You read, I write. What I’m going to write, you won’t know. What you’re going to read, I won’t know. It helps to know what I’m going to write. I don’t really care what you read. You can read this, you can read that, or you can read a book with fictional characters in it while sitting in a movie theater waiting for the feature presentation to begin.
What you read and what I write are inconsequential to the matters of our existence. Or are they? I’ve read some wonderful things that have impacted my life greater than some experiences I have had. I’ve written some wonderful things that have impacted you, the reader, in a magnanimous way. You can or can’t deny that. I don’t know. I’m not an expert on what you’ve read and how those readings have impacted you. I, the writer, and merely titillating your reading skills. Said titillation is nothing to scoff at. It’s mystical. Either that or it’s hogwash.
Surrounding me are all sorts of readings. The Associated Press Stylebook is one of them. I have no use for style. I certainly didn’t have any use for the Associated Press or a journalistic approach to writing when I took the courses. I’m not sure where this part is going. Probably just my disdain for the journalist approach to everything these days. Don’t be the story. That is impossible. Once you write about something is not me that is in the writing? I am the writing. Otherwise we’re robots. Machines of sorts. The writing comes through us like programming jizzing through a robot at light speed dictating every movement the robot will make. And maybe we’re not so different from robots.
You read, I wrote.