(no subject)
Every day of this week so far has felt like Friday but not actually been Friday and I would put money on tomorrow feeling like Friday as well. I don't mean that in the HOORAY IT'S FRIDAY sense but more in the I HAVE HAD ENOUGH AND I WANT TO GO HOME sense, which is a good way to feel at 9am on a Tuesday.
It hasn't been a great day for mental health, which is why there is a bottle of Johnny Walker sitting in the living room, and so on. I spent my morning feeling frustrated about having a long list of things that I should probably write in order to send them to X, Y, and Z in the hopes of getting someone to publish them whether they pay me or not (or, as I will now eternally think of it thanks to conversation with glowering on Sunday, "Literally robbing the wallets of bakers"), because all the things I kind of vaguely want to write for this stuff are not the kind of things which are indulgently fun to write. And while I enjoy writing things which are ostensibly "stuff people will read", the bland, bald truth is that people are actually more likely to read the shit that I fire out of my Id at four in the morning while shouting OH MY GOD WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME. People read 50 Shades of Grey, not A Charming Vignette About The Nature of Creation And What Makes Someone Human, but people - magazines, certainly - who are not porn publishers do not publish 50 Shades of Grey. They don't publish Charming Vignette either. In fact as far as I can work out the chinstroky ones will publish nothing that isn't a middle-aged university lecturer having an affair and some Thots, the Chat! Rape! Trauma! ones will want something inspirational that ends with A Woman Married, Smiling And Happy Having Survived Her Ordeal (and I loathe writing happy endings, especially the kind that will pass for happy for everyone), and fuck knows what Sci Fi magazines want but it's pretty much not going to be anything I enjoy writing even though I have a fair few ideas in that area that just need me to concentrate for 5000 words.
Really I just feel enormously sulky that I can't perch atop my ivory tower, vomit out banter and tortureporn and occasional gays kissing of all the gay persuasions including lady, chap, and other, and have people praise me with coins. Very very childish. But I would like to actually ENJOY what I'm doing, you know? To immerse myself in it for a while and not feel as if I am doing everything with an eye on a too-broad invisible audience (one which is potentially more judgemental than any real life audience actually is...).
Related, I suspect, to the whinge from last night about how I make jewellery that appeals to me and then have to hope like mad that someone has the same taste that I do (every time I venture into making jewellery that I think other people will like but that I don't like, it doesn't sell).
It hasn't been a great day for mental health, which is why there is a bottle of Johnny Walker sitting in the living room, and so on. I spent my morning feeling frustrated about having a long list of things that I should probably write in order to send them to X, Y, and Z in the hopes of getting someone to publish them whether they pay me or not (or, as I will now eternally think of it thanks to conversation with glowering on Sunday, "Literally robbing the wallets of bakers"), because all the things I kind of vaguely want to write for this stuff are not the kind of things which are indulgently fun to write. And while I enjoy writing things which are ostensibly "stuff people will read", the bland, bald truth is that people are actually more likely to read the shit that I fire out of my Id at four in the morning while shouting OH MY GOD WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME. People read 50 Shades of Grey, not A Charming Vignette About The Nature of Creation And What Makes Someone Human, but people - magazines, certainly - who are not porn publishers do not publish 50 Shades of Grey. They don't publish Charming Vignette either. In fact as far as I can work out the chinstroky ones will publish nothing that isn't a middle-aged university lecturer having an affair and some Thots, the Chat! Rape! Trauma! ones will want something inspirational that ends with A Woman Married, Smiling And Happy Having Survived Her Ordeal (and I loathe writing happy endings, especially the kind that will pass for happy for everyone), and fuck knows what Sci Fi magazines want but it's pretty much not going to be anything I enjoy writing even though I have a fair few ideas in that area that just need me to concentrate for 5000 words.
Really I just feel enormously sulky that I can't perch atop my ivory tower, vomit out banter and tortureporn and occasional gays kissing of all the gay persuasions including lady, chap, and other, and have people praise me with coins. Very very childish. But I would like to actually ENJOY what I'm doing, you know? To immerse myself in it for a while and not feel as if I am doing everything with an eye on a too-broad invisible audience (one which is potentially more judgemental than any real life audience actually is...).
Related, I suspect, to the whinge from last night about how I make jewellery that appeals to me and then have to hope like mad that someone has the same taste that I do (every time I venture into making jewellery that I think other people will like but that I don't like, it doesn't sell).