My Narrator Is Not The Craziest Mo-Fo In The Bunch
Sat 2006-08-05 20:48:50 (in context)
- 1,900 words (if poetry, lines) long
So. I read stuff. Out loud. Like I sometimes do. A lot of other people did, too. The floor of the general meeting room was host to quite a few characters, some quiet and some loud and some jovial and some absolutely insane like guanola.
I read "Snowflakes" Version 2, because Version 3 is still stuck where I left off about a month and a half ago. And I was changing words here and there because them Critique Circle critters made me very consious of Version 2's inadequacies. But no one seemed to mind, because the narrator in that story is in the bat-shit insane category--or at least appears to be if you don't assume that everything she's telling you is true (except for the bit about Not Being Interested In Josh That Way)--and that can be a little distracting.
She was not the craziest of them, however. She was only crazy like Poe's "The Tell-Tale Heart." There were others that were crazy. Crazy like Woody Allen. Crazy like Naked Lunch! (Do not talk to me about cockroaches and earwigs! Talk to this guy about such things! He will tell you!)
Tomorrow: Breakfast! Return of manuscripts to those fellow writers with whom today's scheduling did not grant me an audience! (Some writers I had in not one but two sessions; some I had not at all. We are all a little confused by this.) A closing speech from our instructors! Tearful farewells!
And--oh yeah--presentation of our completed homework assignments via a non-participating reader!
(Homework assignments, did she say?)
Tonight: Working on said homework assignment like it's sundown on November 30th!