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I'm too lazy, bitter, and unengaged with the world beyond the keyboard--and frankly, the world the keyboard encompasses isn't much better--to make a proper post, and so, I offer instead a string of random thoughts.
Nothing bugs me more than fics that are praised for their use of language, and yet, are so riddled with improper use of said language that any self-respecting pedant's head would explode, or at least throb with the threat of embolism. Note, please, that I'm not referring to occasional artistic and grammatical license. Most writers, especially the truly talented ones, have bent the rules a time or two; but bent shouldn't look like a soft, sourdough pretzel after tasting the kiss of a Goodyear tire on I-75, and there is absolutely no excuse for the incorrect use of "its" and "it's", and if I see it in a fic, I am most certainly not going to praise a fic for its "use of language". I don't give a damn how eloquent or evocative the rest of it is. When I see a mistake like that repeated throughout an otherwise solid fic, I immediately begin to suspect the presence of a chimpanzee at the keyboard. The little buggers get lucky once in a while.
A week ago, I found an anthology of short fiction in the discard pile of the complex laundromat and brought it home because it was in good condition. Today, I read "Mother Savage" by Guy du Maupassant. What a delightful gut-punch of a story. There was a man who knew how to use the language, dammit, and he was French and writing in French. The translation was fabulous, and now I'm curious about the rest of his work.
People who write nothing but illiterate blog or LJ posts in a dialect of Netspeak that can only be classified as pidgin boob should never, ever proclaim themselves writers. I'm sure such souls would sputter in righteous indignation and proclaim that their online writing is not representative of their "real-life" talents. I, however, am dubious of such assertions. If one were possessed of writing talent, you'd think they'd want to flaunt it on a borderless stage, not bury beneath endless, reeking layers of linguistic offal so offensive and unpalatable that even the most coprophageous dog would refuse to indulge it.
Besides, moron, the Internet is real life at broadband speed, and the entire world can access your foaming idiocy with the click of a mouse.
Be nice to the language in which you write, or Strunk and White and all their international cousins will pummel you. With fists and dime-stuffed socks.
People are stupid, but this unpleasant truth has been temporarily salved by the fact that Roomie bought me gingerbread men as a treat. I will enjoy them, but I will also feel guilty and vaguely cannibalistic as I bite off their heads.
Tonight's CSI:NY contains Flack+bizarre foods. I predict a hearty dose of miserable empathy along with the inevitable laughter at his disgusted pique. Oh, Flack, don't ever change.
Nothing bugs me more than fics that are praised for their use of language, and yet, are so riddled with improper use of said language that any self-respecting pedant's head would explode, or at least throb with the threat of embolism. Note, please, that I'm not referring to occasional artistic and grammatical license. Most writers, especially the truly talented ones, have bent the rules a time or two; but bent shouldn't look like a soft, sourdough pretzel after tasting the kiss of a Goodyear tire on I-75, and there is absolutely no excuse for the incorrect use of "its" and "it's", and if I see it in a fic, I am most certainly not going to praise a fic for its "use of language". I don't give a damn how eloquent or evocative the rest of it is. When I see a mistake like that repeated throughout an otherwise solid fic, I immediately begin to suspect the presence of a chimpanzee at the keyboard. The little buggers get lucky once in a while.
A week ago, I found an anthology of short fiction in the discard pile of the complex laundromat and brought it home because it was in good condition. Today, I read "Mother Savage" by Guy du Maupassant. What a delightful gut-punch of a story. There was a man who knew how to use the language, dammit, and he was French and writing in French. The translation was fabulous, and now I'm curious about the rest of his work.
People who write nothing but illiterate blog or LJ posts in a dialect of Netspeak that can only be classified as pidgin boob should never, ever proclaim themselves writers. I'm sure such souls would sputter in righteous indignation and proclaim that their online writing is not representative of their "real-life" talents. I, however, am dubious of such assertions. If one were possessed of writing talent, you'd think they'd want to flaunt it on a borderless stage, not bury beneath endless, reeking layers of linguistic offal so offensive and unpalatable that even the most coprophageous dog would refuse to indulge it.
Besides, moron, the Internet is real life at broadband speed, and the entire world can access your foaming idiocy with the click of a mouse.
Be nice to the language in which you write, or Strunk and White and all their international cousins will pummel you. With fists and dime-stuffed socks.
People are stupid, but this unpleasant truth has been temporarily salved by the fact that Roomie bought me gingerbread men as a treat. I will enjoy them, but I will also feel guilty and vaguely cannibalistic as I bite off their heads.
Tonight's CSI:NY contains Flack+bizarre foods. I predict a hearty dose of miserable empathy along with the inevitable laughter at his disgusted pique. Oh, Flack, don't ever change.
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