resist a bunch of writers wanting to scribble down a story about their mad exploits? While they're distracted, I gear up, re-equip and hot-foot it to the next source of free supplies.
The video game nutter. Couch potatoes you may think, but I know better. Reflexes honed to within the thickness of an m & m by gunning down zombies left right and center, these guys and gals know their destroy-the-invader business. And who else would carry in stock the multi-warhead obliterating machine gun of… (fill in demon, alien or zombie) death? Let’s call it the Krakatoa Baboom gun for simplicity.
See, I’m on the highest level of achievement by then and that sucker will be in my hands in a jiffy.
And do not tell me such a piece of armament does not exist. You see my biggest weapon in survival is me. I’m a writer. I’m writing this story we’re in. And somewhere in the map on those pages is the biggest most bad-ass weapon of them all, along with a stockpile of 100 year old scotch, champagne, margharitas, a working power supply for the ice, and some salted nuts.
After unearthing that, I will sit back and watch the writers, survival nuts and video gamers duke it out for second place.