Memed and Maimed

[huinare]

I derived inordinate amusement from this:
'I write like..'

I gave it some essays from the last few semesters, and it usually gave me Lovecraft as a result. (Once it gave me Tolkien, for a somewhat less formal and more memoir-styled essay called "Meditations on a Spider"...why do I want to think it was the word "spider" that did it?)

I would have thought my fiction might be nearer to Lovecraft than my academic writing. Evidently not. It usually told me my fiction was Arthur C. Clarke, a fellow I have yet to read. I'm given to understand he was a fan of Lewis, which raises my hackles perhaps meritlessly...My dislike of Lewis is fairly intense, but that's a story for another day.

The best thing about this was that it gave me Mary Shelley for my Ainulindalë chapter. "It's alive...aliiive...Eäää..."
_____________________________________________

Three weeks of no classes, coinciding with the groups and committees I'm in not doing anything, and my three whole social circles not doing anything = lots of time to introspect, indulge my growing penchant for pre-Rings fic reading, and working on my own crap. In a little over a week, things are going to spin into overdrive with a full plate in the autumn, so I better get this out of my system while I can.

Things have finally reached a pass where I've been needing to write skirmishes and battles. I've never really had to do this before. Now I finally get why books tend to ramble on about this crap and bore the life out of me: it takes a long time to describe this stuff, it's complex. It's not that I'm adverse to violence and gore, but usually when that pops up in my work, it's on a more interpersonal basis, not some action-packed dramatic-music-laced scene. This whole tale has gotten exceedingly gory the past few chapters. I think it's going to clam down again next chapter, and we can return to the regularly scheduled brooding and philosophizing.