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I wish I could write more like Conan Doyle.  I love the flowery language of that period.  Or I’d settle for Jane Austen, too.  Why do I find it so hard to write *well*?

I know long sentences and long words aren’t the be-all and end-all, but I’ve got so used to it being considered a virtue to pare down your sentences as much as possible (because in my job, you have to make everything ‘accessible’ and ‘plain English’) that even the idea of using flowery prose makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck.  Also, the limitations of social media encourage me to try and find the most brief, snappy way to say something.  I can still write full sentences but most of them tend to be under 140 characters.

I’m not very good at writing about people, though.  Whenever I want to *describe* something, it’s always some *thing*.  The grey road, the bitter wind, the swirl of dust.  I’m caught between visions.  I can’t pin anything down.  My mind is like a cork board peppered with the pins of cliches.  You barely notice the pictures they’re holding up, and besides, they’re only corny postcards themselves; the comedy tits, the sunset, the palm tree, the sad-faced pseudo-gothic Vogue model.

I can work out plots – oh, can I work out plots!  Elaborate things, intricate, heavy with craftsmanship.  But it’s the people that elude me.  I can describe a person but I can’t describe their personality.  They need to do the talking for themselves, but I struggle to channel them; they won’t speak through me.

I have stories to tell, but they’re fragmented and populated by ghosts.

Last night I dreamed I was diagnosed HIV positive.  Strangely enough, it’s World AIDS Day tomorrow.

Now you’ve got through all this text, dear reader, I reward you with this hilarious blog featuring the ugliest babies the art world has ever seen.

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