Those are my buddies, Dan, Joe and Bert. I won't say what Joe did, because Bert is a Pennsylvania game warden, and he could get it trouble if anyone found out.
It's been an interesting few days. A blogger who's a critic tracked down a web site I and some fellow authors belong to. The site is a private forum, but apparently, a bunch of our members were going from our site to his, and he was curious as to who was interested in him, and so he asked for entry to our site, and we granted it. He's the elf in my sidebar. I'm not sure, but I think that disqualifies him from critiquing any more of our work, much to the dismay of my friend Abbey, who he was very complimentary of.
There are a lot of big words on his site, but they are intended for the reader, not the author. Trust me. The strategies and analysis he gives are irrelevant to someone writing a story. What he says is spot on, but it doesn't help the writer. The writer writes from the heart. I believe that there is a psychologist in every writer and he needs to control the story. An analyst can come along after the psychologist, and dissect what's been written, but that;s a far cry from writing it in the first place.
You can't analyze your way into telling a good story. It doesn't matter how many big words you know. There's simply no formula to follow. It's a spring that runs from the heart of the writer. It's a rhythm that settles in his soul. It's an insight psychologists dream of. In my humble opinion, a writer, a good one, uses the force.
On a related subject, I told someone on CC that they had no plot today. It felt cruel in a way, but it was so obvious, I'm amazed she didn't see it. Her writing style was wonderful. It was crisp and clean. She has a flair. But she needs to learn how to tell a story. It's not enough to be able to describe a situation. You have to make the words form a statement, not just a flowery postcard. I learned that the hard way. The first thing I ever wrote was essentially a description of events that had no point to them.
p.s. I'm adding the post script the morning after I wrote the above. as usual, I wrote under the cover of night, after I didn't feel like messing with the WIP anymore. We live in suburbia, tree-lined streets, manicured lawns, fairly high property tax area. But when I come downstairs at night, full of booze, and plink on the computer, on this little blog, I feel like I'm in some basement efficiency with muddy water running from the spigots and sirens running by every ten minutes outside. Kind of like Neo in The Matrix. Odd phenomenon.