The Dark-Eyed Mistress of Sweet, Sweet Pain (jenni_the_odd) wrote,
The Dark-Eyed Mistress of Sweet, Sweet Pain

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I wrote: "Please do not fold, spindle, mutilate, or pee on. Thank you" and: "Hi, postal workers! Thank you for getting this to my friend. You are awesome" on an envelope yesterday.
That letter is totally going to arrive with scorch marks, soaked in cat urine.

I sometimes say to myself, "Self, in the event that you would want to marry someone, how would you know they were 'the one'?"
And then I answer myself, "Because they would participate in conversations with me that go something like this."
And then I say to myself "Self, you realize you cannot legally marry half of your friends all at once, right?"
And I answer myself, "Dammit."

<-- this icon is too precious for words to describe.
It apparently comes from _iconsyoustole

I eagerly await the inevitable news of the slaying of some persons partaking in this bit of mischief by some bookstore employee who just spent hours perfectly arranging the fiction section, only to have it disrupted. I mean, it's a moderately amusing idea, but I can guarantee you customers_suck will be forming lynch mobs. They're already disgruntled, people, don't antagonize them.

So Nicole is off to college. Well, really, a week in New York City with our mum and Claudia, THEN college-y goodness.
Man. It's so weird. Not that she's going, since that always seemed inevitable. But there's this little twinge of jealousy and irritation at myself for not managing to do it, too. When Emma was really little, sometimes I'd get up and give her a bottle or rock her to sleep at night so Mom didn't have to climb upstairs to do it. I'd tell her about how when I was grown up, I'd live in New York and life would just be awesome and she could come visit me. It was my plan. Along with being a veterinarian and a writer. Especially the writer part.

I did not, then, take into account that I would lose everything resembling an interest in school by my sophomore year, tanking my grades so badly that I dropped like a stone to the third quarter of our graduating class. Nor did I have any idea that it would actually reach a point where, given an essay topic, I would fill in my name and the date, and then stare at the sheet of paper for an hour before turning it in still blank. Nor did I realize that the writing process that then filled me with joy would within four years instead send me into a panic. Writing still scares the crap out of me, because I realized I cannot discern good writing from bad, at ALL. It's all very much the same to me, the only difference being the word order and whether or not I was able to understand or like it (and occasionally spelling). Once I realized this, it occurred to me that there was also a very good chance that everything I was writing was complete shit. It was, because I was in middle school. Unless you are a prodigy, that is what you DO in middle school - feel awkward and create shitty works of art or writing. I could have handled that realization except for the fact that, being unable to tell crap from fine literature, I would have no idea if I was improving. I still don't. Essays frighten me now, because I realize it's complete chance whether or not the bullshit I scribble out is good or bad. I've got no idea. Half the time I don't know for certain if I understand the material, or if I understand enough of it. I don't write stories anymore, I write dialogue. And I worry about the dialogue, because my only references for that are my own family and television. Television is 99% crap. My family, half the time, sounds almost scripted. We've lived with each other and made enough funny that we know our lines ahead of time and we've mostly got the delivery down. The more I speak to other, so-called 'normal' people, the more I realize that they do not speak the way we do, they do not react the ways we do. They do not play "race you to a punchline". They do not consider a conversation finished only when all parties are laughing too hard to speak or breathe.
Art, I can improve. Once you learn how to improve at art, it's just an ongoing, gradual process. And if I wait a while, I can usually see what's wrong with the things I draw. Sometimes it takes a few minutes, sometimes it takes a few weeks.
But writing, I don't know. My only option is to give it to an editor, but that doesn't help me learn. Most of the time I can't understand the reasons for suggested revisions. I often go along with them, but that does not mean I understand them.

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