...and the type goes on
I'm, like, totally a night creature again. It's easier to get stuff done in the POWER OF DARKNESS. Of course, these are different times, what with an ocean of work to be done and highly-caffeinated work hours making me hideously paranoid and panicked. It makes my feet kinda tingle. Anyway.
I feel a mighty urge to write, so I've started crapping words into this box. For some reason, about fifteen minutes ago I was compelled to write in the manner of Hemingway before I quickly realized that I'm both A) Not Ernest Hemingway and B) Probably at least as competent as he was when it comes to typing. Seriously, it's weird that his work is immortalized the way it is. Do people just accept that it's Hemingway and so it must be brilliant? Gertrude Stein, too...dry as toast, really, but I guess we all have our druthers. A lot of people think comics are dumb, too, so...touche, you know? (A lot of comics are dumb, in fact. I'm in no shape to hold a literary discussion, at any rate.)
An interesting personal observation: I have a lot more going on in my life at present than I'm generally accustomed to, and yet at the same time feel less pressed to share every insipid detail. (Yes, there are trace amounts of irony in that statement since this is a journal, but bear with me). I'm not exactly an obsessive twitter fiend and I regularly shun facebook, but I do have a reasonable track record of keeping people I'll seldom meet updated about trivial crap. But when a lot seems to be going on I feel less compulsion to relate stuff. So I wonder if the culture of oversharing feeds into some desperate internal need to maintain a sense of relevance and make a big deal out of the mundane, just so we can feel any kind of validation. Hmm.
And that's the news from Woe-be-gone, where the women are strong, all the men are good-looking, and all the children are above average.
I feel a mighty urge to write, so I've started crapping words into this box. For some reason, about fifteen minutes ago I was compelled to write in the manner of Hemingway before I quickly realized that I'm both A) Not Ernest Hemingway and B) Probably at least as competent as he was when it comes to typing. Seriously, it's weird that his work is immortalized the way it is. Do people just accept that it's Hemingway and so it must be brilliant? Gertrude Stein, too...dry as toast, really, but I guess we all have our druthers. A lot of people think comics are dumb, too, so...touche, you know? (A lot of comics are dumb, in fact. I'm in no shape to hold a literary discussion, at any rate.)
An interesting personal observation: I have a lot more going on in my life at present than I'm generally accustomed to, and yet at the same time feel less pressed to share every insipid detail. (Yes, there are trace amounts of irony in that statement since this is a journal, but bear with me). I'm not exactly an obsessive twitter fiend and I regularly shun facebook, but I do have a reasonable track record of keeping people I'll seldom meet updated about trivial crap. But when a lot seems to be going on I feel less compulsion to relate stuff. So I wonder if the culture of oversharing feeds into some desperate internal need to maintain a sense of relevance and make a big deal out of the mundane, just so we can feel any kind of validation. Hmm.
And that's the news from Woe-be-gone, where the women are strong, all the men are good-looking, and all the children are above average.