1. Never use a metaphor, simile, or other figure of speech which you are used to seeing in print.
2. Never use a long word where a short one will do.
3. If it is possible to cut a word out, always cut it out.
4. Never use the passive where you can use the active.
5. Never use a foreign phrase, a scientific word, or a jargon word if you can think of an everyday English equivalent.
6. Break any of these rules sooner than say anything outright barbarous. After David Ogilvy’s now-infamous 10 tips on writing and Henry Miller’s 11 commandments of writing, here comes a list of rules for writers from George Orwell circa 1946. (via explore-blog)
You know what really grinds my gears??
My walk from Jordan’s apartment to work this morning took me straight down Elmwood from about Forest, to Bryant. This walk is a little under a mile, and takes me about 25 minutes. Since arriving back home from college, I’ve been going out of my way to say hello to people walking by me that I do not know. One of the things I can say for certain that school has taught me, is how to be a polite neighbor. In such a small community, you get to know all of your neighbors and classmates very intimately, however in a city you do not. Regardless, I see no problem in saying hello to your wider range of neighbors that make up your community at home.
However, on this particular morning, one particular man—who’s face I cannot imagine soon forgetting—and the way he spoke to me has caused me to question my new found friendliness for strangers on the street. His face was sunworn, appearing to have been out in the sun on every nice day since the start of spring. The tan ran deep. The sides of his head were covered in wirey, scraggly dark hair that stuck out. The top of his head was void of hair, and in place of where a dreamy superman curl would have been had he been blessed with a full head of hair into his later life, was a distinct scab.
Passing, I continued my morning trend:
"Good morning." I affirmed with eye contact, a smile and a light nod.
"Good morning! How are you today?" I could feel the insincerity of his tone.
"Good thanks, how are you?" Pleasantries.
"Good," he paused. "You look wonderful today." By this point I was already passed him, but I shook my head, scoffing. "Yes, you do!" He tried to continue.
"I’m not shaking my head because I think you’re wrong, that’s just not something you say to me." Rage was starting to boil within me, and I stalked off, walking the final stretch across Bryant and down the street to the laundry mat.
i’m not bitter, or sad about what we had anymore because i’ve grown.
you taught me a lot about myself; what i need to and want to be, along with how to successfully interact with others to form meaningful bonds.
because you helped me with this (albiet not deliberately), i still find myself with a great amount of love for you, although not in a way that makes me want to be with you. there are moments when i’m so overcome with the amount of love that i have for how our relationship has made me a better person and helped me grow, and i feel like you’re confusing that love for still being in love with ‘me’.
i love what we had even though it became so toxic (for me at least) while i was a part of it because it forced me to grow and i love who i am now.
so i just want to say thank you for being a lesson to me, and i hope you were able to grow from our relationship in immeasurable ways as i have been.
i don’t consider you a friend at this point, but i certainly don’t hate you. we just don’t really know the other person anymore. although, i think that we ultimately have different values in life, which is fine as long as there’s respect. i think that i do a pretty good job at respecting the life choices of others in general, and i hope that you’ve learned to appreciate the differences of other people as well.
most of this thought spawned from a quote i saw and a conversation i had, so i’ll leave with the quote:
“If you meet someone whose soul is not aligned with yours, send them love and move along.”
Wayne W. Dyer
I send you my love,
Loaded words: writing as a combat discipline -Derrick Jensen