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I did something stupid the past couple of days. I started reading a massive amount of journals and blogs by both professional and neopro writers. I try to stay away from most writers/writing-related blogs, because all it does is depress me deeply, but every now and then I get caught up in some kind of masochistic feedback loop, and I can't stop reading them until I'm so depressed that it's all I can do to keep from erasing every single file on my hard drive. Because: I invariably start comparing myself to these bright and shiny young things, and I fall so short of the mark, it's laughable. I feel like there's this huge party going on, with dancing and glitter and everyone writing brilliant things and falling in love with each others words, and with each other as well; and I'm stuck in the locked room next door, alone with my stack of crappy manuscripts, listening to everyone laughing as I desperately try to figure out why I can't figure out how to get in the next room.

In other news, the revision of my mundane-sf story has left it too long for the Interzone issue, so it'll have to find another home. Great. Just fucking great.

Labels: "the ruins of love"