Wednesday, March 5, 2003

You know, the life of a wannabe writer can be incredibly frustrating.

I’m pursuing the writing craft in the best way I know how: by writing. Right now I’m averaging about ten pages a week, though that’s dropped to a number just this side of zero over the past incredibly busy week. But no matter! I’m writing.

Then I read what other writers write, and I despair. Example:

“And yet there are old friends who have fallen, like Rocky and Bullwinkle, into the yawning ground that opened beneath their feet, and if they sprouted in a sunflower field somewhere else I’ve no idea where it is. (Gaah. That was unforgiveable. Time for bed.) There are so many old friends from the 70s who aren’t on the grid, whose names pop up only in bulky ugly 16-pt genealogy pages, or whose googleable identities got the guillotine chop when marriage cleaved their last name from their first.”
Lileks’ Bleat for March 5, 2003

And that’s stuff he whips up for his online journal. That’s not even serious.

And then the little gremlin appears in a puff of poorly-drawn smoke on my shoulder and begins to berate me for all my flaws. I’ve been writing ever since I was fourteen years old. I started writing when Reagan was in office, for Pete’s sake. Judging from my current progress, I’ll be fifty before I can consistently turn out attractive prose.

Is it worth the trouble?


In other news, my Haibane Renmei shrine has been growing steadily over the past few days, which feels good. The design is minimalistic, but I’m confident that it looks reasonably attractive. I think my web design sense is improving.

And my nieces are gone from the house, so things can get back to normal. They’re wonderful kids, but they’re a large psychic drain. Worth it, but also worth careful attention.

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