Well, That Shut Everybody Up

The universal confusion that has dumbfounded and shocked readers of this blog seems have arisen in awed response to the stream-of-consciousness prattle in the middle of E@L's previous post.

Don't panic, gentle reader. If you don't understand a word of it, join the club.

What the fuck was E@L thinking, inflicting that upon you? One of the exercises from the current favorite on-line and paperback writers workshop is to start writing/typing and not to stop until... you stop. And that, though not intended to be part of anything, was just an exercise. I promise, if I ever write a novel, that will not be the style.

Obviously (hah! to E@L anyway) the unreadable melange in this case was a mixture of Joyce, Flann O'Brien, Beckett and, um, more Beckett, reflecting my envy of respect for these Oirish blokes' genius. E@L was in an Irish mode thanks to those videos of The Waterboys and in unreliable narrator mode, Beckett's forte, thanks to reading a lot of Christopher Priest recently as well.

Influence. How to shake it?

E@L