<shrug> It was an objective observation, Mister Triple-Post.
I certainly wouldn’t say YOU were waddling, not to your face, anyway. Not to Dworkin’s face, either. But she’s a waddler, no doubt about it.
You’re not her, are ya?
That’s MRS. Triple Post, to you. Sorry about that anyway.
No, I just wanted to point out your contradiction. No harm, no foul. I’m in a ball-busting mood today and had to take it out on someone.
I don’t really worry about what the woman looks like but this, from the link posted earlier, is scary:
*Writing is alchemy. Dross becomes gold. Experience is transformed. Pain is changed. Suffering may become song. The ordinary or horrible is pushed by the will of the writer into grace or redemption, a prophetic wail, a screed for justice, an elegy of sadness or sorrow. It is the lone and lonesome human voice, naked, raw, crying out, but hidden too, muted, twisted and turned, knotted or fractured, by the writer’s love of form, or formal beauty: the aesthetic dimension, which is not necessarily familiar or friendly. Nor does form necessarily tame or simplify experience. There is always a tension between experience and the thing that finally carries it forward, bears its weight, holds it in. Without that tension, one might as well write a shopping list.
My fiction is not autobiography. I am not an exhibitionist. I don’t show myself. I am not asking forgiveness. I don’t want to confess. But I have used everything I know–my life–to show what I believe must be shown so that it can be faced. The imperative at the heart of my writing–what must be done-- comes directly from my life. But I do not show my life directly, in full view; nor even look at it while others watch.*
That’s complete arse. What is this person: the Oliver Stone of confessional ?