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| But I can't help but rabidly attack idiocy where it stands.
In a boredom-induced act of narcissism, I looked myself up on Google to see what would come up. Lo and behold, I see my name on a random Xanga. Now, this piqued my curiosity, so naturally, I clicked on the link. And I find that it's an angry little man furious that I had criticized his novelization of the game "Metal Gear Solid 2" about five years ago. So, I read on:
Time to rant!
A while back, I started to write the novelization of Metal Gear Solid 2: Sons of Liberty on fanfiction.net. I like to think I was doing a good job of it. I got the tanker chapter complete and started the plant chapter, where Raiden makes his appearance.
Okay, so my rant is I posted the story and it got some good reviews (I don't write for reviews in fictionpress, but on fanfiction they're better for some reason) and then I got a review from one of those 15 year old brat know-it-alls who told me I had to stay rigid in structure and not deviate one iota from the path of the original. Hold on, I'll find the exact quote...
Wow, I have 26 reviews for it...
"Well, for action, you got full points. It was clear, concise, and crisp. For description, also full points. Everything was well described.
For accuracy to the game, however...if you're doing this from memory, then it's a damn good job you're doing. If you're looking at the game and copying, however, there are way too many errors. In a novelization, accuracy to the thing you're novelizing is what everything's about.
Overall, you'd get a 6.5 out of 10. This score can rise if accurac is more maintained." ~Solid Snake Evolution (AKA Steven Hildreth Jr.)
Okay, I used a script to write this damn story and I've memorized every footfall in the game. I was not going to WRITE every damn footfall, though. I think this chump is saying "Otacon did not move his head here or Snake did not touch this here." Lighten up! They are no longer in a video game but in you mind! They move more freely and do things outside of the Codec screen!
Then I got another review from a different person accusing this putz that he wasn't writing the story and I could do whatever I wanted (yay!). SSE wrote back saying "Well, I'm writing the novelization for MGS1! So NYAH!" (Well, more or less) So he hid behind a false identity to critique me and then tried to show me up by saying he's writing something better! Maybe I'm blowing this out of proportion, but c'mon! This isn't a competition to see who is the better writer and avoid flames. I'm trying to entertain and improve, Stop hiding, you chump!
So I continued writing. I got a few more nice reviews from people urging me to continue, and there were kind people helping me, but people just kept reminding me of inconsistencies! And one guy tried to help me in the worst way possible: telling me i am NOT doing a good job on this and doing a TERRIBLE job on this. Well eff off you little turd. There are nicer way to deliver a message. Consider the feelings, phreak. Oh and then he has the nerve to ask me to review his fic when I'm done fuming. BLARG!!
So I quit. And that sucks because I was enjoying myself while writing it. It was the simplest thing to do too: Read a script, write a description, post a chapter. But people are so uptight and anal about the smallest things. I just couldn't take the frustration any longer. Seems kinda petty. I frown for the people who were enjoying it.
So don't read Steven Hildreth Jr's stuff. He read For A Price and reviewed it, but was critical there too. I'm older then you, kid, and I take life as it goes. Don't take life seriously; you won't get out alive.
And if you ever see him on the street, punch him. Or anyone else who is overly critical and anal. I've punched myself after reading some of the reviews I've written where I sound like a pompous ass. I let all the kind words get to my head and I think I'm uber cool or something. So I don't write for reviews. I write for me and for my own improvement.
"Praise is nice, but it doesn't get anything done!" ~ A poster in my grade 12 English class.
All right. Anybody else see the evidence of complete mental retardation in that little spasm?
Well, I decided I was going to be diplomatic and apologize to the guy for being an arrogant snot, because, well, I've been an arrogant snot in the past, and am still known for being one from time to time. I explain to him that I always respected him as a writer and enjoyed the stories that he'd written, and that I was sorry for coming across as a brat.
Except one thing he said struck me as wrong, so I figured I'd correct the guy on it. I don't write for reviews. I write for me and my own improvement.
Hold the fucking presses, folks! Part of improving as a writer involves critiques. That generally involves finding a second, third, or even fourth opinion on the work to see where you've fucked up and how to improve it. That doesn't mean you completely dress the writer down, by any means-you have to point out where the author has done good and encourage him or her to keep on doing what they've done there. But if you're just sucking their proverbial dick, they just go on thinking they're good to go and will continue to make the same mistakes that they do.
This is a lesson I learned early on from my writing mentor, Doug Wojtowicz, and something I take near and dear to heart. That's why I have my own editing panel, of sorts-a story isn't good until I've run it past my best friend, Josh (who points out general reader concerns and tactical inaccuracies, especially concerning his forte-firearms), my best friend Pablo (who is probably the most genius plotter I have ever met, and isn't afraid to let me know that what I've written is complete shit and needs to be rewritten), and my friend and associate Cheah (who, while difficult at times in regards to explaining certain thematic elements, is invaluable in that he forces me to defend every choice I make with plot and tactics, and helps me see what needs to be changed if it cannot be defended).
But this jerkoff whines and throws a bitch fit when a couple of people point out where he fucked up in a novelization. And he balks that I didn't leave my real name in the review. Boo-fucking-hoo. I didn't do that because I was afraid you'd find out who I was-I frankly didn't give a shit, Luke. I did that because, at age fifteen, I thought it'd be cool to leave reviews using the name of my favorite action hero. I was young, so fucking sue me.
And get this-he got like three bad reviews-AND HE QUIT! This motherfucker had twenty-seven goddamned reviews and quit because three reviews weren't the verbal fellatio he was used to. Because three reviews had the cojones to actually tell him, "Yeah, I think you fucked up here, bud, but otherwise you've done well." This motherfucker quit because he couldn't handle a little constructive criticism.
Cry me a fucking river, Gomer Pyle. Take that phrase at the end of your rant and shove it into your rear point of contact, because you obviously haven't the slightest fucking clue what it means. The reviews that you hated the most are the epitome of that quote's essence. You can have people tell you how great a writer you are from here to the Rapture, but they're not going to help you improve any as a writer, bub. It's the ones that are going to ride your ass for the mistakes you make that will make you a better writer.
Unless you actually think you can improve as a writer without critiques…in which case, that would make you even more of an arrogant prick than yours truly.
Post script-I would LOVE to see you try to punch me out on the street, Luke. Really, nothing more would make my day than to have an outlet to let out a year's worth of pent-up rage accumulated doing big boy work in Iraq, something an emo can't-cunt such as yourself wouldn't know anything about.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, was a post five years in the making.
Thank you and good night! | | |
| I tried to post this on MySpace…but seeing as Tom's a punk bitch who can't get his shit right, Xanga gets the win here, for now.
So, I wake up this morning. I take a shower, throw on some clothes, grab my Pop Tarts, and rush out the door. I'm on the bus. My laptop's out and on, and I put on a few songs onto my iPod. So, I start skipping through the songs, and I find Fort Minor's Where'd You Go. I acquired this song the other day and I thought it was catchy.
This morning, I started listening to the words. And all of a sudden, they grip me. I realize that for the first time in two months, I miss my dad. I start to have a breakdown, on the bus, and the fact that I'm in public doesn't deter me. I put my head down and fight it for a moment, turning off the Fort Minor song, and get it under control.
We get to school. I get off the bus and make my way to the bathroom within the drama building. I set down my bags, lock the stall, take off my jacket, and find a seat, putting on the song, and I just let it all out. I don't know where this comes from suddenly, because lately, I feel as if I've been placed in the backseat so my dad's woman can ride shotgun, but I realize all of a sudden how much I love my father, and how it's been a real pain in the ass living without him near for two months, being responsible for housework, not having anybody to bounce ideas off of so i could receive fatherly advice.
I don't care that he runs things one way and I want to run them another. I don't care that he's putting me aside for his girlfriend. I don't care that he missed my biggest drama performance, or that he missed most of my basketball games. I don't care about any of that.
I just want my dad back.
It took me thirty minutes to get that out of my system. I walked into first period late and then went back to work on my computer. Just another day at school.
Odd enough, somebody thought I was happy and had a spring in my step. I couldn't fathom how they reached that conclusion. | | |
| I haven't updated this in a looooooooooooong time.
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| As a birthday gift for Kittie, when I am a filthy rich writer and can afford to blow off money on a whim, I'm going to buy her a snowmobile and we're going to ride across the Bering Strait right into Russia.
Why? Because she's afraid of flying to Europe or taking a luxury cruise. So we'll take a year-long road trip throughout Europe starting by crossing the Bering Strait during the winter on a snowmobile into Russia, and then from there, we'll tour Europe until the next December, when we'll snowmobile back.
Fun stuff, no? | | |
| Yeah, I can be stupid at times.
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