Le Cafe des Muses

 A friend's very sound advice turns out to be taking you in the opposite direction you wanted to go and you are upset because of it. And then, you cry, because you know you're being childish and an idiot and you should really knock it the fuck off. But, you can't. You can't stop crying and you can't stop fussing and watching your plans and all sorts of things go their own way. Your friends are fighting and other friends are trying to help and the thing that sends you over the edge is so damn stupid, you feel dumb just writing about it.

God help me, I'm a mess. Here's hoping the guy I'm seeing tomorrow might have some answers.

I'm backing up City Under Glass here. Also, I'm venting, because the people I'm venting about don't know about this account.

To Family Friend who writes and is trying to help,

I know, I took it hard. I know you only wanted to help me. But, the advice hurt. "Everybody's first novel sucks?" "Write something else and, if it gets published, try to publish your first one?" Yeah, that hurt. Even if it's true. I know you were probably trying to save me a lot of heartache, but the ache's just as bad, if not worse, knowing that I will probably never see this story published.

*/vent*

The wind's been knocked out of my sails about this novel. Maybe I'll pick it up later, but right now, it seems so damn futile. Sure, I have other things I can write, but will it matter? It'll all suck for the first million words. Why should I even bother? That million words is the first three novels, and that's half the series I had in my head. It doesn't deserve to suck, none of my ideas do, so what's the damn point?

I can't write for the moment. Give me a week. Maybe more, maybe less. It just hurts too much to go back and look at those 31 pages and realize how stupid it must all sound. It was all so brilliant back in December. It was beautiful and golden and witty. Now? I don't think I know anymore.