I don’t know exactly what this post will be about. I just read the title of Will Thomas’s “The Hellfire Conspiracy” incorrectly, and I like the sound of it. Maybe I should write about Terry Pratchett. There can never be enough discussion about Discworld as far as I’m concerned.
In 2004/2005 a book called Terry Pratchett: Guilty of Literature was published. I would dearly love to read it. Unforunately the only edition I found for sale was on Amazon for about $350 dollars. He’s that awesome. Or people are just that opportunistic.
Actually, I start lots of drafts far more than I have posts (as if I have all that many), and so since I started this one, I’ve changed my mind.
I’ve been really lethargic and out-of-sorts lately, kinda depressed, and it’s making it very hard to get things done. I’ve always had the bad habit of procrastinating on homework, particularly papers, mostly because I usually can write papers fairly well in a rather short amount of time. The more you get away with something, the harder it is to stop. Can’t do much about that now, actually. So I’m going to write about NaNo.
National Novel Writing Month (more completely NaNoWriMo) which is in November and means that you’re supposed to write 50,000 words in one month, specifically November. Turns out that November just came at a really bad time this year. For me. At least I distinctly remember October, but the beginning of November started way too early and I missed it. I think it was the the forth (?) or something before I remember that I was supposed to start this whole fifty thousand word thing.
The only thing discovered is that I simply don’t write fiction well. Or at least quickly. Summary is okay, the summary of a story, but all the rest of the parts of fiction–dialogue, description, etc., I just write really, really slowly. That same day, when I started the only fiction I could think of–fanfiction, because NCIS wasn’t on because of the election–and got about 645 words. About. Not like I counted. Word did it for me, and that is kind of the point. Well because of that I counted the other writing I did that day…only the stuff I did on the computer.
Found out I can’t write fiction, but I can write a whole lot about myself and my opinions really quickly. And usually at the times when I really don’t have much to say. So that day, or the next maybe, I wrote almost a thousand words in an email to my aunt, and then a note on facebook got…I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure more than I got on that “story.”
I think the problem is that I’m simply not much of a storyteller. Either of my brothers, now, they were born telling stories. I just prefer to read them, and occasionally watch them. I can tell, usually, when I’ve read a good story, and whether it was told well–entirely separate issues. So I know well enough the aspects of writing…in fact I own far too many how-to-write books (maybe I should sell them?). The only reason I got them though was because, really, I like to read them. I’m not very good at following advice. At least in from books, I don’t know if I get much advice in real life. If I do, I think we can safely assume I don’t follow it.
Anyway. So I like the title of the post, but I really have nothing to say. Very sad that I can’t live up to the title.
I can say I went to the library to pick up a copy of a novel for class. I own it, but the only problem is that it’s part of a collection, and that book is a nice copy, but heavy, and I’d like to keep it nice too. Anyway, I got it at the school library first–picked up two others too, even though I was in there for about fifteen minutes or so–wait, that’s pretty good for me. I didn’t like that copy (at the school) because it’s old, from maybe 1948. And it’s hardback and looking like it will fall apart. Risky for taking to class. I got a bit luckier at the county library (and I can’t believe there’s only one in this town, I used to have access to three in the same town) and they had a far newer, paperback, lighter copy. Much easier to read too, without the old-fashioned typography. I was in that library for about fifteen minutes too, and that time I picked up five others. None of these extra books are really all that likely to be read either, I suppose.
I miss reading. The kind of reading I did as a kid. Used to be I was never caught without a book. Now I have the books I’m reading for class, but I don’t actually carry all that many others. For an English major, and such a lover of books, that’s a very sad state of affairs.
I’ll blame the internet. Why not?