My writing teacher sent an e-mail along that contained this link to an article for Poets and Writers by C. Michael Curtis. It's thoughtfully written, compassionate, and respectful of the individual writer's sensibilities—along with the massive power inequity between writers and editors. Curtis clearly has a a warm heart, and a deep love for those who produce the written word.

The intent certainly wasn't to make me consider driving off a cliff, but that was the effect, naturally.

I'm coming around to the position that the desire to write is a cancer not yet addressed by medical science. Someone should set up a fucking foundation, you know.

In the meantime, I'm going to take a nap.

(Fear not: I should get my period within a few days. Then I'll be in pain, but a good deal less cranky. The following week I'll be happy and smiling and fun again. Biology may not be destiny, but it certainly affects one's moods.

Besides, with so many options available, no sensible crime writer could ever choose a method that had the right panache. Hence, the napping alternative, which leaves one's future options open, and facilitates that happy smiling fun week that lies just over the rainbow.)

UPDATE: Okay. The package containing that stupid story everyone wants me to send out is ready. I just cranked it out as an exercise some weeks ago, and people keep telling me it's great—even Attila the Hub, who isn't given to hyperbole, likes it. After a while, one ought to trust others' judgement on these matters.

So I feel marginally better. At least I can get started on that average of 19 rejections any given story receives before it's accepted anywhere. (That long horrible one that I really hate—but keep sending 'round because I worked so hard on it—just has a few more rejections to go before I either get it published or give up on it for good.)

I'm no longer toying with suicidal thoughts; I've moved up to homicidal ones, which is my interpretation of mental health.

It's still raining. Hog Beatty called me to recommend anything from Bowie's "Berlin" period for this drizzly day. I left him a message that almost all my Bowie is on vinyl, and I still don't have a turntable. So it's Ziggy Stardust, Changes2, or silence.

Posted by: Attila Girl at 02:04 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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