I'm over at Samhain today. I seriously had a blog post written about the joys of writing at home, but then, after this afternoon, it seemed like a joke...Much of what I wrote is what James Frey would say is based on Real Life. Let's just say it's condensed.
No snark. Bad puppy. No. (Review stuff.)
A two star Amazon review on His American Detective: "Bodice ripper about gay men by a woman." and I'm longing to comment "don't you mean a waistcoat ripper?" God, no. Stop me. The reviews rarely rattle me any longer -- except when I spot a truth in a bad one. When that happens, I actually lose sleep. This means I still care about writing. Speaking of reviewers and writers: A couple of days ago, a writer said she was tired of getting white ladies writing reviews of her books. She had an excellent point in the long run: her stories are meant for a particular audience and she wants them to resonate with those people and get more reviews from them. But that first line was just....horribly obnoxious. I say this from my POV of course. Not a white lady who writes reviews -- but as a review grubber. Anyone who disses any reader (especially ones that give honest reviews) deserves to be cast into the pit of being ignored.
The joys of writing at home as opposed to the joys of writing outside, on the subway, in a cafe, or at work?
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I'm just feeling antsy because I work at home and now I don't even have time for writing! When I finish work, I've already typed so much my hands are sore, and I just want to get away from the computer.
*sigh* Why can't I win the lottery?
Hmmm. Off to ask Pat Woods.
:-)
What sort of work are you doing? Publishing?
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