Bitch on the Blog

February 8, 2014

Come again?

Filed under: Amusement — bitchontheblog @ 00:26
Tags:

There is a writer out there (in print) – and no, I will not reveal her name – who writes like me.

Blunt, to the point. I don’t like her.

U

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6 Comments »

  1. I may be on the wrong track here, but is she a mother to one small boy?
    I have my own opinions on that one, similar to yours by the way.

    Comment by Martyn — February 8, 2014 @ 08:06 | Reply

    • Now YOU have piqued MY interest. A mother to a small boy? Who?

      No, a mother to two sons, wife of a famed journalist, famous in her own right (think Seattle) and, as I have only just remembered: Dead. Not long. But dead nevertheless.

      Her essays (of which I read a barrel full yesterday) are sharp. No doubt about it. Yet …

      Bought cotton buds yesterday. Have bottle (of vinegar). Will turn on Mozart and get myself lost among the keys. Maybe Motorhead might be a better musical choice considering the task.

      U

      Comment by bitchontheblog — February 8, 2014 @ 08:45 | Reply

  2. “Blunt, to the point” Another little piece of English usage which amuses me. Reminds me of pencils for some reason.

    Comment by magpie11 — February 8, 2014 @ 14:02 | Reply

  3. Ah. another of my kind of a blogger. I like her already!

    Comment by rummuser — February 9, 2014 @ 12:36 | Reply

  4. Whew! I know she’s not me! And you still love me, right?

    Comment by Lorna's Voice — February 11, 2014 @ 18:01 | Reply

    • I love you, Lorna. Similar to Renee. Wish I lived close enough to either of you to come round for the odd cup of whatever is your tipple.

      You got the irony: How NOT to like a writer who writes like oneself. It’s a bit like a donkey kicking its own ass. At least I recognize familiarity when I see it.

      Of course, and maybe you have pondered on this, one needs to divide the writer/painter/composer/whatever from his/her output. What I call the Hemingway conundrum. And he is one of many who are sublime yet complete and utter what’s its in their personal life. For instance: I detest Picasso. I wouldn’t have allowed him to paint me if he’d been begging on his knees. Yet, there are Picassos (on the wall) which I will acknowledge. For what they are. Divorcing my mind from the man. How long have you got? I could list a whole load of writers who have nothing but my admiration yet would only invite round for dinner to amuse me.

      If I don’t stop this comment now I’ll soon be sounding like Truman Capote. Wasn’t he divine when he was awful?

      Hug,
      U

      Comment by bitchontheblog — February 11, 2014 @ 19:02 | Reply


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