|Things weren't hard enough
||[May. 25th, 2010|08:11 am]
And now I have to be insanely jealous of this author:|
I have in my drafts, something along this line -- although my analogies were more in the bumper car/soapbox derby car vein.
And then to top it she writes "the emotional variation of sand". Sigh. Perfect.
From an earlier post: "If you're in a relationship, sometimes you probably feel like you're fighting a caged death-match with an invisible spider monkey. And the monkey is rabid. And you don't have any legs. And then a buffalo jumps in there and starts head-butting everything and your face catches on fire and there is a general atmosphere of chaos."
Not a reflection on my own relationships, but still, I feel like she was in my brain rummaging around and took the scraps I've been saving because I just can't bring myself to throw away, even though I can't do anything with them, since the last time I stitched them together, it looked like something a kindergartener high on paste put together and she made something beautiful.
Which may be an odd thing to say about prose that has invisisble rabid spider monkeys, but love and jealousy for other writers is odd-tinged, to say the least. Damn her.
I want to surround myself with these people who wield words and craft paragraphs the way a five star chef plates a meal. Throw us all on a lovely tropical island so that we can sit by the pool together, drink fancy cocktails and try to outcompete each other's self-deprecation.
Ah, who am I kidding? Two days in, in a fit of jealous rage, I'd drown them and barbecue them, hoping that if I couldn't eat their talent, at least I could reduce the competition.