DOES THE QUEEN KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING TO HER LANGUAGE?
You knew, you bastards.
You knew that the MINUTE I started writing anything that saw a public eye, they would come.
They start with a compliment. "I really enjoyed this or that or the other thing. Christ, you even fart pretty. Your email address is so expressive. And the way you type your name at the end is totally awesome". Yay, good awesome. Somewhere, in a parallel universe, lives a Ben who writes and never, ever, ever needs feedback. He likes to twirl his moustaches and plans to take over the Enterprise with the help of other evil twins, uppity versions of the usually demure minority cast members. When Uhura wears a black beret, look out.
In the meantime, I like feedback, especially when my legs have not yet steadied. The problem is this feedback is invariably but one step in the process.
Next comes the obvious. The blatant, painful, hammer to the forehead obvious question:
"Do you like to write?"
No. I have a rare version of Tourette's that only functions in septameter. If I start using intraline slant rhyme, call an ambulance.
And all of this is but a setup for the inevitable suckerpunch: a link to a website, the confession, either shy or bold, that they too are a writer. In some rare cases, I can offer honest compliment, appreciation, and tack on a suggestion for something that could be improved, a bit of polish to help the value of what they've done really shine.
Usually, though, I wind up crying. Maybe a bit of shaking and rocking back and forth. And to avoid being an asshole who punishes people for writing him, I try to find a compliment I can honestly pay to the intestinal scrapings spread across a thousand Geocities pages.
Everything from verse that looks like someone vomited up a copy of Blakes Songs of Innocence to a BDSM fairy tale in which "She wore boots, and the king was like, woah".
Christ, I wish I'd made that last bit up. A little part of me died when I typed that.
I'm getting about ten of these a day.
Lindsay hit the nail on the head:
"Meter? But I'm a vegetarian"
You knew that the MINUTE I started writing anything that saw a public eye, they would come.
They start with a compliment. "I really enjoyed this or that or the other thing. Christ, you even fart pretty. Your email address is so expressive. And the way you type your name at the end is totally awesome". Yay, good awesome. Somewhere, in a parallel universe, lives a Ben who writes and never, ever, ever needs feedback. He likes to twirl his moustaches and plans to take over the Enterprise with the help of other evil twins, uppity versions of the usually demure minority cast members. When Uhura wears a black beret, look out.
In the meantime, I like feedback, especially when my legs have not yet steadied. The problem is this feedback is invariably but one step in the process.
Next comes the obvious. The blatant, painful, hammer to the forehead obvious question:
"Do you like to write?"
No. I have a rare version of Tourette's that only functions in septameter. If I start using intraline slant rhyme, call an ambulance.
And all of this is but a setup for the inevitable suckerpunch: a link to a website, the confession, either shy or bold, that they too are a writer. In some rare cases, I can offer honest compliment, appreciation, and tack on a suggestion for something that could be improved, a bit of polish to help the value of what they've done really shine.
Usually, though, I wind up crying. Maybe a bit of shaking and rocking back and forth. And to avoid being an asshole who punishes people for writing him, I try to find a compliment I can honestly pay to the intestinal scrapings spread across a thousand Geocities pages.
Everything from verse that looks like someone vomited up a copy of Blakes Songs of Innocence to a BDSM fairy tale in which "She wore boots, and the king was like, woah".
Christ, I wish I'd made that last bit up. A little part of me died when I typed that.
I'm getting about ten of these a day.
Lindsay hit the nail on the head:
"Meter? But I'm a vegetarian"