Six Degree Acceleration

I can be guilty of pretension, but I am not guilty of it when it comes to the realization that LiveJournal has outlived its usefulness, but I overshot my mark and will be stuck with it as a utility for a little while yet. Google may solve my problems rather quickly once I wind my way through their support system. I will post this: Few of you, outside of certain communities, have held my interest. You do not write well, and from the end of one computer, it becomes tedious. The difference between an author and a writer is something the Jamesians will be taking up in conference, but it is a matter of degree. Susanna Daniel may succeed along that trajectory, and become a typical funny bones midwesterner who would bore the living shit out of me, I do not know, but she is not quite an author yet. She is a novelist perhaps just reaching for stature, and scored a byline with Slate, something I have not yet managed. I am still a writer, in this sense, and not an author, but from what I see on LJ, Microsoft is not particularly concerned with the erudition of its client base.

You need to remember that even electric posts need to cater to an interest, and those will be my parting words to the English fluent; the Slavic behavior there is a good indicator of why your Soviet empire collapsed. Perhaps Slavic cultural norms have lost fluidity, and would be dying out but for modern technology, swallowed into Asian memes.

But writers also internally censor what they have not processed. I create the balance beam between Jerry and myself as something that would make able readers feel sorry that I was caught up in this dynamic, where you might exclaim, "how lonely she was!"

Not always. He and I had our tensions between us, and here is a summation for you on the irony of my adult life. The last time I actually spoke to the man was in 92 in my office, fishing for grad school recommendations. I had him on one end of the line reluctantly rebuffing me due to the length of time involved, and then saying we could meet in conference, while Linda was sitting to my right, waiting for me to get off the phone. I think she sat in the W or Indian style that I used to deploy before my surgery. I was swearing off one icon, a little pissed at him, muttering that he was conceited, while the spastic woman I had raised onto a dais was patiently waiting to discuss my goal planner.

Therein lies the shattered tragedy of a life that otherwise might have given back so much. Assigning blame to anyone wouldn't change the facts.