napping in the African sun...

Hmm.

Actually having a bit of da funks.

Sometimes it feels to me like nothing ever really changes in my life. I work, I write, I don't get enough writing done and nothing gets published. I wish not to be alone, but fail to significantly alter my anti-social habits, watching television most nights, or reading... Not really complaining; I like my life, so I guess it's okay.

So the funk is mostly about the writing, I think...feedback coming in on the story is somewhat discouraging (though Alyx's was great). Is it just me being overly defensive of my writing, or are the majority of people just not really very smart readers? And what does this mean for writers like me? (Probably most of what they have to say is valid, I just feel grumpy about it.)

Especially (grumpy, that is) about complaints about words that aren't "in the dictionary" but which are not only onomatopoeic, but whose meaning is perfectly obvious from context. I mean, come on. Language isn't static; this ain't latin, it's not a dead thing, people. If we can't play with it, what's the bloody point of writing? errrrgggghhhhh. ptooey.

And, on the funks side of things, how come all I ever wanna do anymore is nap? Seems like, anyway. I just can't get enough. Problem with this, is, see above, I never get enough writing done...

my latest generate a rhyme poem

Mendel's Serenade

Rain silvered brains steaming in the meadow

And the frogs sniff glitter glue, and dance on the stile
Cankerous old men chewing lard tobacco
Never had a friend, not even for a while

from here. (courtesy originally of Alyx.)