I approached this post intending to wallow in a sea of glorious purple prose and got stuck before the end of the first sentence.
How pathetic is that?
Not that I don’t ever do purple. I do. But it’s mostly tongue-in-cheek purple, and while I realise not everyone gets that and just thinks I’m a git, that’s OK too. I resigned myself a long time ago to the fact that I had missed the ‘writer’ boat and might as well write for my own satisfaction and entertainment, which was very liberating. I can now write what I want how I want secure in the knowledge that nothing rides on it.
Mind you, not everything I write sees the light of a wider day. Not that it’s personal in that sense. I left that behind about 50 years ago, as you do. No, the private stuff (mostly archived in ‘trash’) is a habit passed on by my father, who held various positions requiring relentless diplomacy (and also subscribed to the belief that if you lost your temper, you lost the argument). If someone really pissed him off, he’d write them an excoriating, no-holds-barred letter, lock it in his desk, take it out when he’d calmed down and chuckle over its sheer, uninhibited brilliance, then shred it.
I cannot recommend this too highly. As well as venting the spleen that might otherwise burn holes in your mental (and possibly physical) gut, it’s FUN! You can be as outrageously, cuttingly, insultingly rude as you like without doing one iota of damage, or having to face the consequences. Or, if you’re like me, getting tongue-tied right at the critical moment.
Anyway, back to the purple. It seems I can’t marshal enough flowery, fulsome, fatuous adjectives and adverbs to put together one paltry paragraph of purple prose.
I am a woeful, wishy-washy mauve failure.