Something like a Rant
It has come to my attention that CfC officially looks kind of sloppy. It isn't so much the color or the layout of the thing. These forms were established long ago when CfC was still CfR ("Crying for Retribution" for those who haven't been with us since the beginning). The form will probably never change, because if it did, CfC just wouldn't exactly be CfC anymore.
It isn't so much a problem of content either. There is ample variation in content, intrigue, conflict, all that you need to keep a reader hooked. Or, so I hope. It may not be brick solid or anything, but then, I wouldn't deem it sloppy.
I suppose all that can be said then is that I as the author have become sloppy.
And yes, that would be a fair assessment.
Time away from a loved one is generally sloppy, or so I've come to find.
The brilliant, sunlit walks through arch-ways in high-ceilinged cathedrals only to come out of the cloisters just as the wind begins to blow your hair back, brining in the storm that will dump a soft sort of glowing rain upon your face, leaving you covered in shimmering little diamonds of water as you pulse with the beat of the earth back through the forest, down across the grey beach, watching a seagull or two dip in the air off in the distance or a pelican diving for a catch. Only to end up in the cozy within of your cottage where there will be a fire already lit and a meal already prepared and wine already poured into a single glass, set on a table prepared for one.
All of these- simply not real.
Instead, you grumble out of the bed around noon with your head feeling as though someone dumped oil down your ears and then stuffed cotton into them. You probably stub your toe on the bedside table because your eyes haven't come into focus. The morning light either is a haze that you muddle through or it blares into your eyes like a lazer, blinding you as you pick your way to the bathroom.
There, you try to take a shit, but feel too constipated from the latenight pizza you ate in a haste to get some food down your throat and try to stay awake while you tapped aimlessly at internet jokes and youtube videos on your netbook.
After the bathroom fiasco, you probably go for some eggs to settle your stomach, but you forget to put enough oil on the pan so they stick and burn and you have to try and scrape them off. You forget to put the toast down, so it's late, which means you burn it meanwhile attempting to eat the muddle of overcooked egg. The tea kettle already lost its whistle-top so you put the water on, leave it, it boils over, kills the fire on the gas, and sits there cold as your kitchen begins to reek with the beneficial rotten-egg smell of natural gas. You should be glad it smells of rotten eggs or else you would have, coming back in and seeing the pot not boiling and the gas off, simply tried to relight it, thereby blowing yourself up and ending this ridiculous little sample of "quality alone time".
Instead, you grumble into the kitchen, turn the burner knob off, open a window to air it out, get hit with a sickeningly cold and damp wind, shut the window, and bumble back into your living room where you will sadly delve into some rotten book written by some crummy classical author because, now alone, you do actually feel some modicum of guilt at never having read any of the classics you wrote all those papers off of.
Or, this is only me, others have spectacular alone time, and I am left with a sloppy writing style and a sloppy blog that I was hoping might, in the future, really go places.
The inevitability of my lack of ability to get myself in the right mode is painful at times.
It isn't so much a problem of content either. There is ample variation in content, intrigue, conflict, all that you need to keep a reader hooked. Or, so I hope. It may not be brick solid or anything, but then, I wouldn't deem it sloppy.
I suppose all that can be said then is that I as the author have become sloppy.
And yes, that would be a fair assessment.
Time away from a loved one is generally sloppy, or so I've come to find.
The brilliant, sunlit walks through arch-ways in high-ceilinged cathedrals only to come out of the cloisters just as the wind begins to blow your hair back, brining in the storm that will dump a soft sort of glowing rain upon your face, leaving you covered in shimmering little diamonds of water as you pulse with the beat of the earth back through the forest, down across the grey beach, watching a seagull or two dip in the air off in the distance or a pelican diving for a catch. Only to end up in the cozy within of your cottage where there will be a fire already lit and a meal already prepared and wine already poured into a single glass, set on a table prepared for one.
All of these- simply not real.
Instead, you grumble out of the bed around noon with your head feeling as though someone dumped oil down your ears and then stuffed cotton into them. You probably stub your toe on the bedside table because your eyes haven't come into focus. The morning light either is a haze that you muddle through or it blares into your eyes like a lazer, blinding you as you pick your way to the bathroom.
There, you try to take a shit, but feel too constipated from the latenight pizza you ate in a haste to get some food down your throat and try to stay awake while you tapped aimlessly at internet jokes and youtube videos on your netbook.
After the bathroom fiasco, you probably go for some eggs to settle your stomach, but you forget to put enough oil on the pan so they stick and burn and you have to try and scrape them off. You forget to put the toast down, so it's late, which means you burn it meanwhile attempting to eat the muddle of overcooked egg. The tea kettle already lost its whistle-top so you put the water on, leave it, it boils over, kills the fire on the gas, and sits there cold as your kitchen begins to reek with the beneficial rotten-egg smell of natural gas. You should be glad it smells of rotten eggs or else you would have, coming back in and seeing the pot not boiling and the gas off, simply tried to relight it, thereby blowing yourself up and ending this ridiculous little sample of "quality alone time".
Instead, you grumble into the kitchen, turn the burner knob off, open a window to air it out, get hit with a sickeningly cold and damp wind, shut the window, and bumble back into your living room where you will sadly delve into some rotten book written by some crummy classical author because, now alone, you do actually feel some modicum of guilt at never having read any of the classics you wrote all those papers off of.
Or, this is only me, others have spectacular alone time, and I am left with a sloppy writing style and a sloppy blog that I was hoping might, in the future, really go places.
The inevitability of my lack of ability to get myself in the right mode is painful at times.
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