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godream"Leaving the Ocean" earned a maybe from the wolves of the lit magazine. I think this is the first time I've sat in on a criticism of my writing in which noone knew it was mine, and so no one felt compelled to spare my delicate feelings.
That said, I've discovered I actually have delicate feelings. Sort of. I didn't think I did, and I'm not offended or anything -- they've certainly said worse -- but ... but ... but yeah, it's different when it's my baby -- I mean, my poem -- on the dissection table. You know? They said it was all one long sentence, they said they didn't quite understand the forgetting bit, they said a few other things that shouldn't have touched me and I wasn't in tears or anything, it was all stuff I was glad in some way to hear because I like constructive criticism, I need to know where I'm screwing up in order to get better -- but much as I'd love to stand apart (calm cold hard independent strong) some of it kind of did the whole twanging the heartstrings thing. *sigh* But I'll get over it. And I mean, lest I portray the lit mag staff as unthinking people without an ounce of introspection or poetry in their souls, they acknowledged one long sentence = one thought = one moment which is so easily forgotten despite any magnitude it might have. I'm just far too sensitive for my own good, and those "no" votes hurt. Gah.
Discovery of the day: all the cool kids have livejournals. Note 2/8/03: ok, me too now. Today's meeting led to the discovery of one person's, and perusal thereof led to a few others. Intellectually I've realized: duh, there are probably other bloggers in the school, but I suppose that goes on the list of things that aren't quite real until they smack you in the face. This list is definitely approaching the magnitude where it needs some direction and possibly a poem about it. Later, though. I have to run in a minute or two because my parents are giving me a ride to work so I'm not as horribly late from taking the late bus as I have been lately, for once, and this evening I have to write that summary I've been putting off, the one that's several days late now, and teach my little sister to knit.
By the way, knitting (grandmotherly as it may sound) is actually pretty relaxing. It's very repetitive movement, once you get used to it, and good for doing while watching TV that you don't have to pay much attention to. And, you know, it's productive and stuff. It's especially productive if you use thick, fluffy yarn and size 15 needles (relatively thick) so it goes faster. I actually made my way through an entire skein of yarn yesterday, between car rides, watching Squall play Kingdom Hearts, and a couple episodes of Buffy.
That said, I've discovered I actually have delicate feelings. Sort of. I didn't think I did, and I'm not offended or anything -- they've certainly said worse -- but ... but ... but yeah, it's different when it's my baby -- I mean, my poem -- on the dissection table. You know? They said it was all one long sentence, they said they didn't quite understand the forgetting bit, they said a few other things that shouldn't have touched me and I wasn't in tears or anything, it was all stuff I was glad in some way to hear because I like constructive criticism, I need to know where I'm screwing up in order to get better -- but much as I'd love to stand apart (calm cold hard independent strong) some of it kind of did the whole twanging the heartstrings thing. *sigh* But I'll get over it. And I mean, lest I portray the lit mag staff as unthinking people without an ounce of introspection or poetry in their souls, they acknowledged one long sentence = one thought = one moment which is so easily forgotten despite any magnitude it might have. I'm just far too sensitive for my own good, and those "no" votes hurt. Gah.
Discovery of the day: all the cool kids have livejournals. Note 2/8/03: ok, me too now. Today's meeting led to the discovery of one person's, and perusal thereof led to a few others. Intellectually I've realized: duh, there are probably other bloggers in the school, but I suppose that goes on the list of things that aren't quite real until they smack you in the face. This list is definitely approaching the magnitude where it needs some direction and possibly a poem about it. Later, though. I have to run in a minute or two because my parents are giving me a ride to work so I'm not as horribly late from taking the late bus as I have been lately, for once, and this evening I have to write that summary I've been putting off, the one that's several days late now, and teach my little sister to knit.
By the way, knitting (grandmotherly as it may sound) is actually pretty relaxing. It's very repetitive movement, once you get used to it, and good for doing while watching TV that you don't have to pay much attention to. And, you know, it's productive and stuff. It's especially productive if you use thick, fluffy yarn and size 15 needles (relatively thick) so it goes faster. I actually made my way through an entire skein of yarn yesterday, between car rides, watching Squall play Kingdom Hearts, and a couple episodes of Buffy.
