Thursday, April 4, 2013

BEDA #4 - Why aren't I Ernest Hemingway?

You always hear about these writers who have just terrible lives. Pretty much every successful author from the 20th century was an alcoholic whose parents didn't hug him enough. But they were amazing writers. Even though their lives were complete crap, they wrote brilliantly. So by some kind of mysterious law, my writing should be so mind-bogglingly prodigious that you should be crying right now. But you're not. Because this is crap. 

I'm watching some cheesy romance movie right now with Anne Hathaway who's sporting this terrible English accent like she's in a community theater production of Mary Poppins. It's called One Day and the plot here is she's friend-zoning this overly-confident yet sensitive flirt and they keep using odd British slang. I can't even count the number of times they've said "have a wee" instead of piss. It's getting unbearable. But I'm going to keep watching it because I like the way they look at each other when the other's not looking and the way his voice trembles when he's phoning her and he just wants to tell her how much he misses her but can't because he knows they'd be hell together. 

I should be working on my NaNo novel. I'm only at 2,600 words when today's goal is like, what, 6,000? Shit I don't even know anymore. Oh and look at this, Anne's character has got bangs now. It's that just dashing? I'll work on the book after the movie.

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