At the moment, I’m working on another bit of rambling. Hopefully, it’ll be a winter piece. If not, perhaps it’ll be a wastebasket piece.
It usually takes me forever, and a day to write something. So don’t expect to read anything I’ve been fiddling with in the next few hours. It takes me longer than that to figure out how to tie my shoes. For what it’s worth though, when I write, I just scratch about, and jot down whatever sounds good to me, as long as it seems to flow right. If not, I trash it.
Anyway, just about everything I write some self appointed critic comes along and tears it apart. Hahaha…In my experience, I’d reckon there has to be at least ten trillion poetic scholars roaming the Internet, and everyone of them seem to have a bone to pick with yours’ truly. Never mind the fact that most people doing the critiquing couldn’t write a comprehensible sentence even if it jumped up and bit them on the ass.
Some bloodhound will probably even scrutinize this diary entry. They’ll point out all the errors, and other useless facts about it.
Ho hum---- I guess I had better---go back to pretending I’m writing something….
Me
CEV
