I overwrite.
I was about to begin this blog with a fun little paragraph about writers having certain specific problems as writers, or all professions having problems specific to their professions…
But that would be overwriting.
For those of you who only have acquaintance of my writing thru this blog---well, you have first-hand knowledge of this particular compositional malady.
However, in more professional outlets---I am far more cautious.
And far more editorial.
Some writers overwrite due to sheer repetition. Others, due to a little something called laziness (of which we all can occasionally be guilty).
As for me---I overwrite due to an insatiable quest to explore every single avenue, lane and rural route of a possibility on my chosen topic till I poison it, beat it and finally drag it to its watery death like a literary Rasputin.
In short, I don’t want to miss an opportunity to expound.
And frankly, who does?
Nevertheless, I think it high-time to state, for the record, that this little blog of mine is…well, a whole lot of exercises in public.
Sorry.
I do put quite a lot of thought into each and every blog entry. As a writer, it’s a nice little place I can go to explore my thoughts on things that I think about as I go thru my daily life. That’s why writers write in the first place. We’re communicating---in the way we feel most comfortable and the least misunderstood.
Once, in an acting class, the instructor was discussing auditions. He suggested to us actors that we think of our auditions as a gift that we’re leaving for directors, producers and agents.
“They may not open the gift while you remain in their presence;” he waxed on, “but the gift remains for them to open at their leisure.”
A few of the actors in the room beamed.
I thought it was pretty cheesy.
Frankly, as someone who’s done quite a bit of casting in her day, I can say from experience that any audition that doesn’t lead to at least a call-back is the next best thing to getting spam.
You won’t work. We don’t care. Thank you very much. Don’t call us... Etc. etc. etc.
But if any of The Seven Arts can be defined as a “gift”, I would say that writing is possibly the closest.
Something you leave on the page to be opened at the recipients’ leisure.
In Shakespeare’s case, some 400 years after leaving it on The Gift Table, but…
The problem is, MY literary gifts seem to be wrapped in several layers of wrapping paper and completely covered in heavy packing tape. And then, of course, there’s the charming box in a box in a box in a box thing going on.
Before the oft-mentioned “dear reader” even gets to the gem in the middle…well, they’re completely worn out and simply toss the gift aside like tube socks on Christmas morning.
Why would I give such a shitty gift?
Well, I love to write.
I’m the literary equivalent of that great-aunt who drags you over to her house and loads your car up with expired canned goods and mothball-scented clothes from 1972.
I just love giving.
A whole car load of unwanted junk.
Sure, you might find a nice pair of vintage woolen jodhpurs in the mix---but who has the time to go thru a car full of 30-gallon garbage bags full of clothes to get to a decent pair of jodhpurs?
I sure don’t.
And I’m a gal who would look quite fetching in a pair of jodhpurs.
But as much as I would love a photo of myself beside a sturdy horse looking all Marlene Dietrich in my jodhpurs---well, I have about as much spare time as you, “dear reader”.
And, by the way, I think the whole “dear reader” thing was growing whiskers back in the days of Thackeray---so if you’re still pulling that old chestnut out of your Runcible Bin… You really need to update your bookshelf.
What I’m trying to say in my over-written blog, exhausted reader, is that I am quite aware of my short-comings.
Or long-comings, as the case may be.
And, to that end, I faithfully vow that for the next week, I will prove to you that I can, indeed, write AND edit.
Yes, this may simply be a place for me to ruminate at length on the world around me…but I DO have a few editorial skills up my long, puffy, pirate shirt sleeves.
I vow, for the next week, that I will write a column every day in 500 words or less.
Yes, believe it or not, I can write less.
THE END.
I was about to begin this blog with a fun little paragraph about writers having certain specific problems as writers, or all professions having problems specific to their professions…
But that would be overwriting.
For those of you who only have acquaintance of my writing thru this blog---well, you have first-hand knowledge of this particular compositional malady.
However, in more professional outlets---I am far more cautious.
And far more editorial.
Some writers overwrite due to sheer repetition. Others, due to a little something called laziness (of which we all can occasionally be guilty).
As for me---I overwrite due to an insatiable quest to explore every single avenue, lane and rural route of a possibility on my chosen topic till I poison it, beat it and finally drag it to its watery death like a literary Rasputin.
In short, I don’t want to miss an opportunity to expound.
And frankly, who does?
Nevertheless, I think it high-time to state, for the record, that this little blog of mine is…well, a whole lot of exercises in public.
Sorry.
I do put quite a lot of thought into each and every blog entry. As a writer, it’s a nice little place I can go to explore my thoughts on things that I think about as I go thru my daily life. That’s why writers write in the first place. We’re communicating---in the way we feel most comfortable and the least misunderstood.
Once, in an acting class, the instructor was discussing auditions. He suggested to us actors that we think of our auditions as a gift that we’re leaving for directors, producers and agents.
“They may not open the gift while you remain in their presence;” he waxed on, “but the gift remains for them to open at their leisure.”
A few of the actors in the room beamed.
I thought it was pretty cheesy.
Frankly, as someone who’s done quite a bit of casting in her day, I can say from experience that any audition that doesn’t lead to at least a call-back is the next best thing to getting spam.
You won’t work. We don’t care. Thank you very much. Don’t call us... Etc. etc. etc.
But if any of The Seven Arts can be defined as a “gift”, I would say that writing is possibly the closest.
Something you leave on the page to be opened at the recipients’ leisure.
In Shakespeare’s case, some 400 years after leaving it on The Gift Table, but…
The problem is, MY literary gifts seem to be wrapped in several layers of wrapping paper and completely covered in heavy packing tape. And then, of course, there’s the charming box in a box in a box in a box thing going on.
Before the oft-mentioned “dear reader” even gets to the gem in the middle…well, they’re completely worn out and simply toss the gift aside like tube socks on Christmas morning.
Why would I give such a shitty gift?
Well, I love to write.
I’m the literary equivalent of that great-aunt who drags you over to her house and loads your car up with expired canned goods and mothball-scented clothes from 1972.
I just love giving.
A whole car load of unwanted junk.
Sure, you might find a nice pair of vintage woolen jodhpurs in the mix---but who has the time to go thru a car full of 30-gallon garbage bags full of clothes to get to a decent pair of jodhpurs?
I sure don’t.
And I’m a gal who would look quite fetching in a pair of jodhpurs.
But as much as I would love a photo of myself beside a sturdy horse looking all Marlene Dietrich in my jodhpurs---well, I have about as much spare time as you, “dear reader”.
And, by the way, I think the whole “dear reader” thing was growing whiskers back in the days of Thackeray---so if you’re still pulling that old chestnut out of your Runcible Bin… You really need to update your bookshelf.
What I’m trying to say in my over-written blog, exhausted reader, is that I am quite aware of my short-comings.
Or long-comings, as the case may be.
And, to that end, I faithfully vow that for the next week, I will prove to you that I can, indeed, write AND edit.
Yes, this may simply be a place for me to ruminate at length on the world around me…but I DO have a few editorial skills up my long, puffy, pirate shirt sleeves.
I vow, for the next week, that I will write a column every day in 500 words or less.
Yes, believe it or not, I can write less.
THE END.
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