My life, a series of revisions...

That's what my world has devolved into, a long series of revisions.

When I am writing here on the blog, I just let 'er rip. Who knows what I'm going to say? Not even me. I mean, did anyone know that I was going to end this sentence with a reference to clitoral orgasms? I sure didn't! And there is a beauty to this method of writing, and that is that it is quick, effortless and poorly punctuated. Sure, I could spend extra time revising here, but that would mean literally minutes wasted reading what I have written. There is no pressure here and I can say, well, whatever the hell strikes me.

When I am writing academic work, however, I become an insufferable bore, a pedant, a neurotic worry-wart and nutjob par excellence. My style, should I be said to have one, is to go out and read absolutely everything that I can possibly get my hands on, for instance, on the texture and consistency of grebe vomit, and I make copious lists of quotes I want to use and points I want to make, and then one of two things happens. It either sits there in my head for months percolating and building pressure until it bursts out, fully formed:

BING HAS AN IDEA

...or it gets written in list form, and the list gets revised and revised and revised and revised and botched and reworked and revised and revised. It's compulsive and unproductive, and what comes out the other end is the academic equivalent of hot dogs, nothing but earlobes and anus meat.

I have entered the latter type of work cycle on this paper I'm giving next week. It's a frustrating hodge-podge of ideas currently called, "The Cyclical Nature of Time in the Works of Dr. Seuss." (Of course, it isn't.) But I'm having a hard time focusing. A really hard time. Since I am on a panel of four, I only have to put together about 7 or 8 pages worth of material, and, honestly, if I wanted to, I could probably just get up there and speak extemporaneously and just refer to note cards, that is, if I have spelled "extemporaneously" right. It is such a short paper. I mean, hell, this post is already half as long as anything that I need to produce!

Why can't I just get up there and make clitoral orgasm jokes?

HJ

...Tom's a-cold,--O, do
de, do de, do de. Bless thee from whirlwinds,
star-blasting, and taking! Do poor Tom some
charity, whom the foul fiend vexes...-R.I.P., TMW