Style Guide

What’s your LJ style?

guysterrules posted a first-rate entry in his journal the other day. His story was quite serious, but also drippingly dirty and funny, in parts. It also got me thinking.

One of the things that I love about journal reading is the great variety of material that you find out there. Oh, there are quite a few journals that bore me to tears, because they’re filled with memes and quizzes, and of course there are others that are filled with so many grammatical errors that I suspect they’re actually written in a secret language. And then there are a few writers out there that make me want to throw things at the screen every time that I read one of their entries, because of the stupid-ass things that they do (and you’ll probably never know who you are).

But the best journals that I read actually tell stories, and they develop a unique style that keeps me coming back for more.

One of the things I’ve noticed about my own personal entries is that they tend to fall into certain categories. The entry that I was mentioning was an awful lot like what I like to refer to as a “rabbit hole” entry: it starts out in one direction, and then takes an unexpected turn, which is typically hidden within an LJ cut. They can be tricky to compose, and a lot of times it’s easy to play your hand too early and give away where you’re going, but when they’re done right, they can be awfully gratifying.

Here’s an example, from the “nocompromises” stash:

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More often than not, however, the story that I want to tell is not conducive to that format. If I get the time to think things out, and there’s something I really want to say, then my stories usually assume a “slice of life” format. Introductory paragraph. Little french scenes. Something quirky to wrap things up.

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One style that I haven’t used in what seems like forever is what I like to thin of as the “emjay” format. There’s an obscure reason for that name, which I won’t bore you with now, but it typically involves overdramatic stories of past injustices told in a breathy, confessional style.

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Sometimes you can’t trust what the writer is saying, however. Hey, it happens to everyone. Springtime sets in and you just want to go off into some bizarre half universe that doesn’t really exist, and make things up as you go. These entries (I think) are pretty obviously make believe. The initial paragraph may have some basis in reality, but they usually take a left turn pretty quickly.

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There are many other decent styles out there, of course. The ones that tell a stories with photos, of course, or images. The silly short entries that you post simply to get yourself through the day. And there are, what I consider the best entries--the ones that are written like a bullet straight to the heart, and yes, I do have quite a few of those that have been posted here. And yes, I still have one favorite. One of the days, I really am going to get the damn thing published...

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My work friend Donna agrees with me that in every relationship, there's usually one person that's obsessive about closing the drawers and closet doors, and the other person may try, but just doesn't get it.

I fall into the latter category. No matter how hard I try to close the closet door completely, it usually ends up slightly ajar. Bureau drawers are also a problem. Something always gets in the way, for some reason, and there's always an inch or two that remains open, making the bureau look slack-jawed and sloppy.

Both of my significant relationships have been with door closers. Josie, as I've said, time and again, didn't earn her nickname "cleaning Nazi" for nothing. And das Corbster, well, he's practically a full blooded German, so everything practically shines in our apartment. Towels folded neatly, shirts tucked in, military style, drawers shut, dishes stacked just so...as i type this, he's installing shelving, no word of a lie.

So what happens when drawer closer meets drawer closer? They actually get along very well, thankfully.

Last night was no exception, as Corb and I made our way to the homestead to celebrate Tiger's eighth birthday. It was a small party: Corb and I, and Josie and her boyfriend, Drew, and Kayla. One negative aspect of trying to remain friends is that, unfortunately, our parents haven't decided to get into the spirit of things: once Josie's mom discovered that Corb and me would be there, she decided to see Tiger tomorrow. My parents made similar alternative arrangements.

The other problem, of course, is money. Josie's facing an enormous electric bill on the house, and, as I've mentioned, I'm dirt poor until, well, today, when my bonus comes in. That made last night's present pile somewhat lean, but don't worry, my little guy's birthday extends well into the weekend, and he'll be getting a series of surprises, not just one big pile to be opened in one sitting.

I have to say, it can be somewhat disconcerting, sitting at the dinner table, Corb on my left, and Josie on my right. Don't get me wrong, I love the fact that they get along. That Josie teases Corb by calling him, "Corbs," that Corb teases her about her driving habits, or tries to dump frosting on her head. These two cleaning nazis can actually march in formation, which is nice. That we can all live in harmony is even better.

But still, there are little things that can cause me to pause a bit. Take, for example, feed time. Last night's dinner was just pizza and french fries and cake (all of Tiger's favorites). Corb and I picked up the pizza, and I had ordered it from a place I've always loved. Particularly the french fries. I had been looking forward to those.

So it came as something of a shock when Josie grabbed the fries first. I didn't mind that, but I expected, for some reason, that she would then pass the bag my way. Instead, she passed them on to Drew, who took a big handful.

"What?" I thought to myself, arching my brows. "Those are my fries! If I end up with only one or two, I'm going to freak!"

Everyone will be pleased to know that I had more than enough, come my turn.

Or cake time. Josie did the honors, cutting the cake and scooping the ice cream. But don't think I didn't notice that while I received two scoops, Drew received four.

So what did I do about this? I told myself to get over it, and moved on, and thoroughly enjoyed the evening. These little things are minor in the grand scheme of the fabric of our lives, and petty squibbles that I can easily overlook.

But is she serves him more of her homemade broccoli casserole than I get...well...look out...