Getting Over It...And A Bit Of Rant

Finally got over the cold, mostly (I hope). So, I got up, didn't call the boss and tell him to mark me sick and dragged my ass to work.

On my cold, cold, ride in I was felling lucky, given that I found a relatively open stretch of lane that didn't require me to split it with cars.

So. There I was blithely thinking about other things at sixty five miles per hour, when the large Ram pick-up truck beside me decided to both: a) change lanes into my lane and, b) fail to signal the movement in any fucking way.

I banked to the right and cracked the throttle completely open. It wasn't enough. I actually had to turn my shoulders sideways to avoid contact with fool. As it was, I felt the shape of the wind change as the prow of the man killing machine swept close enough to strike me. My heart rate went from pleasantly low to dangerously high in second, the organ itself riding up into the back of my throat and squirting copper into my mouth like an adrenaline-induced power-wedgie.

The driver then honked at me.

I mean, I see their point. Look, I was in my lane and minding my own business. Clearly I am a crazed moron;  daring, frivolously unconcerned, and completely careless of my life.

Fucker.

Haven't Been Around Much

I haven't been posting very regularly, I know. I've been sick. I've been tired, and frankly, I haven't had a great deal of readers clamoring for more. Despite this, I have something to say...

Today, something depressing happened: I finished The Wise Man's Fear. The book isn't depressing, my response to it was. I have said before that when I read, I tend to process the work on several levels: story, craft, and a category I call the memorable turn of phrase.

I often cringed as I read The Wise Man's Fear. Not because there was anything wrong or disagreeable about the book, quite the contrary. No, the problem is that when I read, I normally find occasion to think, "I could have said that better, or differently, or using less words." That did not happen, not once, while I read this book. Instead, I marveled at something on nearly every page, muttering about the smooth eloquence of the writing, the storytelling, the world-building, or the character development. I also found the story moving and absorbing in ways I did not expect.

When reading other works, I have often felt it was only a matter of practice and patience before my craft might reach parity with the work in front of me. Not so with Pat Rothfuss. No matter how long I practice, I don't think I shall ever reach that level of eloquence. Not ever. It is pure talent that elevates the book beyond simple hard work.

Depressing.

Yet I will try, in my own fashion, to convey the stories I have to tell.

Ellroy, You The Man

A Foul-Mouthed, But Interesting Rant...

He either ignores or is unaware of the american communists and other organizations of the twenties and thirties, but it does not detract from my enjoyment of the rant.