I am almost but not quite blind to my own strangeness. You know you’re a writer when the promise of a long Memorial Day weekend fills you with hope not for such prospects as BBQ and beer, but for sore shoulders and uninterrupted time, hunched before the dual panes of pixelated glass, editing and culling and re-hashing sentences that you have already re-hashed. On the up-side, I’m very happy with the progress thus far. It is indescribably satisfying to look back on a hard-won paragraph and know unequivocally that, “it is good.” And yes, I realize that this only underscores that I am not like the guy next door…or anyone else on my street for that matter. Perhaps I’ll sneak into their backyard later and steal a hotdog while their backs are turned…
I was left behind. Ah well, back to editing.
Goodbye cruel world…
Criticism of art is a funny thing. Unlike evaluations applied to, say, the aerodynamics of a vehicle, which can spark a redesign of the final product to minimize drag (and therefore prove the evaluation’s legitimacy) criticism of art has no numerical foundations to stand on.
This is from Joel. It arrived in my inbox via my blog’s email form.
Your fuckt up!
No one likes to be told they’ve behaved badly.
Unfortunately, celebrating the death of anyone positions us at the primitive nadir of human ugliness. Pride and vengeance are not pretty. Whether you’re dragging a body through the street or cracking open a cold one to mark the occasion of your enemy’s carcass being slipped into the sea, it’s still revolting.