A Writing Style Kermit Wouldn’t Find Appealing

There are a lot of authors and wordsmiths who have become my surrogate family and to whom I owe my continued existence. I am indebted to them for helping me to become who I am. I wouldn't have a sense of right or wrong or the importance of friendship without Tolkien. I wouldn't have even a vague understanding of human nature without Steinbeck, Shakespeare, or Twain. My commitment to social justice would be lacking if not for Harper Lee and George Orwell. My sense of humor would be bowling ball sharp if not for the likes of MAD Magazine, Cracked Magazine, National Lampoon Magazine, Heavy Metal Magazine, and Shel Silverstein. As much as I owe to all these authors and editors, it would be blasphemy of the highest order to claim that I have been able to add any of their pure genius to my writing. I simply lack the verbal palette needed to paint a picture with words. My imagination is too shallow to create a story that both captivates and ultimately influences the reader's perspective. Lacking good life examples, I had to create a close orbit to the ideas of these sages of the word in order to avoid drifting aimlessly in an abyss of an undefined sense of self. These writers have provided me with a compass which has allowed me to find a path in life worth treading. So, I owe who I am to these writers and as such would never try to sully their mastery of the word with my own cheap, imperfect facsimile.

I think my writing style produces results similar to what one would find after putting a bullfrog in a blender and hitting the, "Puree" button. After some grinding, whirring, and maybe even a doomed escape attempt by the blender's occupant, when the "Off" button is finally pushed a newly arrived and ignorant observer may describe the end result as, "A lot of SOMETHING in there." It is certainly colorful, in a greasy kind of way. In places there is a sense of depth as denser matter sinks to the bottom, but ultimately, it is a slimy kind of chaos created by sharp, unthinking blades held within the glass carafe of an overheating Vitamix. The observer may believe that the more buoyant chunks that slowly float to the top were probably a part of something cohesive and purposeful at some point, but now these undefinable organic bits just bob there, their shape undefined and what their purpose may have been will likely remain a mystery.

Since the now liquified contents of the blender cannot be defined and the original shape and purpose remain a mystery, the puree of amphibian would be considered useless to the observer. As a result, keeping the contents would be deemed both pointless and more than a bit nauseating. So, my writing may have depth, color, texture and maybe from time to time something of substance may rise to the surface, but ultimately, undefinable chaos borne of an unknown is of little use to anyone and therefore putting it through a good garbage disposal is advisable.