I went into the library on Saturday and picked up book number one on the first shelf to the left – what I would consider to be the first book in the library.
It’s a book about cheerleaders. It seems to be for adults, which is confusing, and is a confection of made-up compound adjectives. I’m ashamed to say I see a reflection of my own writing there: “glitter-gritted” in particular is uncomfortably close.
What have I learned? 1. Adults shouldn’t write books for other adults concerning the pubescent horrors of high school cheer squads. 2. I need to grow up my writing and kick some of the more self-indulgent beauty/decay crap.