Most times when I write, I do it from the hip.
I rarely have a preformed idea of what I'm going to write, rather, I let it all out in one great glurp. You know, occasionally, during a random lull in my day, I have an idea of what might be good to write about, but I'm rarely prepared during those times. Those golden gems slip into my consciousness, and then are lost to wherever good thoughts go because I'm without a pen and paper and have a shitty memory for half-formed thoughts.
I'm a fairly good editor. True story? I went out with a guy who was lovely in many ways. We got along well, and rarely fought about anything. He had a pretty decent sense of humor, and I thought that his way of looking at things was pretty cool, but what really got me in the dead of night was the way that he couldn't spell. Any time he'd leave a note for me, it would be littered with mistakes and occasional strikeouts. He had no patience for reading anything but a tv guide and often grew irrated when he saw me read a book or fire up the computer. I'm sure that my love for reading bothered him as much as his dislike for it bothered me. And I really couldn't get beyond words spelt incorectly, and slopy handriting. It seveerly botherd me, like fingernales down a chaukboard.
Those with a magnifying glass piss me off just as equally. Anybody who wants to nitpick with my occasional mispelling of a word can cram it sideways, because those errors are few and far between. I don't just shoot punctuation as if from a bb gun, either.
We didn't break up over words, though. We left over everything that was unsaid. Story of my life, especially lately, it seems.