writing

Your article farted, need some toilet paper?

Since this is a community of lightning fast encouragement, I pray that my lack of education in punctuation, doesn’t do me from behind with this post. I am not gay, but I find contentment in this place of blind appreciation, for art that brings me satisfaction.

Being brought up in a community of artistic circus freaks, gives me pause to clarify that last line…and this one too. I don’t care if you’re developmentally delayed, man, lesbian, woman, Jewish, or a sneaky kid expressing the wisdom and talent of your years. I want to see the best you have to offer, and from now on will give some of mine, in the hope of gracefully helping that happen.

If I am not satisfied with your work while being an enthusiast of comments with effort, should I write, “good job”, or “that’s swell”? When I find your text lacking in simple spelling corrections, it seems like a chunk of embarrassing food left over on your cheek, and I kick myself for not saying anything.

No more will I placate your lack of proofreading effort, or insufficient understanding of sentence structure with a “like”, and an empty box of constructive criticism. How can I say in code, that a line is failing the happiness of my eyes? How can I avoid shaming or embarrassing you in front of your audience?

Does anybody have a tricky way to give feedback so it won’t be misinterpreted as prideful trolling? Do you think I should fix anything in this article, so it will gain the respect of the more practiced artists in this craft?

Please return the favor, as I have work from the past three years lined up in a standing march of a hundred drafts that aren’t ready to share again, because I’m too busy making new words burn, and editing the ones I couldn’t bear to put out.

I look back at my work and am happy to report that it sucks. My lines are failures of perfect proportion to my skill, lying sullied with novice mistakes, and silly expressions. I’m sure my feeling of dissatisfaction will return to this one, with a keen stroking later…if I don’t get your help now.

As you read through the pages of my dreams, ideas, hopes, and whims, do you find yourself stumbling over misplaced stones in the path? Commas are an example of an editing challenge that prevents this mystery of tasty lines from coming out of me. I put them in to reflect patterns of my speech, as if I’m having a conversation with a reader, and trying to give them a sense of my rhythm, or when I want to build my passion to share.

This doesn’t mean it would be better if it reflected the English code of conduct, as this is my art, but I do know that it’s more fun to read if it flows well. The poetic justice found in messing with spoken English leads to laughter from my peers, so in my improvements as a writer I hope to harmonize with it, and it’s challenging to find a balance.

Should I let go of worrying about people’s feelings, and treat their art as a stand alone object? Would it be better to just lay out steaming piles of composting criticism that cook too hot, and burn the nutrients off the post I find irritating? What do I want?

I want honest reflections through other people’s filter. In the hope of improving my writing, I will pray to the idea of having many editors. This article is a bridge I’m building into your world. I hope the trolls from the fairy tales are real, because without a couple of disgruntled admirers, how can I know what is good enough?

Should I take the time out of my life, to go back to every fence I built, and see if it’s still standing strong? I usually wait for a customer to call, then I go to the site and decide whether it was a failure of mine in the making of the barrier, a matter of a lack of maintenance, or a fallen tree misinterpreted as my fault. If it’s something I’ve never done before, like write every day in the hope of making money, then I search through my first attempts with a critical eye, to preserve my career.

So please be the lightning that comes out of the sky to fry the posts of my fence, and feel free to write what you will on my comments. If you’re in doubt of being too mean, use the link to this article as proof to people who might judge you wrong, for giving me what I cannot give to you….for the fun of a well made script.

Seriously. Lay down some ugly. I grew up with Southern men yelling at me(they lost their hearing due to using power tools with no hearing protection) because their father’s did, so I’m comfortable with enthusiastic criticizers. If you find an article that squeaks too much, do me the big favor of telling me to get the grease gun.

When your comment blasts my phone, I’ll pursue harmonizing with your appetite diligently, and will do my best to take it seriously while preserving the presentation of the dish you returned to the kitchen, so I won’t need this toilet paper as much in the future:https://i1.wp.com/upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/6/64/USDnotes.png

Thanks for enjoying my blog. If you don’t for any reason, please read these articles, to inspire the fire in your remarks. 🙂
I hope you have a really shitty day sweating your work, because it’s only fun when it’s done as a team, and I want to be on yours.

A fun way I’ve improved my writing

20140316-152022.jpgMost of my childhood I hated alcohol for what it did to families. I blame that hatred for my lack of quick success as a writer, because I heard that writers are “Alcoholics, Divorcees, and Crazy”.

Working towards identifying with all three gives me a new appreciation for the people behind the scenes of some of my favorite books, and I keep asking myself, “What were they drinking?” As I get more crazily into the idea of how I can properly become an alcoholic, I do my best to focus on the healthy state of falling in love with a sweet liquor called strawberry cordial, when I was ten.

I buy shirts with beer logos on them, brag about my consumption of it, hang out with drunks, and hope for the best. Sometimes if I need a pick me up, I’ll get toasted, write something, and then publish it online. In the morning I’m shocked, worried at the inappropriate exposures, and look for fall-out. Thank goodness I don’t have much traffic, and the result is only a couple of worried telephone calls from close friends or family that I have to reassure.

I do wonder how the linkage is set up in my follower’s emails though. Do they get the original version, or just a link? I hope it’s the latter, so that when I sober up and improve on the silliness in my expressions of casual fun and research, I can redeem myself in their eyes.

The first alcohol I thought might be a good thing, came in the idea of a drink called strawberry cordial. It made sense to me as a kid, and now twenty some odd years later, it still does. I like to tell my mentors in this pursuit, that as I am not a bitter person, as I enjoy sweet beverages. Give me a Stout, watch me enjoy a Pina Colada, tease me with a Scurvy Medic, or give me straight alcohol and I’ll gag it down trying not to taste it.

I’m gathering steam behind this idea of alcohol as medication, and each time I write about it, I gather more evidence that it may just be, a venom that fixes my skill.

Here’s some of the coal that stoked the engine in my train of thoughts on this:

Heart Mending For The Dosage Of Medicine To Be

At times I wish there was enough alcohol in the world to kill what I have. It’s an Irish blessing, and a curse that curls my toes to cramp.

As a wild-eyed nimble-footed pony on a slide down a shale covered cliff, it whips aside my pride, bares my bones to the sun, and sleep is gone in another day-dream that may bleed into the night.

It’s desperate high hope bottled up in a mixture with followed through despair, corked by a lifetime identifying with underdogs.

I don’t care if I tip over in this moment and foam at the mouth, there’s not enough smoke coming out of the chimney of this train that is me, as far as I can ever see.

On the horizon I will be hungry, a stomach growl my only concession to a dissatisfaction with the ostrich that buries its head in the sand, which is my passion for art.

We are human, so we make more babies as ramekins for the meal of time, who grow up to be like us, and then we die.

What artisan-ship we make on a good morning, the sweet enterprise of hello world to a friend, a neighbor, and the community that we call home.

Good afternoon as a passing glance at walls of remembering who I once was. I love this canvas…but where is the German beer, British mead, and Scotch whiskey, because I party in my heart, and cry at it when it’s undone.

Pockets soft into slip fingers

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As “fingers slip into soft pockets”, this is not gibberish, as I’m making fun of lies in the form of twisted art. A challenging practice, one I don’t hesitate to share, but have little to compare it to. To it compare to little have but share to hesitate don’t I one practice challenging a. Art twisted of form the in lies of fun making I’m as gibberish not is this, “pockets soft into slip fingers” As. 🙂