You probably haven't noticed that I've been nearly-dead for nearly two weeks, or if you did notice, I'm nearly certain you have an ongoing forum thread with me. To you, I'm awfully sorry.
In my bits of wasted time spent neither sleeping nor studying, I've often found myself lying in my nearly-grave, not writing. Instead, I was raining down second-rate memes upon the Discord server the way Oprah showers audiences with kitchen appliance recommendations, or I was thinking about exactly why I couldn't write. Now, I'm sure most of you think posting here is splendid. I agree! I love this world with its odd-duck characters and its saucy god of the sexual revolution, but as much as I adore this site, I don't feel like I ever make headway on a scene when I post. It's like running on a treadmill: first you think, "Oh terrific, a way to run without leaving my gym!" and then you figure out that it's boring when you're not actually going anywhere, which is why you inevitably realize that you should be outside like a normal person instead of in your gym imitating a hamster, you treadmill-loving nincompoop.
Rather than throw up my hands and allow my characters to embrace Mort and asphyxiate from the fumes coming off his sweatshirt — haven't you noticed he never takes it off? I assume divine BO has somewhat toxic properties — I'm going to try something new. From now on, you may take these as signs that I'm giving up on life:
- I'm making the dialogue in my posts a different color so you can pick it out easily
- I'm summarizing what I just wrote in a footnote like I'm creating my own, pitiful Spark Notes version so my would-be readers can do well on the pop quiz
- I'm writing so much narration that you actually started thinking about your groceries halfway though a sentence
You see, if it's not useful to anyone, why on Earth am I writing all this filler? If I want to give my writing a shot at being nearly decent, I need to make sure it can move fast enough to catch the reader, so I'll start by learning to cut empty words like an athlete (or Oprah, in equal measure) cuts empty calories. Short. Sweet. Maximal dialogue. When my characters can't say things, they can think things or do things, and as I sit here contemplating becoming nearly-undead, I know I don't want to narrate Ingrid flipping her hair for the nearly-eight-millionth time because, quite honestly, nobody cares.
In my bits of wasted time spent neither sleeping nor studying, I've often found myself lying in my nearly-grave, not writing. Instead, I was raining down second-rate memes upon the Discord server the way Oprah showers audiences with kitchen appliance recommendations, or I was thinking about exactly why I couldn't write. Now, I'm sure most of you think posting here is splendid. I agree! I love this world with its odd-duck characters and its saucy god of the sexual revolution, but as much as I adore this site, I don't feel like I ever make headway on a scene when I post. It's like running on a treadmill: first you think, "Oh terrific, a way to run without leaving my gym!" and then you figure out that it's boring when you're not actually going anywhere, which is why you inevitably realize that you should be outside like a normal person instead of in your gym imitating a hamster, you treadmill-loving nincompoop.
Rather than throw up my hands and allow my characters to embrace Mort and asphyxiate from the fumes coming off his sweatshirt — haven't you noticed he never takes it off? I assume divine BO has somewhat toxic properties — I'm going to try something new. From now on, you may take these as signs that I'm giving up on life:
- I'm making the dialogue in my posts a different color so you can pick it out easily
- I'm summarizing what I just wrote in a footnote like I'm creating my own, pitiful Spark Notes version so my would-be readers can do well on the pop quiz
- I'm writing so much narration that you actually started thinking about your groceries halfway though a sentence
You see, if it's not useful to anyone, why on Earth am I writing all this filler? If I want to give my writing a shot at being nearly decent, I need to make sure it can move fast enough to catch the reader, so I'll start by learning to cut empty words like an athlete (or Oprah, in equal measure) cuts empty calories. Short. Sweet. Maximal dialogue. When my characters can't say things, they can think things or do things, and as I sit here contemplating becoming nearly-undead, I know I don't want to narrate Ingrid flipping her hair for the nearly-eight-millionth time because, quite honestly, nobody cares.
