“She was an altitudinously statuesque cunningly sardonic graceful voluble vixen with ubiquitous long straight coruscatingly glimmerant gorgeous raven tresses that smelled zephyrous, complimenting her jarringly crystalline cobalt eyes that peeked coquettishly behind daffy spectacles wondrously—and big tits.”
This is good and funny. (A thought whose expression is Politics & The English Language-approved!)
Complicating the question of style: time, access, appetite. Writers have (hopefully) plenty of time, basically infinite access to world literature, and an appetite to try out different voices and styles. So the implicit imperative to find "your" style and work it seems kinda bust now. Even in the more monolithic-seeming stylists you'll see a few different styles working themselves out over time, e.g. Joyce's short stories to Ulysses to the Wake, or Lispector's early novels and crônicas to The Beauty and the Beast, or the Enormous Wound to Água Viva… As a writer who feels pretty far into his life and work, I sometimes look back at my published books (10 of 'em! TOO MANY? probably) and see how widely the style varies and wonder if I'm no more than a parrot with too many owners, or if there is some unifying thread between all the works. *I* think I can articulate that thread, but what might that matter for the average reader who prolly won't read and study all ten, instead only knowing my style from one or a few of them?
What feels very true to me, though, is that each particular book demands from its writer its own style, that the writer is ultimately servile with respect to the needs of the book, that seeing and understanding the book's needs comprises a majority of the important intellectual work of writing a good or great book. And that the rest—hammering out and refining sentences—is mostly a function of reps (hitting the bag, crunches, sparring) and time (getting your ass to the gym as much and regularly as possible).
Totally agree: think a book has to have a self-contained consciousness that doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with the writer’s “actual voice” . . .
While I've come to expect this from your "Annals" project, you've once again (libelously, I might add) misquoted, slandered, and fabricated in the name of content. For the record, I never have, and never will, submit to "BLAST 2," as I consider it well below my intellectual pay grade. Tread lightly Rogers, I heard through the grapevine that the folks at Farrar, Strauss, & Giroux are looking for an excuse to shitcan your legal quagmire of a novel... I'd hate to give them one.
She was an altitudinously statuesque cunningly sardonic graceful voluble vixen with ubiquitous long straight coruscatingly glimmerant gorgeous raven tresses that smelled zephyrous, complimenting her jarringly crystalline cobalt eyes that peeked coquettishly behind daffy spectacles wondrously—and big tits
Due to this stack’s Lewis bit and a synchronous reference in a book I was reading I started reading “An Analysis of the Mind of James Joyce” from Time and Western Man. Lewis calls Joyce a sedulous ape. What a musical phrase! Can’t you picture Joyce going into a bar and ordering a sedulous ape?
"Free yourself from this coffin of quality & standards in which you lie like an insipid vampire, waiting to taste the fresh blood of your supposed inferiors."
You’re the best bc you just spit free game very useful read please don’t stop Harold
“She was an altitudinously statuesque cunningly sardonic graceful voluble vixen with ubiquitous long straight coruscatingly glimmerant gorgeous raven tresses that smelled zephyrous, complimenting her jarringly crystalline cobalt eyes that peeked coquettishly behind daffy spectacles wondrously—and big tits.”
This is clearly AI
I love your writing!!!! It feels ALIVE!
Good PROSE is like PORN ; U know it when U see it !
This is good and funny. (A thought whose expression is Politics & The English Language-approved!)
Complicating the question of style: time, access, appetite. Writers have (hopefully) plenty of time, basically infinite access to world literature, and an appetite to try out different voices and styles. So the implicit imperative to find "your" style and work it seems kinda bust now. Even in the more monolithic-seeming stylists you'll see a few different styles working themselves out over time, e.g. Joyce's short stories to Ulysses to the Wake, or Lispector's early novels and crônicas to The Beauty and the Beast, or the Enormous Wound to Água Viva… As a writer who feels pretty far into his life and work, I sometimes look back at my published books (10 of 'em! TOO MANY? probably) and see how widely the style varies and wonder if I'm no more than a parrot with too many owners, or if there is some unifying thread between all the works. *I* think I can articulate that thread, but what might that matter for the average reader who prolly won't read and study all ten, instead only knowing my style from one or a few of them?
What feels very true to me, though, is that each particular book demands from its writer its own style, that the writer is ultimately servile with respect to the needs of the book, that seeing and understanding the book's needs comprises a majority of the important intellectual work of writing a good or great book. And that the rest—hammering out and refining sentences—is mostly a function of reps (hitting the bag, crunches, sparring) and time (getting your ass to the gym as much and regularly as possible).
Totally agree: think a book has to have a self-contained consciousness that doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with the writer’s “actual voice” . . .
i liked Krellkat’s story!
While I've come to expect this from your "Annals" project, you've once again (libelously, I might add) misquoted, slandered, and fabricated in the name of content. For the record, I never have, and never will, submit to "BLAST 2," as I consider it well below my intellectual pay grade. Tread lightly Rogers, I heard through the grapevine that the folks at Farrar, Strauss, & Giroux are looking for an excuse to shitcan your legal quagmire of a novel... I'd hate to give them one.
alliteration is wack now. you are right about that, and so many other things in this piece.
Pure joy reading your newsletters please keep writing
She was an altitudinously statuesque cunningly sardonic graceful voluble vixen with ubiquitous long straight coruscatingly glimmerant gorgeous raven tresses that smelled zephyrous, complimenting her jarringly crystalline cobalt eyes that peeked coquettishly behind daffy spectacles wondrously—and big tits
beautiful
Due to this stack’s Lewis bit and a synchronous reference in a book I was reading I started reading “An Analysis of the Mind of James Joyce” from Time and Western Man. Lewis calls Joyce a sedulous ape. What a musical phrase! Can’t you picture Joyce going into a bar and ordering a sedulous ape?
Just here to defend alliteration with my dying breath. 🔪
"Free yourself from this coffin of quality & standards in which you lie like an insipid vampire, waiting to taste the fresh blood of your supposed inferiors."
Finally, some words to serve up to my enemies
Waiting for my copy of HUMPTY DUMPTY, safado!