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fooh

12 December 2006 - 08:39

So I've been working on my book steadily for the past week or so (yes, for those that didn't know, I am a writer, published poet and aspiring author), got along quite a bit and was feeling quite dandy with myself. I mean, yay, book! There's nothing quite so satisfying as to read over my own shit and wow myself. Let's see if I can make the long stretch. I left my budding manuscript lying around the house (I'm horribly messy) and the Dud got ahold of it. Of course I don't mind her reading over my shit one bit; on the contrary, I always look forward to it, and I think I in fact press her to do so on some subconscious level. She's my most devoted reader and harshest critic. Probably due to her close relationship to me, most likely because she's the most literate person within my social circle, which is just damn sad. 'Cause seriously, anything I spew at Mar�a she accepts with wide-eyed wonder. Which is good for when I need a one-member fanclub, but then again she has quite a few problems with her grammer, so no offense to her, but she's not the first choice I go to for an educated and well-thought review of my work.

But this morning, the Dud caught me off guard. I hate it when I don't see it coming, the fact that I don't know she's gonna read my stuff and therefore I can't brace myself for the emotional slam I'm about to receive as she rips through my manuscript to expose all its nasty little flaws. (Some not so small at that.)

Such was the case this morning, and I must say, it left my head reeling. There were so many plot-holes she encountered, so many questions left unanswered whose answer was so obvious to me all along. She's been with me and this particular story I'm working on since day one, way back when it occured to me in the summer between sixth and seventh grade, so she knows what I want to say and how... now she's just finding all the shit that's bogging it down and keeping it from taking off like a rocket into the number one bestseller list. Or even into finished print. Gah.

It sucks to have such flawed writing skills! If only my hands could keep up with my mind, whether I'm typing or writing longhand. That would be nice, but it's not happening for me, and now I'm just so bummed out about it that I wanna crawl into a hole and die of shame. In the least though, I think I'll crawl into bed for a good two hours and take a nap. That oughta recharge my writing batteries and give me a clearer head. Not to mention I got out at almost two in the morning last night and I desperately need the rest. Y'know, since I go in early today and stuff.

Oh, posh.

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