Another weekend over, another celebrity death. Michael Jackson, Amy Winehouse, Whitney Houston… I knew none of these people personally, but there’s a part of me that feels like I’ve spent a lot of time with them. Mainly on my Facebook newsfeed, after they’ve died.
Considering all the die-hard fans old Whitney had among my Virtual Friends, it’s kind of amazing that I’ve never actually seen anyone post one of her songs, or mention her (in positive way, rather than in some HILARIOUSLY TRITE JOKING REFERENCE TO HER SHITTY, CRACK-ADDLED BOBBY BROWN LIFE, THAT WAS TOTALLY OKAY TO DO WHILE SHE WAS STILL ALIVE, BUT IN POOR TASTE NOW SHE’S DEAD) in all the time I’ve been Social Networking. Maybe I was offline that day.
The thing I’m writing is in the first person, from the POV of an eleven-year old boy.
That sounds okay, I hear you thinking. Stephen King’s ‘The Body’ was done that way, and that’s an amazing novella, which Rob Reiner transcribed almost word for word, to make the movie ‘Stand By Me’.
Well, yes. You are almost correct in thinking that, but you are also wrong. The Body is written in the past tense, by the now grown-up Gordon Lachance, so it’s full of knowing knowingness, and adulty adroitness in its language.
My story has to be written in the limited vocabulary of a child, and an Irish child, at that. There are only so many ways to say the word ‘said’, as an adult narrator. As child, there’s only one: ‘said’. I have painted myself into a proverbial corner. Literally. With paint. Made out of words.
I need to write some more first draft today, which is always a pain, because it’s clearly The Shit Version Of How Good I Am; so, it’s hard to type it with any sort of passion. Me being me, I know I’ll have re-written it about six times before anyone reads it. I’ve already re-written it twice, and it’s still in my head. I don’t do the whole First Draft/Second Draft/Final Draft thing with these blogs, though. I don’t need these to be perfect, or readable, or entertaining.
Most blogs aren’t entertaining. If the people writing them were entertaining, then they’d have a real job, entertaining people. As it is, they just have millions of ovine subscribers, LMAOffing and LOLouding as they repeat ALL The Catchphrases at each other, and bring gay black men home for Thanksgiving, to upset their stuffy, Conservative parents. Despite being a medium dominated by the written word, blogging is like any other Social Medium: the cream never rises to the top. In its place, the rancid, steaming turds of sanitised, inoffensive mediocrity- bobbing on the surface of the internet; excrement buoys on an ocean of cunt.