One is about a brave, new “World” and one seeks to explain nearly everything in this old, damn world. One has the word “world” in the title and the other has a big ass picture of the world. We’re told that there are no such things as simple coincidence and so I must infer meaning in the supposed coincidence. I’m more than willing to conjecture wildly, as I think I’ve established in prior posts on this damned bl-g. So, let’s do that.
Mary Harwood tagged me in her blog, Deer Apples, which is also the title of her novel in progress. In my entry, I answer questions about two of my many ongoing projects (including a novel and a 007 essay series/Twitter film festival). All of my James Bond essays will appear here on my bl-g and on Sundog Lit Mag. Feel free to share with anyone you know!
Pro-Oxfords seem to think that every comma sequence is unintelligible without the serial comma. Which isn’t true. You pick out absurd examples that clearly require an Oxford for clarity and use that to champion why every sentence in the history of the world -EVAR- requires an Oxford comma for clarity. Frankly, it’s like watching Fox News up in here. For most serial comma sentences, an Oxford just isn’t necessary for you to understand what that sentence intends to say. If it’s because you can’t handle disorder, fess up and own your OCD. I’d understand that at least. The aesthete in me will always be #TeamAntiOxford. A sentence that does not require the Oxford for clarify just looks better. It smells better. And yes, it even feels better in braille. A comma, by its nature, breaks the flow of writing. It is a pause. Without that Oxford, a sentence transitions better to the next. Your prose becomes less red light, more greens and yellow. Coast through that stale yellow, fine reader, because you have no Oxford comma standing in the way of this otherwise fine and eloquent sentence.
I asked a band this week in an interview: What does success mean to you? They didn’t really have an answer. Success changes as you grow older and as you accomplish new things. So what is success to me? I don’t have an answer either. All I know is that I don’t have it. And I’m not even sure I know how to get there anymore. It used to be so clear. If I write and continue to write, I will be successful. I don’t know anymore. Maybe it’s not even in me to begin with.
At heart, I know who I am, but do I have the courage to be that person in the real world? Or will it forever be a character that I’m more comfortable writing about, expressing on the page than I am living it. But then again, I suppose that’s a plight many writers must face. The notion that writing about regrets is easier than initiating real change.