Y'know I have a fairly and quite grubby hobby. Given a day away from the factory floor, I sit at my bureau, pen five or seven hundred words of prose, whimsy possibly, then press 'publish' and this fresh, this prosary of mine appears on the WW-Web community hubble. I am not sure exactly how, but understand how honestly, I understand my efforts are inconsequential everywhere, simply dishwater in the tiniest petri dish ever imagined by anybody scientific, any chin spinner. Yet, in my defence I do do say, occasionally I say, I do develop my themes, post one away occasionally, the evolved story, to a bedroom-type publishing magnate, for him to consider this mighty talent, a photograph always attached, possibly gym-related. It is my thing, you see - how I become most famous overnight to three or four people because of them folk-publishers. It is a very nice feeling, my fame because people will love it when I am dead. I can't blame them, surely not. Generally, but not exclusively, I attract other, but quite strange folk to my hive, the writer blog where I live - almost referred to in previous monograph. Here hey, the chaps respond to me infrequently, but when they do do, they tend to express in ways I do not personally understand. Meaning that if I expressed initially along the tightrope of sense, then they respond by trump, almost defeating and deafening me in their senselessness - every time really, an ejaculation of excitement from them to find me man Friday, a soul sister of senselessness. It is great for five minutes, we make friends for a while, but then finally we both give up exhausted - for in we speak this language neither of us comprehends. I suppose that is the point really. What is wrong with me? Like today, I thought this new e-boy, a grandpa from Bermuda, actually, he might find me talented in my story...but then thinking about it, surely he must be some grand player on the grand stage, player, and me the worm....so did he like me at all, I mean my prose, or is he toying, eating me up for breakfast up, what a champion, eh? He said...[about my poem-story] "As brilliant as it is overtly scatological. Pure scatologic poetry." What exactly does this mean? Do you have a similar dimma, a dilemma, express, share your soul...sister.
Hard to say. Lesser beings might not take precision of executing intent with as much care as yourself. They may be caught up in the excitement of the pidgin chicken dialect, and fail to take note of ambiguity. Oftentimes, they'll be satisfied to be witty, trenchant, literate, of resource.
You are all those things Brian. I mean to pack away my paint set and leave the forum, I just spewed, y'know, again. [but what about 'the guy?'] Trenchant, nice
Thanks, Mat. I know that you've brought lots of enjoyment to myself and others here, and, I'm sure, over there. You're a big inspiration, and I rarely compliment people (personal and broader social issue).
Like all your posts, mat, this one flew over my head quicker and higher than Concorde. This is the only response I can give, as I have no idea what you're talking about.
Let me give you a quick synopsis: For fun, Mat likes to intermingle with writers throughout the world in his spare time becoming somewhat pen pals. He shares work with them, and they share work with him to get an idea of what type of writer each are. Mat thinks his stuff goes over well in his UK part of the world, but isn't quite sure how it stacks up against some of the writers from other areas. So despite some of the responses that come across as positive, he is unsure if the comments are made so general as a way to not demean his abilities. This guy from Bermuda said his stuff was scatological...and he is unsure if he should take it as praise, or if it means it is a piece of shit. Now if the guy was from Japan where they are into some freaky shit, I would say scatalogical would be the bee's knees, but to be honest I don't know what they are into in Bermuda other than smoking the shit. So @matwoolf maybe the guy is saying your prose is just smoke'n!
Lamentations From an Englishman Translation provided by 123456789 "Y'know I have a fairly and quite grubby hobby. Given a day away from the factory floor, I sit at my bureau, pen five or seven hundred words of prose, whimsy possibly, then press 'publish' and this fresh, this prosary of mine appears on the WW-Web community hubble." Sometime's I post my writing on the internet. "I am not sure exactly how, but understand how honestly, I understand my efforts are inconsequential everywhere, simply dishwater in the tiniest petri dish ever imagined by anybody scientific, any chin spinner." In other words, I think my stuff is fucking awesome. "Yet, in my defence I do do say, occasionally I say, I do develop my themes, post one away occasionally, the evolved story, to a bedroom-type publishing magnate, for him to consider this mighty talent, a photograph always attached, possibly gym-related." Told you I'm fucking awesome. "It is my thing, you see - how I become most famous overnight to three or four people because of them folk-publishers." I told you!!!! "It is a very nice feeling, my fame because people will love it when I am dead. I can't blame them, surely not." I AM MIGHTY. HEAR ME ROAR!!! "Generally, but not exclusively, I attract other, but quite strange folk to my hive, the writer blog where I live - almost referred to in previous monograph." Only smart people get me. "Here hey, the chaps respond to me infrequently, but when they do do, they tend to express in ways I do not personally understand." Eg, they are fucking stupid. "Meaning that if I expressed initially along the tightrope of sense, then they respond by trump, almost defeating and deafening me in their senselessness - every time really, an ejaculation of excitement from them to find me man Friday, a soul sister of senselessness. It is great for five minutes, we make friends for a while, but then finally we both give up exhausted - for in we speak this language neither of us comprehends. I suppose that is the point really. What is wrong with me?" Or, in the words of all emo thirteen year olds around the globe, “nobody understands me.” "Like today, I thought this new e-boy, a grandpa from Bermuda, actually, he might find me talented in my story...but then thinking about it, surely he must be some grand player on the grand stage, player, and me the worm....so did he like me at all, I mean my prose, or is he toying, eating me up for breakfast up, what a champion, eh? He said...[about my poem-story] "As brilliant as it is overtly scatological. Pure scatologic poetry." What exactly does this mean? Do you have a similar dimma, a dilemma, express, share your soul...sister."Mommmmmm. Somebody didn't like my writing!!!!!
Hello @OurJud - and for the life of me, let me say, why and how can you call yourself Jud because Jud were and is one of the most horrible creations in literature, the school yard and t'pit. Saying that I too share much Yorkshire nostalgia for Knaves, but not for Jud so much, aye. And I'm sorry for posting mathematical prose, Jud. Just I sat at keyboard, enjoyed myself, and sorry. Surely we'll find common ground soon enough, a matter of time, it's a writer site - bound to be types like me abouts... @Lewdog, that's a very nice translation you have presented in the roundabouts...I must say how proud I have been of your moral fibre during latest politico type debates [online, debater] I could not wear those shorts quite so very well, brother - bravo, and on...
Actually, these words are spoken in a baritone voice. This is the one scene where I look through a high window, see the distant horizon, hear thunder from the clouds above kind of thing, probably sat in a taverna. I am the guy with the mandolin, a chest hair, the shirt unbuttoned, quite nice looking really, is me. Frankly, I'm not sure you are reading the prose properly. Perhaps adjust your reading, that inner reading inner-voice can often become high-pitched, squeaky, and require tuning. I could train you, I dunno, sincerely, love Mat x
That's a fair point. I'm not sure why I chose the Jud moniker, as opposed to Billy. He is indeed a nasty piece of work and killed 'is (half) brother's 'awk cos it bit 'im. But he was just trying to release it. Billy's failure to place his brother's bet cost Jud £16... and 'e could 'ave 'ad a week off work wi' that. Still no excuse for Jud's cruelty, though.
There's a thought. If only the lads could be kept in gilded cages (literally). A dollop of spotted dick for every adulation. "Oy, Mr. Wolf, that is some mighty prose. But ain't some things better taught with that Socratic method of yers? Jonny ere can stroke yer mandolin while I count all them chest hairs."
I had to use my google-fu skills to discover scatology is the study of feces. Maybe your commentator is saying your writing is about feces, rather than that your writing is feces. It certainly features someone who needs a poo. 'Purely scatalogical' is still an odd analysis because there is more going on in your writing than that, but maybe the fellow is particular fan of the brown stuff, so he'd consider any mention to be good shit. I can't believe I've written a full forum post about feces
I once got' "this was offensively awful, you have wasted a considerably period of my time that I could have spent throwing a tennis ball against a wall, this might have exercised brain cells rather than destroying them. Never share your ineptitude with me again!" I took it as a compliment.
That's harsh, I would sulk. Narrations too - can go wrong. I wrote, have written one about a stone age couple, a romance on an island - with wildly flamboyant language, ridiculous. I presented it, read as comedy BUT audience were more interested in the STORY - hanging on [to] the words of story, rather than the play on words. I found this confusing - like our age old 'writer issues' maybe? Was I a lazy writer - if you get a chuckle or two, you know something is right, and it is easy, easier. Sincerity often wins out long ways [blabbermouth, me not u, @CP] Anyway, the night went okay, made me think to play the long game on that piece [ten years], people love a romance. I do too, nice to write, and pretty - and like the idea of crying over keyboard, to soak up the ash. Need to polish that story, tch
Was messing about. If I were to describe your writing style, and this is on the basis of the colloquial nonsense you churn out in threads, I would describe it as dense and impenetrable. Fun for a while but my God it would irritate me after 1,000 words.
I also need help reviewing my solo-intimate scenes for WIP, Mat. They could use a little light-heartedness.
Have you tried those Russian pratfall, the FAIL videos, youtube - that might work, foam up towards punchline, pavlovain maybe, Brian?
