hamstrung

Listen to this crazy thought: really, deep down, in my secret heart of hearts, my writing pleases me. I mean, I like to write, sure -- I would hardly be here if I didn't like to write, unless maybe I were some sort of masochist, which, okay, you know what, let's not go there -- but it's more than liking the act of writing. And it's also more than just the idea that I am actually speaking to people here, which as we all know is a thing that I also like, way more than an ostensibly healthy person ought. What I'm trying to say, here, is that my style kind of works for me. If I saw my voice in someone else's journal, it would speak to me; I would stop and read it for the way it was written as much as for the content. I appreciate my own writing, and how crassly, aggressively unfeminine is that?

But apparently my flourishing self-esteem in this one matter was due a punishing blow, and I received it tonight, in the form of a writing analyzer. I put in five different story excerpts and it fired five different writers back at me; and as if that weren't bad enough, I next posted three blog entries, and got Dan Brown for my trouble, every time. Dan Brown, people, who I found so unreadable that I was forced to listen to an abridged version of The Da Vinci Code just to see what all the fuss was about, and couldn't even manage that much with Angels and Demons. I mean, bad enough that my fiction writing is ridiculously inconsistent. But Dan Brown, ladies and gentlemen, I tell you what, that's like a punch in the throat from someone wearing brass knuckles.

I'm not even sure why I'm writing this, or what I'm asking you for, here. Maybe it's just this: you don't have to like my writing, friends, because I accept that tastes on these matters vary widely. I just want you to give me a hug and assure me that I don't write like Dan Fucking Brown.

:(