Oh noes
So, apparently the "I write like" meme is a skeevy cover for some kind of vanity publishing "Christian" site, see here: http://nielsenhayden.com/makinglight/archives/012502.html. Thanks, embroiderama. So apparently I don't write like Stephen King after all, *sadface*. It was just randomly generated. Or... even creepier, perhaps they spied into my journal and saw that was the only writer I have a tag of (or they were a manic fan of everything I ever wrote and knew that that was something I would like, after they kept me trapped in bed for a snowed-in-winter after the time I broke my leg in that car crash).
Well, no bones broken in this case (or fragmented by the jaws of a rabid, salivating dog, outside the locked window of the car) as I really didn't think I write like him, anyway (and neither does my pscho-killer pseudonym come to life, chased by sparrows). My dreams may have burnt to a crisp (like an FBI guy in the path of a nine year old with special powers), but I will press onwards (along the Beam, wiping the sweat from beneath my hatbrim with my hand that the lobster monsters ate). All work and no play makes Greta a dull girl, etc.
So I'll just tootle off to bed on my little trike, down the corridors of the hotel, and hope I don't dream of clowns and wake up and find they're moving around in the picture frame by my bed. Because then I might go crazy, and end up in prison and have to dig my way out with a little rock hammer through a tunnel I'd hide behind a poster of Rita Hayworth.
All because I don't write like Stephen King.
Well, no bones broken in this case (or fragmented by the jaws of a rabid, salivating dog, outside the locked window of the car) as I really didn't think I write like him, anyway (and neither does my pscho-killer pseudonym come to life, chased by sparrows). My dreams may have burnt to a crisp (like an FBI guy in the path of a nine year old with special powers), but I will press onwards (along the Beam, wiping the sweat from beneath my hatbrim with my hand that the lobster monsters ate). All work and no play makes Greta a dull girl, etc.
So I'll just tootle off to bed on my little trike, down the corridors of the hotel, and hope I don't dream of clowns and wake up and find they're moving around in the picture frame by my bed. Because then I might go crazy, and end up in prison and have to dig my way out with a little rock hammer through a tunnel I'd hide behind a poster of Rita Hayworth.
All because I don't write like Stephen King.