I've been trying (mostly unsuccessfully) to add category listings to shutitdown. This has forced me to go through all of my posts in order to label them. This was, initially, a very painful experience. Being confronted with one's own horrific grammar mistakes and webcam abuse is not easy, by any means. There was very little good about this experience, with the exception of a few things.
I found some posts that I had forgotten about, but that still amuse me to no end.
Additionally, I've realized that in spite of all of my self-hatred and cable TV, I'm becoming a better writer. At least, better than I was four years ago. Maybe those 9 years of college did make a difference, after all.
In the news lately, there have been a number of articles about young writers who have duped the public in some way. JT Leroy is one, James Frey is another. The literary fraud angle is interesting, certainly. Are memoirs held to the same standard as news? Is one allowed to play with the truth when writing about herself? Am I committing a crime when I paraphrase my mother? (If so, cuff me because boy, am I guilty!)
Intriguing questions, especially for a blogger such as myself.
In light of these articles, I've been spending more time thinking about young authors as well. Yesterday, my friend Pam and I were talking about the Debbie Gibson song "Foolish Beat." She wrote, produced and sang it at the age of 15, and it was a #1 hit. Pam remembers listening to the song when she was 8 and thinking she was already a failure because Debbie Gibson had started her songwriting career at the age of 5. I can relate, because every time I see a book by someone who is 22, I die a little bit.
And although I know that if I had to pick a career to survive off of, I'd still have a better chance with stripping than with writing, I take solace in the fact that I'm getting (slightly) better. Maybe by the time I'm 70 my blog will be really good.
