06 January 2009

I hate editing.

I've been nudged, butted, and shoved towards the door to editing my own work. Why should I? I'm the one that comes up with ideas, gets everyone excited, then grows bored with the whole ordeal and walks away. It annoys me to no end to have to re-evaluate my work, over and over again. I assume that's why editors seem to be okay at making a living these days.

I recently experienced the pleasures of working on MS Office for the Mac (08 or whatever). Thank you, I love outlining again. Actually, I never loved it in the first place. It puts me back at that 'work' thing I'm so desperately trying to avoid. I have to work at work. Leave me alone while I stare off into space and daydream of plot details. I got off track there, didn't I? See, I'm lousy at composing and organizing ideas. I'm like an idea factory with a 3rd party dumping service necessary to keep from overloading.

Zzt.

MS Office for the Mac has enough features to make the whole outlining idea effortless, including "Did you want to start your numbering over?" options, Bullets that disappear when you damn well mean for them to go away, and smart tabbing, where as long as you're using the same numbering system or bullets, the software remembers each set tab. Writer porn for me. Well, maybe a nice juicy erotica. Ahem.

I look forward to Pages '09 and their touted new features. I'm hoping that these 'new' features will also prove 'useful' beyond the Microsoft 'Works' crowd. (Please. Does anyone really make their own greeting cards?)

As I am new at this 'big-girl' blog, I'll close early. I hope to have some more editing done by the end of this weekend. The project is due on January 31st. It will not win anything, but it does include an option to have the piece critiqued. I need it to be torn apart, because where I display my work now everyone loves my stuff. I want people to tell me what they don't like about it, not what they loved. Patting me on the rear and telling me what a good job I did will not improve my skills at telling stories or making poetry.

Goodnight.

Oh. One more thing...a poem.

Dipping-digging deep
into this soil
this brick-laid clay in this
stoic heartland I feel
so close to the planet's rage
and insist that my corpse
be laid within after I perish
For the time
and wine
and the grapes on the vine
should I die
Lay me bare and fetal into my pit of
small human sorrow
Thumb in mouth as I give back
to the very existence
I borrowed from
this deepest mud and gravel
and rock
in me
I feel heavy
grounded
My roots invisible
but tangible
secure in the knowledge
that I am
my Mother's Child. - C.C.

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