So my task is to write a review of Chuck Wendig's YA novel Under the Empyrean Sky, which I am oh so not looking forward to because it has a dumb cover with these pegagus stoner horses at the bottom and this weird city floating up the middle that looks like something cooked up in the mess halls of Star Trek: The Next Generation, and why are there roots sticking out of the bottom of said city?
So it's got this weird corn-based premise, which makes me think it's gonna be a surreal version of Field of Dreams but probably with lame-o characters and a plot that makes your eyes become pink taffy on hot asphalt.
*oh, yeah, way loser guy writing this novel. Who would use such forward-thinking-for-1962 imagery?*
Those are my thoughts until I crack open this fresh little number and start reading the words, and then
YIKES! THIS IS THE WRITING I ASPIRE TO DO!
Darn your ever-blessed hide, Mr. Chuck Wendig! You steal the words I wish I had right in my mouth.
Is this for real stuff, like stuff that leaks out of his brain via his keyboard all natural and easy? This is what I keep asking myself. How long does he slave over these metaphors and similes before he gets them
Because writing ain't easy peasy. That's fo sho! I linger over the thesaurus searching, searching, searching, for that very right word to describe that very right thingamajig I want to describe. And it's gotta be just right before I release this particular such and such description out into the world.
It's gotta be the same for all writers, right?
Apparently not because I look up his bloggy blog www.terribleminds.com and alas! It is not a terrible mind I find at all but a very brilliant mind, an edgy mind, a mind capable of spinning stories and oh-so-apt language like cotton candy--pink and green and blue striped--at the Texas State Fair.
And that's when I realize, Drat! If he can spin it so effortlessly on his blog--which can be time-consuming and detract from the time spent on your ever so precious draft--then it must come so EASILY to him.
And THAT'S when I realize that I am like the professional painter who draws your caricature at Six Flags while you smile with your fat teeth and sweat drips down your forehead--I am like that painter guy compared to Picasso.
I have no style.
I have no ear for language.
I am not a good storyteller.
I've been smoking on a pipe dream all these years.
And that's why I am ranting stream of consciously right now.
Grrr! Curses upon you, Chuck Wendig!
Oh, and by the way, don't stop writing. I want to see what happens in the corn book sequel.