the masochist.

Coleridge was a drug addict. Poe was an alcoholic. Marlowe was killed by a man whom he was treacherously trying to stab. Pope took money to keep a woman's name out of a satire then wrote a piece so that she could still be recognized anyhow. Chatterton killed himself. Byron was accused of incest.
Do you still want to a writer--and if so, why?
Bennett Cerf, publisher/co-founder of Random House

Even at the worst of times, when nothing goes right, when the prose is clumsy and the ideas feel stale, at least we're doing something that we genuinely love.
There's no other reason to work this hard, except that love.
Melissa Scott, Sci-fi/Fantasy writer


My tummy hurts, and it's not just because of the usual Angel-every-after-thirty-minutes-pangs-of-hunger (TM).

I just made a checklist of things to do (write) towards August (aka Finals, Death Month) and I suddenly get the urge to throw up, shrivel up (my brain, at least) and keel over.

Consequently, even if grad school work is upto my eyeballs, I don't seem to have it in me to pick a bone/rant about how slave driver-y my profs are. (And no, it's not because Sir G can read this at any given time either.) Like the job I have that doesn't really pay well, I really, actually, definitely like my courses; even the coursework (readings, writings, reportings, more writings) shoveled over our near-dead personas every week. (Masochist nga eh!)

The only problem, really, is time.

(And yeah, the fact that I am a pathetic human being that lacks the ability to create shadow clones and the facility to grow three extra brains to handle all the thinking needed in the next few days weeks.)

I just wish I had more time in a week to alternate betweek work-work, school-work and re/writing-work. Things would definitely be a lot more enjoyable and a lot less stressful that way. :(

Imma turn in now. It's really hard to do anything when a toothpick is the only thing that can keep your eyes open for more than thirty seconds.