Late Nights

I’ve been avoiding this.  I’m so far behind.  I’m exhausted.  I really haven’t been doing any writing, so it’s all been building up inside of me and I’ve been thrusting it back down, until it creates a new layer of dermis.

But tonight, with my plans to go to bed early shattered, and no one returning any texts– it’s what happens when your Saturday night is everyone elses’ Wednesday– I find myself in need of an outlet.

I could discuss Great Expectations as that’s next on my list, but as much as I enjoyed Pip, I do not think I could keep my mind on him tonight.

Truth is, I’m unsettled.

I started reading Game of Thrones and… I just… no.  That’s my reaction about every fifty pages or so.  The feminist in me objects.  The humanitarian in me objects.  The animal lover in me objects.  Every little bit and a new part of me objects and I begin to feel… unsettled.

It’s why I’m still awake as the clock ticks even closer to midnight.

XXX

There’s a reason I moved on to the so-called Classics.  Modern books tend to piss me off.  They try to be edgy.  They try to take risks.  But no.  They are poorly edited.  They just make me go “That was a waste!” (I’m looking at you, Suzanne Collins!)

And then other books and authors *ahem, Wally Lamb* seem to think “Hey, what is the worst thing that could happen to my characters?  I’ve done that already, so what next?” and make an 800 page tome (I almost wrote tomb… sometimes it feels like that…) turn into a long slog-fest of drama, drama, DRAMA!  We get it.  Your character’s life sucks.  Can you cut out 200+ pages of whining and unnecessary “God is pissing on my life!” events, PLEASE?

And now I’m just rambling.  You can see what I mean by unsettled though.  Is this even coherent?

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