Wanted: Font Visible Only to the Writer....
There I was, halfway into writing the blogpost that would be my Pulitzer, when the shewoof begins reading over my shoulder, causing me to spaz and accidentally close it. There are very few things that make me spaz so badly as having some nosy interloper gawking at my unfinished work. File that topic away for later....
The majority of all drafts that I write never make it to publication, and this is indubitably for the better. The editor can't stand pompous tripe, and suggests that I find some other rag to publish it. I am really very lucky; this attention to detail has doubtless spared me many face-palm moments (whose the palm? Methinks there would be no shortage of candidates).
Blogging, especially for someone of my relative youth and inexperience, strikes one (yes, one is me) as an inherently egotistical practice. The egotism consists in my assumption that my opinions are worth positing--that all must, naturally, benefit from the wisdom of what I have to say.
Simple scenes from my day might actually make for an interesting blog, but I deal with enough difficult customers and workplace drama; I have no desire to relive them. Plus, part of being the man in the suit department is learning to have an attentive ear and a discreet tongue. The job gives us a little extra gravitas, and it doesn't hurt that we are the only people in the mall whose job is to look and act like the personification of dignity and refinement. We may fall a little short, but that doesn't stop the little children from falling silent as we pass over. People say many things that I would not tell a stranger, but I am a man of the clothes, and whatever I am told is between me, my clients, and God.
Work is not as satisfying a topic, and if I did start lampooning people--which is more fun--there is always the risk that they would find this. Danger, danger, danger. Roasteth not they, who ringeth on occasion thy escaped commissions, in thy number, lest they become wrathful and smiteth thy productivity.
Daily life...worked, worked more, sat in secluded spot and read, pausing to snarl at anyone who got too close. Haz red lawtz of buks! Hid phone and worked on forgetting where he put it, so that he could avoid answering why he does not want to go to party with *insert acquaintance*, the highlights of which are cheap alcohols and (hmmhmmhmm's) perceptibly unwashed friends. I haven't the prerequisite vaccinations. Greek with Winn. MMH: the man who speaks in parables. Such would be my blog material for today, and never once would it be a satisfying brain stretch.
This leaves me with ideas, which are very dangerous to work with and often unstable. The reason that so many of my posts never make it to publication, is that the ideas explode before I can get them under control. I wind up with a bubbling, babbling, mess of cluttered tangents and acrimonious disappointment over the ultimate reality of fallen humankind. Ideas present the only challenging engagement; the only one where I feel that I can sharpen myself.
When someone reads my raw ideas over my shoulder it is unnerving; the words are dangerous, not yet contained in the tight phrasing that will preserve their meaning intact. A raw idea that has taken only rough form in words is a perilous thing; it is the product of my intellect, bared for others to see, but not yet polished or corrected to convey the form fomenting in my mind. In this primitive state, an idea is not only easily twisted, but its volatile interim form--which is often typed in haste--might itself be a perversion of what I desire to express.
It is for the same reason that I spaz that I am not ashamed to think my ideas worth reading. I do not deliver the questionable product of one who does not consider or respect the importance of ideas. I deliver the questionable product of one with a hearty respect for the delicate and precise instruments of language, and for the ability of said vessels to bear--with some measure of purity--ideas; the product of my reason distilled into words faithful to my meaning.
I am not given--at least too often--to puerile ranting and other iniquitous word vomit. At least I will not often post such things here. But every once and awhile you will have to put up with a sermon.
Having said all of that good stuff, there is no way that I can proofread this in my current state. So I leave you with my combustible, possibly bamboozling, and entirely undistilled thoughts. Drink responsibly.
The majority of all drafts that I write never make it to publication, and this is indubitably for the better. The editor can't stand pompous tripe, and suggests that I find some other rag to publish it. I am really very lucky; this attention to detail has doubtless spared me many face-palm moments (whose the palm? Methinks there would be no shortage of candidates).
Blogging, especially for someone of my relative youth and inexperience, strikes one (yes, one is me) as an inherently egotistical practice. The egotism consists in my assumption that my opinions are worth positing--that all must, naturally, benefit from the wisdom of what I have to say.
Simple scenes from my day might actually make for an interesting blog, but I deal with enough difficult customers and workplace drama; I have no desire to relive them. Plus, part of being the man in the suit department is learning to have an attentive ear and a discreet tongue. The job gives us a little extra gravitas, and it doesn't hurt that we are the only people in the mall whose job is to look and act like the personification of dignity and refinement. We may fall a little short, but that doesn't stop the little children from falling silent as we pass over. People say many things that I would not tell a stranger, but I am a man of the clothes, and whatever I am told is between me, my clients, and God.
Work is not as satisfying a topic, and if I did start lampooning people--which is more fun--there is always the risk that they would find this. Danger, danger, danger. Roasteth not they, who ringeth on occasion thy escaped commissions, in thy number, lest they become wrathful and smiteth thy productivity.
Daily life...worked, worked more, sat in secluded spot and read, pausing to snarl at anyone who got too close. Haz red lawtz of buks! Hid phone and worked on forgetting where he put it, so that he could avoid answering why he does not want to go to party with *insert acquaintance*, the highlights of which are cheap alcohols and (hmmhmmhmm's) perceptibly unwashed friends. I haven't the prerequisite vaccinations. Greek with Winn. MMH: the man who speaks in parables. Such would be my blog material for today, and never once would it be a satisfying brain stretch.
This leaves me with ideas, which are very dangerous to work with and often unstable. The reason that so many of my posts never make it to publication, is that the ideas explode before I can get them under control. I wind up with a bubbling, babbling, mess of cluttered tangents and acrimonious disappointment over the ultimate reality of fallen humankind. Ideas present the only challenging engagement; the only one where I feel that I can sharpen myself.
When someone reads my raw ideas over my shoulder it is unnerving; the words are dangerous, not yet contained in the tight phrasing that will preserve their meaning intact. A raw idea that has taken only rough form in words is a perilous thing; it is the product of my intellect, bared for others to see, but not yet polished or corrected to convey the form fomenting in my mind. In this primitive state, an idea is not only easily twisted, but its volatile interim form--which is often typed in haste--might itself be a perversion of what I desire to express.
It is for the same reason that I spaz that I am not ashamed to think my ideas worth reading. I do not deliver the questionable product of one who does not consider or respect the importance of ideas. I deliver the questionable product of one with a hearty respect for the delicate and precise instruments of language, and for the ability of said vessels to bear--with some measure of purity--ideas; the product of my reason distilled into words faithful to my meaning.
I am not given--at least too often--to puerile ranting and other iniquitous word vomit. At least I will not often post such things here. But every once and awhile you will have to put up with a sermon.
Having said all of that good stuff, there is no way that I can proofread this in my current state. So I leave you with my combustible, possibly bamboozling, and entirely undistilled thoughts. Drink responsibly.
Nice blog and great trick !!!
ReplyDeleteLyssa Gale
Language Fonts
1) I was not reading over your shoulder. I was on my way to bed and came in to see you and tell you goodnight. At no point--at least until after you had spazzed and were complaining about closing the wrong window--did I look at your screen. :oP
ReplyDelete2) "I am a man of the clothes...." LOL!
Not a good idea to A) write blog posts about someone who reads your blog, or B) write blog posts in the editor. Use a word document so you can't lose it. ;oP
ReplyDelete