(no subject)
Last night I went to see the Mountain Goats at the Union Chapel, where a very excited Finnish dude had come all the way from Finland to see them and was having what looked like a quasi-religious experience. Everyone else in the vicinity got quite invested in him having a good time, which I hope does not mean he goes away thinking London is somehow friendly.
While the support band were boring everyone I had a decent think about the book, mostly just untangling things or working on how to schedule writing around work for the foreseeable and to just break the banks of NaNo and go from when I was ready until I'd finished, however long that took. The purpose of the thing - to make me write regularly for a while - has been served several times. It's not really a challenge. I just want to write the damn thing.
This morning I had slightly too much spare time and looked at the internet and now the Little Hater has lots of ammunition with which to tell me that I will never be a writer anyone cares about because Aspergers. I don't have an innate desire to collaborate, cooperate, and give and take all the way through the process, so I will never arouse anyone's interest. I am bad at making friends so no one will feel compelled to go in to bat for me, and I run out of patience with self-promotion long before it's had any effect.
This gloomy post brought to you by "the people with the biggest platforms refuse to say a word about my book because it's shit I guess?" and "maybe if I wrote x, y, or z I would stand a better chance" and "no you wouldn't, the problem isn't what or how you write, it's you".
While the support band were boring everyone I had a decent think about the book, mostly just untangling things or working on how to schedule writing around work for the foreseeable and to just break the banks of NaNo and go from when I was ready until I'd finished, however long that took. The purpose of the thing - to make me write regularly for a while - has been served several times. It's not really a challenge. I just want to write the damn thing.
This morning I had slightly too much spare time and looked at the internet and now the Little Hater has lots of ammunition with which to tell me that I will never be a writer anyone cares about because Aspergers. I don't have an innate desire to collaborate, cooperate, and give and take all the way through the process, so I will never arouse anyone's interest. I am bad at making friends so no one will feel compelled to go in to bat for me, and I run out of patience with self-promotion long before it's had any effect.
This gloomy post brought to you by "the people with the biggest platforms refuse to say a word about my book because it's shit I guess?" and "maybe if I wrote x, y, or z I would stand a better chance" and "no you wouldn't, the problem isn't what or how you write, it's you".