"I want to feel the pain and the bitter taste
...Of the blood on my lips again
The steady burst of snow is burning my hands,
I'm frozen to the bones, I am
A million mile from home, I'm walking away
I can't remind your eyes, your face..."
So, I've re-read, re-checked, re-vamped, re-edited and re-everything-fucking-else my novel.
This ought to fill me with pride - or at least a sense of accomplishment.
Nope. What it fills me with is a longing for bourbon and a certain consumptive Southern gentleman. Since I have access to neither, this frankly sucks. Ah well, it's a craving I've weathered before, I'll get over it...
What's that neurons? You're now convinced that our novel is shit and when you show it to the nice crazy author lady she won't want to show it to her agent (unless her agent is in need of fodder for a sarcastic #fuckpublishing blog)? Oh. And since this novel is one of several (three of which are already written) that all equals a big fat sucks to be me?
Yey. *headdesk repeatedly*
Why can't my self esteem be as pokey, bitchy and generally fuck-you as my depression? Also why is it I can send CheeseApple out to glare at or stab everyone else's issues but not mine? Gah.
Because the world didn't look like it was gonna furnish me with bourbon and a Southern Gentleman any time soon, I was forced to provide my own. This is my latest attempt to draw Preacher Morrow. In my head, he was playing cards and some idiot had interrupted him - he was meant to be looking up all sarcastic and pokey-like with the Storm in his eyes. Only that wasn't how he turned out. Honestly I think he's still at cards but either Elijah's just said something silly or Cait's come back from the bar with a new bottle of bourbon... Given that smile I'd bet it was Cait.
The steady burst of snow is burning my hands,
I'm frozen to the bones, I am
A million mile from home, I'm walking away
I can't remind your eyes, your face..."
So, I've re-read, re-checked, re-vamped, re-edited and re-everything-fucking-else my novel.
This ought to fill me with pride - or at least a sense of accomplishment.
Nope. What it fills me with is a longing for bourbon and a certain consumptive Southern gentleman. Since I have access to neither, this frankly sucks. Ah well, it's a craving I've weathered before, I'll get over it...
What's that neurons? You're now convinced that our novel is shit and when you show it to the nice crazy author lady she won't want to show it to her agent (unless her agent is in need of fodder for a sarcastic #fuckpublishing blog)? Oh. And since this novel is one of several (three of which are already written) that all equals a big fat sucks to be me?
Yey. *headdesk repeatedly*
Why can't my self esteem be as pokey, bitchy and generally fuck-you as my depression? Also why is it I can send CheeseApple out to glare at or stab everyone else's issues but not mine? Gah.
Because the world didn't look like it was gonna furnish me with bourbon and a Southern Gentleman any time soon, I was forced to provide my own. This is my latest attempt to draw Preacher Morrow. In my head, he was playing cards and some idiot had interrupted him - he was meant to be looking up all sarcastic and pokey-like with the Storm in his eyes. Only that wasn't how he turned out. Honestly I think he's still at cards but either Elijah's just said something silly or Cait's come back from the bar with a new bottle of bourbon... Given that smile I'd bet it was Cait.