I am suffering from a bad case of Writer’s Angst. This is the feeling of depression and anxiety that only an arrogant douchebag that thinks that anything that he creates is worthwhile and can somehow contribute to society can have. I am an arrogant douchebag. I am also full of self-loathing. I suppose it is these contradictions that make me a writer (see? it’s comments like this that makes me a douchebag!).
So the reason I am full of angst right now is because I ended the year:
- with stories left unsold (and by ‘unsold’ I mean ‘given to magazines for free because it is such a ridiculous buyer’s market that writer’s are grateful just to see their work in print)
- by finishing up an unsellable story (a novellette! who buys novellettes?) and having too many ideas for projects to start next
- realizing that I am getting old and I am still relatively unknown, and that I will probably die unknown, with all my dreams unfufilled. The downside of having dreams is that they almost never come true.
Also, my girlfriend has moved away to go back to school, and I miss her very much.
Re: my New Year’s Eve party: 3 people came, they left by 11pm. Another rager. I swear that I am fun. Fun fun fucking fun!
This has been another whiny post. I promise that my next two will be funny, even if I have to quote people funnier than me.
I will end with Grumpy Cat