March 23rd, 2006
You know what? My writing is becoming more and more boring.
This is a realisation that came to me the other night as I tried reading some of these rants. I mean, they do "go on and on sometimes," don't they? I fell asleep reading my own writing!
Hell, I tried to read my story about drunk violence, debauchery, affrontery, and partying with underaged girls ... and despite that subject matter—and the fact that every third word was "fuck"—it was a boring story. A fucking boring story.
I think it's time to spice it up a bit. I mean, I've got the skills to write just about any way I want; I should start putting such skills to better use than droning on and on in shotgun fashion about little social injustices.
Consider this: I've written a novel about people who hate each other and sit in cars and whine about little social injustices, and I've written a novel about a boy with chronic back pains ... who writes whiny guitar songs about little social injustices ... and I even started a novel about two whiny people ... who share their dislike of little social injustices while at the same time playing mind-fuck games with each other. That's a lot of words about the same thing I write about in my rants, isn't it?
Well, I've spent that dime already. The blade's getting pretty dull now, ain't it? It's time to light the gas and heat up the stove; I'm running the risk of fading into wordy repetitive oblivion here.
More as I think of it.
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