This sums up how I feel about my writing this morning:
That is to say, he writes the worst English that I have ever encountered. It reminds me of a string of wet sponges; it reminds me of tattered washing on the line; it reminds me of stale bean soup, of college yells, of dogs barking idiotically through endless nights. It is so bad that a sort of grandeur creeps into it. It drags itself out of the dark abysm (I was about to write abscess!) of pish, and crawls insanely up the topmost pinnacle of posh. It is rumble and bumble. It is flap and doodle. It is balder and dash.
— From “Gamalieliese,” originally published in the Baltimore Evening Sun,
March 7, 1921. A Carnival of Buncombe, p. 39, The Johns Hopkins Press (1956).
Actually, that might be giving me too much credit. Think cold scrambled eggs that have only been cooked half-way and are still watery and scummy, with the ability to jiggle every time someone steps too heavily through the kitchen. Jell-O eggs. That’s me! Today! My writing! My brain!
Oh, well. I’ll figure out. Meanwhile Little Z is meowing opera in the other room. His creative juices are definitely flowing. Blasted adorable kitty cat!