Shit just has not been amenable to blogging of late. You know, busy things and whatnot.

Running has necessarily been reduced to elliptical only until September 25th. Stress fracture and all that nonsense. Bah. It sounds like a bunch of fuckquackery to me. Yet I abstain. I’m getting fat, I tell ya! I can FEEL the fatness creeping into my ass. All upon my chubby fat thighs and ooky nasty tummy.

Eeewww! Do you smell that? The rotting smell of poorly taxidermied neologisms. Amiright?!

I’ve been far too busy sweating character synopses and plot twists, capturing them through shoddy-fashioned construction paper funnels so that they spill onto a page with some sort of organization.

I have two stories going at once. The second I am outlining with the zeal of a shit-flinging monkey in preparation for NaNoWriMo while trying so very hard not to actually begin the prose.

The main character of my first remains ever stuck hog-tied on a bus waiting patiently for…….. exactly.

To speak of reading lists!

Nicole said, “You know, I have a huge problem with the whole well read means you have to have read “the classics.” I think it’s BS.”

I completely agree. I’d rather poke out my eyes with an icepick than suffer through A Tale of Two Cities. I’ve read a bit of Shakespeare- Eh. Dickens is as exciting as a pet rock. And Ayn Rand totally fucking rubs me the wrong way. I think my use of the term “classics” was a misnomer. Perhaps I should have said “popular” or “oft-read.” Or maybe just, “books I’ve always wanted to read but never got the chance.” Which is why the kid and I are making our own list.

I know it is probably blasphemy, but Hemingway does nothing for me. Thoreau? Unimpressed. Neither Bronte light any fires. Nor does Jane Austen. As horribly anti-feminist as it sounds, most female writers bore me straight to fucking tears. Or, they just piss me off with their feminist and/or depressing undertones.

Another point, though. Something that has run through my mind since I was a kid. I worry often that reading too much would affect my writing in a negative way. That I would (unconsciously) begin rehashing and reusing and recycling. Yes, most “original” ideas are simply defined as such because enough time has passed since the last time they were thought of. But I can still try, yes? I am hoping it doesn’t happen. I am hoping that I will reap some benefits from it all. If nothing else but the satisfaction of being “well read.” Or at least my definition of “well read.”

I read Animal Farm yesterday. A nice little fable. Scathing, pessimistic. I read 1984 when I was a kid, so I was already familiar with his writing style. He uses one sentence to tell a story it would take me an entire chapter to tell. I’ve never been a huge fan. But I get it.