Trying to put on my editor/critical reader's hat (it's a little tight and I don't remember it being this shade of green) I've been rummaging through old word documents of responses and critiques I composed at the UTSA workshops and in the group I named "Alligators" in my filing system, though I'm not sure there was ever a name properly applied, and one ought to have been. Regardless, I found a scrap that seems to be the only recorded sign in the excavated sedimentary layers towards possible cause of the near-total-annihilation of my thoroughness as a critical reader. I'm not sure how many metaphors I can mix into one paragraph, but I'm doing my best. My old responses were typed, at least a page or two in length, cited specific sections of work, represented attentive care with each sentence, and showed insight into the narratives they dealt with. Some event must have occurred around this period, because above this line, there are no discernible remnants. Nothing. Only silence. Here is the clue I have stumbled upon:
I am burning out. Going line by line by line on essentially powerful stories. I would like to say that I was moved. I would like to claim privilege. And only mention in passing, “this word seems wrong to me…this line is telling me what you’ve already shown.” I would prefer to sip Smoking Loon, and argue until 7:30 the use of the word “is.” And explore the philosophies of these divergent narrative approaches until 10:15 over dinner. No one really listens. When it isn’t necessary, why listen? But isn’t the workshop about the details? I do not care, honestly, and I prefer the argument to the grammar. Why should I have a problem with everything?
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