I’ve been reading Vonnegut lately (Jailbird currently, Breakfast of Champions previously), and the guy blows me away. The Hemingway cliché is often heard for how cleanly he wrote, but I prefer Vonnegut more. He has his ticks—which I love—but his style is so wonderful. Easy to read. Enjoyable depth. Just calm and to the point. It’s as if he’s managed to cast out every ounce of doubt that can plague a writer’s mind. I hope he’d disagree with that opinion, as all writers linger in that wonderful world of doubt, but who knows.
I haven’t written anything in a few weeks. I’ve been absorbed entirely into the world of Overwatch. And how funny it is to me, now, looking back at that short stretch of time, it’s as if all has gone away. As if I’ve waved goodbye to my one true love on a sailing ship and already I fear forgetting her face or the scent of her skin. That childish fear is so eager to return, that fear of regression.
Perhaps sometime soon I’ll sneak away in the night on a small rowboat and wonder out into those treacherous seas in search of my lost love.
But just one more match of Overwatch…