The Glass Man

Good morning to all you folks and friends out there. I hope your electronic dreams are coming true today.

I'm having a crisis of style today, and not just in the ever present fasion sense of the word either.
I'm rather sponge-like when it comes to reading books, I find myself speaking and then writing in the forms of the authors that I've been eating at the time. Currently, me word doodles resemble much like terry prachett. An example:

"A distant bell rang (in the distance) Mortimer raised his head warily. Distant bells (in the distance) usually meant trouble. Creator trouble. He sadly eyed his slightly-sipped goblet of milk. Sure, he could finish it, but really, if one's going to have milk in the first place, it should be savored, like a bitter wine. Besides, chugging just led to gastric distress.

A disembodied voice (also from the distance) said (distantly) It's okay, finish your milk. It does a body good.

At least he's reading Pratchett right now, Mortimer thought. "Things get decidedly messy when Ellis and Morrison get involved. Mortimer took as much time as he possibly could savoring his milk. A distant foot was tapping (irritably, in the distance, than stopped.)

"Just a moment," the voice (distantly) said, "my wife wants a word with me."

Now, while this is infinatly better than 90% of the gobbility gook that I usually produce (in particular where Mortimer is involved) I feel like a thief who, unable to find a voice for himself, steals others and over time assimilates them as his own. It's depressing. You might even want to call me Low-Q-tis, the Borg, but please, please resist the urge! Go take a nap instead, sleep seems to help…

Perhaps the resolution is to then write in layers, not unlike the style of the flemmish painters, or perhaps I just need to make sure it's not published until it sounds like me. I bet a shower and a shave would help. A glass of milk would be nice too. with some cookies.

Chips Ahoy!