Hemingway Editor Optimized version of…
Have you ever been (felt) entitled?
I don’t know how that feels.
Read the original here…
There’s nothing at all wrong with using tools. There’s nothing wrong at all with trying to learn how to do what you do better by giving in to the temptation to “make things easier,” or, as some might call it, “cheat.” There’s a tendency in artists, I think, to want to be purists.
We don’t want technological aids or tricks or short cuts. We think it cheapens the product.
So we turn off our spell checkers and we fleer and jest at “lined paper,” or whatever we choose as our personal focus of peevish huffing. Then we struggle through the mire we’ve dug ourselves into, because we’ve decided that the martyrdom increases the value of the output.
Maybe that’s true. I don’t know.
I think it depends on how you approach it. We, for instance, see no hypocrisy in seeking out masters and asking them to explain how the craft is done, when we’ve shunned all the little tricks we have taught ourselves along the way because those tricks made it too easy, whatever easy means.
I make fun of the Hemingway Editor. I always will, because I’m not that convinced by the rhetoric that all clear writing has to be written at a third grade level. I don’t think that it’s fair to say that Hemingway wrote at a “third grade” level. Maybe in terms of efficiency of language or whatever, but that’s just putting a weird veneer on a problem that’s more complex than that. If clarity is the goal, shorter sentences, fewer adjectives and adverbs, and less passive voice does not address the underpinnings of the problem, namely how to understand what you want to say and how to understand how you sound when you say it.
That’s digressing, see? Anyhow. The Hemingway Editor isn’t my favorite shine. But it’s a good tool.
The below is edited to a 2nd grade reading level, according to the Hemingway editor.
I don’t know about you, but I won’t even get up in the morning unless it’s right. I have to have my Venetian latte with frothing camel milk in my hand before I wake up.
But that’s not entitlement. That’s getting by.
How else are you supposed to face the realities of the morning unless you’re stimulated? Which grey cardigan am I wearing today? There are too many difficult questions. I mean, until I’ve had that first drag on my truffle oil infused cigarillo, I’m not fit to call myself a person anyway. So why am I even talking about anything that happens before brunch? Eaten at 2:30 in the afternoon down the street at the only place you’re allowed to go in town. The only place you can go, at least, without risking ridicule from your peers. You could go to that other place. You know which: the one with the same name and different vintage trading cards on the walls. If you do, that’s the fastest way to discover how it feels to be Canadian. And nobody wants to be Canadian. They’re too nice. They seem too happy. They must be hiding something. Never trust them.
Which places do I mean? If you have to ask, then I cannot speak to you any longer.
But that’s not entitlement. That’s getting by. It’s hard out here in the jungle. You have to choose between ham and turkey almost every day. The air conditioner in the office is three and a half degrees warmer than the one at Starbucks. All the other cars on the road are being driven by zombies. It’s a difficult life.
I suppose what I’m talking about is coping with that drudgery of daily existence. And a main part of the adult life is employment. Having a job, or whatever euphemism you like. Negotiating with cheese mongers. Dancing with turkeys. Eating the existential bisque. Choose your own metaphor. You know what I mean.
And I guess I want what everybody wants from a job.
I want people to greet me as First Under God wherever I go. I want to wait while my unstated wishes for impossible projects become realities . (Build me an Eiffel tower made of Vienna sausages! The peak of both architecture and culture.) And I want flexible working hours.
So no big deal.
It seems like a common desire among the self-absorbed sub-species of ape. Gives them something to do between TV time and stumbling to the top of the food chain. Doesn’t it? No big deal.
What’s all this entitlement business? What is that? What is this accusation of entitlement? People accusing reasonable people of entitlement. People with wishes of behaving as if they deserve things as a reward for the mere fact that they are alive.
There’s nothing unreasonable at all about expecting to get what you want. Not when all your life older people have told you, “you can do anything. You can be anything. Be all you can be.”
So we do try to be anything. That’s how we respond. We wait around for the pile of cash to fall on our heads. That’s what we grew up hearing that we would get if we asked for what we want. No need to work for a living. Sane reaction if I ever heard of one.
It’s sane to look at things that seem not to be working, and to ask for something different.
Pardon me while I balance my monthly budget. I have a feeling taxes are about to go up.