I don't write right, October 12th

How to Write With Style; written by a guy I hated to annotate but loved to brag that I read. I could read the article, then following his steps, explain away my present dilemma. I owe money and I talk a lot.

Find a subject I care about. I can’t get enough of pictures. Problem is, I have choices concerning so much, other than pictures, as my subject put it today, “You have anxiety.” It rang in my head, echoes in a cave. I can’t even draft without stopping and going. I erase half-lines, go back, pause, and re-write previous phrases. Pictures are hard to come see between tween so many tiresome choices. Do I go to Vegas to pitch a startup or stay and write my way to a career? Have I started too many books? Finish The Paradox or continue The Reminiscences? I think more than I act. This inaction feels like an Achilles ankle, and it hurts wicked bad.

Do not ramble, though. I struggle to pick a stop. Once I lose the train of thought, let’s make a rule, it’s the last stop.

Keep it simple. My love of language and enthusiasm married and had a child. Word precision is heir to the throne. I used to use unique words which had a different outcome than I expected. A habit of answering authority made a boy half-adult, overexplaining baked in macaroni and cheese. But pictures save me plenty explanation.

Have the guts to cut. Thanks to this rule, I won’t deal with hesitation. If a sentence does not illuminate your subject in some new and useful way, scratch it out. I saw the advice parallel like a mirror; my present lack of funds came from acquiring dim things, not illuminating my subjects. Useless, really.

Sound like yourself. Act normal. The puzzle of puzzles, I despise and respect. I write with wordiness to sound smart. I aspire to intelligence and knowledge, so I pose for the picture. Normal means not an act, so I can’t ‘act’ normal, a real catch-22. If I don’t know a word, I look it up. That’s me.

Say what you mean to say. In other words, get blasted for backtalk. Of course, timing is everything. Time and place, all my copies of Pokémon reiterate. Even the 36 stratagems have attacking and defending positions. Voicing your truth normally feels like throwing a punch. Language turns the fist into a sticky note. Apply it anywhere, and if done correctly, it might stick. Too much content nowadays isn’t creative. I don’t care what they’re selling, it’s that the sales pitch lacks style. I’m concerned about being a know-it-all, so take this lightly. Even if we turn down the mall kiosk vendor, we appreciate the charisma, no? Still, the nonsense flies nonstop with the bare minimum.

Behind closed eyes, I saw that less tools meant more work was done classically, by hand. Technologies eased our lives, but maybe too much. This ease in aesthetics, art and style feels slack. Complacent. A fake bosom sells a bra, empty dreams sell investments. The game’s gotten sick, so everything’s tasteless.

Pity the readers. They are a sorry bunch. In a world where screens stream so many images, moving, still, animated- it’s no wonder I can’t find the cool. A lot’s blocking the view. I boyishly whined before, “People- you just don’t get it.” What a sap. I was most pitiful. Here I was- mad it didn’t mean more to people. Brilliant, I am the one to make it more. Meaning comes from them, not me. At least, I do it all to express my meaning. I cannot cry over what they think meaningful. More fun to me, I play ball with the craft- exploring through caves and the field what is possible.