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hendrikboom at 01:58pm on 12/08/2008
hendrikboom at 01:58pm on 12/08/200810-ninute freewrite
Joseph was not an ordinary warthog. He was a smooth warthog. The other warthogs were snooty and complained about his smooth skin. ou are a smooth warthog, they woauls say, whereas I am a warty warthog. But Jseph was not this is really stupid, says my internal edotor. This is the kind af crap only a nanowrimoer could write. And it's not even Novembers. Go away, go away, dratted editor, I cry aloud. Your place it not here! Thiw is freewriting. Whatever drivel I produce is the right drivel. Nothing else will do. Begone, to the pit of profanity where you can bubble and blaspheme all you want. You will be recalled when needed. But the Editor would not leavel. He complained about toe L at the end of the worl "leave", and about the e on the to. I grabbed my head and pulled at my hair. This would go nowoere, the edotor was now complaining about the metarecursion in my story. Ant that's still more of ot! he cried with clee. How can you bring yourself to put down page after page of this crap! I said, it's only ten minutes, not pages and pages. But it would be if you were a decent typist. Then at least I could complain about style and characterisation, instead of all these stupid typos. Hey, I said, Typos are not the issue. THe ate , I repeat, not the issue. So why are you bothiering with this? Your time is to come, when I have the next draft of my novel written! Go off and complain to schoolchildren somewhere that they are -- oh I don't care. Jsut leave me alone.
I picked up my pen,. arising from the keyboard, and sprayed corrosive ink on his cut-and-paste sword. He parried, and I ended up just covering the tiger lilies in black spots. Aha! he exclaimed sarcastically, YNow you'r eon the right track! Those ink blots fit natirally with the spots on the lilies! Why can't you do somehting like that in prose. You're only a second-rate artist, but that's a lot better than you are a writer. How can you call yourself a writer when you can't even get a cleanly spelled forst fraft?
I was now completely distracted from what I had inteded to write -- I didn't even fell like I was freewriting, which had been the original ecercisel I was running around the back lawn, where I had written so peacefully only a week or so ago, trying to conquer the infernal editor. And, by the way trying not to do physical damage to the lawn while ai was at it.
---
end of freewrite. I can't even edit out the typos, because they'rre part of the plot!
Joseph was not an ordinary warthog. He was a smooth warthog. The other warthogs were snooty and complained about his smooth skin. ou are a smooth warthog, they woauls say, whereas I am a warty warthog. But Jseph was not this is really stupid, says my internal edotor. This is the kind af crap only a nanowrimoer could write. And it's not even Novembers. Go away, go away, dratted editor, I cry aloud. Your place it not here! Thiw is freewriting. Whatever drivel I produce is the right drivel. Nothing else will do. Begone, to the pit of profanity where you can bubble and blaspheme all you want. You will be recalled when needed. But the Editor would not leavel. He complained about toe L at the end of the worl "leave", and about the e on the to. I grabbed my head and pulled at my hair. This would go nowoere, the edotor was now complaining about the metarecursion in my story. Ant that's still more of ot! he cried with clee. How can you bring yourself to put down page after page of this crap! I said, it's only ten minutes, not pages and pages. But it would be if you were a decent typist. Then at least I could complain about style and characterisation, instead of all these stupid typos. Hey, I said, Typos are not the issue. THe ate , I repeat, not the issue. So why are you bothiering with this? Your time is to come, when I have the next draft of my novel written! Go off and complain to schoolchildren somewhere that they are -- oh I don't care. Jsut leave me alone.
I picked up my pen,. arising from the keyboard, and sprayed corrosive ink on his cut-and-paste sword. He parried, and I ended up just covering the tiger lilies in black spots. Aha! he exclaimed sarcastically, YNow you'r eon the right track! Those ink blots fit natirally with the spots on the lilies! Why can't you do somehting like that in prose. You're only a second-rate artist, but that's a lot better than you are a writer. How can you call yourself a writer when you can't even get a cleanly spelled forst fraft?
I was now completely distracted from what I had inteded to write -- I didn't even fell like I was freewriting, which had been the original ecercisel I was running around the back lawn, where I had written so peacefully only a week or so ago, trying to conquer the infernal editor. And, by the way trying not to do physical damage to the lawn while ai was at it.
---
end of freewrite. I can't even edit out the typos, because they'rre part of the plot!
(no subject)
(no subject)
You should see my first drafts of anything. And of my freewrite - ugh! Not only typos, but I use a laptop and I have this bad habit of hitting the trackpad and not noticing right away, and suddenly I'm typing in the middle of a sentence three paragraphs up from where I should be... :p Ugh.
(no subject)
But it would be if you were a decent typist.
This was hilarious. I especially like the lines I "highlighted."
(no subject)
I have always really really appreciated your sense of the absurd.
t!