Buttered Post

Well toasties, I've taken a short respite from reading a certain accursed book. Instead, I've been thinking (they simply can't be done at the same time, you see).

While writing a blog on someone else's awful writing, I've been having a bit of trouble balancing technically proper writing with smooth, conversational writing-- let's face it, they're often not the same thing. A casual style makes for better blog-reading, but how could I, in good faith, mock Shmeyer's terrible writing if I myself took liberties with the English language? For that matter, even though Shmeyer's writing is an affront to the senses, who am I to judge whether it's acceptable literature based on its improper use of... well, anything literary?

Here's why: I'm not telling you I write well. Sure, I read a whole walloping lot and I have a very firm grasp of correct grammar and spelling, but guess what? I'm not an English professor. I'm not even a Creative Writing minor. I went to art school for two and a half years, and spent most of them at least a bit sauced.

Although Shmeyer's writing is indefensible rubbish, I think I might be able to forgive her her folly--perhaps even pity her-- if she'd just stop bonking me over the head with her English Literature degree.

Maybe one day I'll be rich and mildly insane enough that I'll decide to go back to school for something classy, then I'll spend my time bonking young people over the head with my degree, too. For the moment, though, I'm still trying to remember what a 'past participle' is, and whether it goes well with cheap tequila.

In the meantime, I'm going to keep writing about Shmeyer's wasted efforts as an author, and I'm going to write as poorly as I damn well please.