Critique

Yesterday's word was promenade. Rhonda apparently started drinking the psychic Kool-aid.

I've just spent hours critiquing three fellow classmates' stories for advanced writing... Hours on something that's entirely subjective and is quite possibly going to be glanced over and disregarded because there is so much blue ink all over the page... or (for the one that I thought was really good) disregarded because there isn't that much... and he won't even really understand how much better I really thought his writing was, because he won't know how much ink I use on other people's stories.

The bases are all good- or at least acceptable. But in a critique all I really know to do is alter wording and phrasing as I would like for it to be, and hope that I don't horrendously insult someone in the process. I don't want to insult anyone.

It's kinda weird that the story I thought was the best done might be the one I liked the the least.

But then again I think it is the one that I would label as the most "literary." You see, I don't really like analyzing literature. I want to write it, and I'm fine with someone else analyzing what I write, but the fun for me is in the creation, not in the search for meaning. So I enjoy creating a story for class and I really appreciate the class that's telling me how/what people do when they create, but I think I'd rather just sit down with the author and ask what they were trying to say with their writing than approach a work with a certain criticism style and then extrapolate until I get the meaning I want.

But then I'd never be given those brilliant insights like the other night in Shakespeare...

It's just not a very peaceful life, is it? Dauntlessly trying to figure out the meaning hidden not one, not two, not three levels deep, but 20 levels down. And I have to wonder if the artist even meant for there to be these 20 levels of meaning or if, like me, they were just writing. They were just releasing the things scrambled up inside their head that needed release.

Will I find out after my work is critiqued that I'm racist, or sexist, or pretentious?

If I ever get a major publishing deal will I find out that my characters who I love are all these terrible archetypes of inaction?

What meaning am I tucking away like a huge pencil in one of those Highlights hidden picture puzzles - obvious to everyone but me.

I've been thinking a lot about the things in yourself that are so clear to the rest of the world and so surprising when brought to your attention.

I'm not sure that I think it's a bad thing that I can still surprise myself.