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[26 Jan 2008|08:31pm] |
It's times like these that I wish I were T.S.Eliot. Lord, could the man write. I have such disgust going over my own writings, how ammateur, how immature, and then there are those artists, those masters who can write complete shite and it's amazing. I hate reading what I've written so I always did poorly in editing aspects of papers from my school days. I'd get someone else to do it. I have no problem with others reading my work, I just have problem with having to digest it myself. I read it while I wrote it, and to read it again...I can reread books I enjoy over and over, but never my own words. It's just an unease and disinterest I have towards twice over reading my ridiculous thoughts.
I feel like Kerouac some days, stream of counciousness writing in my notebooks, but other days I realize that I'm no Jack, thank you, I'm just like every other poor writer and grammar student. I hate writing like writers, I have to stop and think if I do that. I write as I speak, commas going where pauses are and etc.. At least I use bloody punctuation. Read Fight Club and then complain about my over use. It's hard, isn't it?
Anyway, I was just reading and thought to write myself, but upon doing so, I think I'll go back to my book. This is pathetic, really.
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