Too glumdrum; don't read
Jul. 16th, 2010 05:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
desperanceEnglish is such a good language to be working with.
There are onomatopoeias all around us. Dull and gloomy are dull and gloomy words, in and of themselves. So are glum and humdrum.
Glumdrum has all the sparkle of neologism, without losing any of that onomatopoeic drag.
Glumdrum is the very word for this very mood I have. Of course I'm legitimately anxious about this shift in my professional circumstances; new-editor may write charming e-mails but he hasn't even read me yet, and publishing is full of charming editors who aren't at all impressed with my work. And legitimate anxieties feed neurotic habits of mind with which we are all familiar, such that I veer between thinking it all such a waste of time and all such a waste of breath. It's hard to be bothered any more. Unsleeping doesn't help, nor does not being able to access my e-mail all morning; it took me two hours to get out of the house, just to go to the library. There's no way I'm going away this weekend.
When I did get down to work at last, it was all nonsense. I seem to have written a eulogy to soup: which is all very well and good, but not in all probability what my (other) editor is expecting to find in a horror novel. Apparently I do comfort-cooking even in my head.
And then I come home again and do - well, not very much at all. Pick the leaves off a bunch of parsley, largely. Dunno what else to do, really.
There are onomatopoeias all around us. Dull and gloomy are dull and gloomy words, in and of themselves. So are glum and humdrum.
Glumdrum has all the sparkle of neologism, without losing any of that onomatopoeic drag.
Glumdrum is the very word for this very mood I have. Of course I'm legitimately anxious about this shift in my professional circumstances; new-editor may write charming e-mails but he hasn't even read me yet, and publishing is full of charming editors who aren't at all impressed with my work. And legitimate anxieties feed neurotic habits of mind with which we are all familiar, such that I veer between thinking it all such a waste of time and all such a waste of breath. It's hard to be bothered any more. Unsleeping doesn't help, nor does not being able to access my e-mail all morning; it took me two hours to get out of the house, just to go to the library. There's no way I'm going away this weekend.
When I did get down to work at last, it was all nonsense. I seem to have written a eulogy to soup: which is all very well and good, but not in all probability what my (other) editor is expecting to find in a horror novel. Apparently I do comfort-cooking even in my head.
And then I come home again and do - well, not very much at all. Pick the leaves off a bunch of parsley, largely. Dunno what else to do, really.