Over the past couple of days I’ve been suspiciously quiet on here, as you might have noticed. The first question I hear nobody asking is ‘Where are the results of these ‘NoC’s’ you’ve been doing?’ Well, excellent question! Simply, they haven’t really come to much. Admittedly, every night I’ve been able to get a couple of thousand words down, and in of themselves they aren’t terrible, I suppose, but they lack the… whatever it was, that made me enjoy The Desperate Light so much. I think it might have something to do with the fact that I am entering them with a vague idea of what I want to write, as much as I strike them from my mind, I find them creeping in again, in places where they are completely jarring to the narrative. So, yeah, that’s where they’ve all gone. Straight into the bin every time I see the sun coming up and I’m hating the thing in front of me.
Other than that, besides applying for an obscene amount of jobs, none of whom have actually responded to me, I’ve been working on my longer piece. I’m almost at 40,000 words now and, to be honest, I’m not even sure I’m a third of the way through. I was considering splitting it up, in adding more nonsense to my increasing pile of novellas.
But, yesterday, I thought I might throw out my first chapter, one which has barely been edited, to the good folks over at YouWriteOn.com, in the hopes of getting some general feedback to the thing. This morning, I got the thing back, a turnaround which I am quite amazed by, and yet I find myself unimpressed with the review. I mean, there are some valid points to it, of course there are, but I can’t help but feel… I don’t know, disappointed, perhaps?
I think I’ll post the actual chapter tonight, with the review I received, and then I’ll see what you guys think.
But, originating from the review, I’ve felt pretty miserable this morning. I can’t help but consider a few of the things I have read on YouWriteOn, examples of other people’s work which I have reviewed for them. A lot of them have been terrible, simple misspelled dialogue with no comprehension of narrative voice, unless everyone else is engaged in some subversion of the established rules of literature and I simply wasn’t invited. I can’t help but compare the vacuous pleasantries offered by these things and the bitterness of texts like Orwell’s work.
Not that I’m Orwellian, you understand, for all that I go on about him, but if I had to pick between the two, if I had to save one book from a burning civilisation, it wouldn’t be ‘Her Hot Cowboy’ or ‘Icewinds’; I don’t know if they are real books, I just made the names up, but they probably are.
I would save ‘Keep the Aspidistra Flying’, I would save ‘Sketch of a Last Day’, I would save ‘Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man’, I would save ‘Atlas Shrugged’, ‘Frankenstein’ or ‘The Fall’ before I saved such drivel. Hell, I’d save the ‘FREECLAIM Compensation Solicitors’ pamphlet in front of me, rather than let such meaningless nonsense be carried into the next generation.