Because I can't resist this stuff...
...I ran my 4th of July post through their thingamabob...
As in artfully unintelligible? Respected but not read? What?
I'll take it as a compliment, as I suppose it's intended.
Labels: Internet Toys, James Joyce, Writing
posted by Shaun at
11:35 PM
2 Comments:
After I submitted the sample first chapter for a book I've been trying to find a publisher to publish (a bio of Leslie Eaton "Red" Parkhurst, the first factory racer for Harley-Davidson and no direct relation), the server analyzed my work as being akin to David Foster Wallace. Now, if only a publisher could be convinced of that.
Of course, getting published and garnering praise, fame and some money, is no guarantee of happiness. Reading at Wikipedia about David Foster Wallace, shows that. Depression gets a lot of writers. The key thing seems to be not to self-medicate with booze; it never helps depression, only exacerbates it in the long run.
I dunno, Shaun.
My four most recent blog posts reveal me to be four different authors. Apparently, Stephen King writes about Robert Byrd and the Senate in 1959, James Joyce is interested in candidate filings, Dan Brown discusses the birthdates of JFK and Dylan, and Kurt Vonnegut has faint praise for Dino Rossi.
I can believe the last one.
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