Monday, February 23, 2004
Yesterday was another loss. A day that I'd be considerably the better had it not happened at all.
Today the cem for MoA goes back into the mail and I try to get back to work on "Rappaccini's Dragon." The latter seems exceedingly unlikely after yesterday, never frelling mind the deadlines looming over me like hungry crows. I cannot write anything worth writing, worth reading, with my head filled with the sort of gunk that days like yesterday bestows upon the mind. When the authorial recruitment goons (I think some idiots call them "muses" or "inspiration," but they wear Nazi brownshirts) come around looking for fresh blood, they neglect to inform the wide-eyed wannabes that writing will not only make a shitstorm of your life, you will be expected to write through the shitstorm. The harder it gets to write, the harder you are expected to work at writing. Because, in the end, no one asked you to do this, not really, and no one much really cares if you walk away from it.
Stand up straight, girl. Cut the shit.
Suck it in.
If you are not writing, you are less than nothing.
If you are not writing, you are invisible. Null. Dead weight.
If you are not writing and making money, a substantial sum of money, from what you write, you are nothing.
And nobody.
So. Conclusion: Whatever it takes. Whatever, and note that there are no exceptions.
(Author's Note: This entry is the sort of personal effluvia that I swore to myself I would never allow into my blog, back when I began keeping this journal in November 2001. It is unsightly, public displays of private emotions. But. On the other hand, I understand that many of the people who read this damned thing do so because they want to know what it's like to be a writer. So, I'll chalk it up, this once, to duty, instead of a whimpering moment of weakness. Truth serves no one.)
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