Sitting at my writing desk, inching toward work. February is breathing down my neck so it’s time to really focus on the February short story. I’ve been reading, re-reading, The Passionate, Accurate Story by Carol Bly. Did send Three Heartbeats to Janet, and I’ve got back her comments on Breath of the Grave. It passed with her so I only need to address a few nits and let it go. There’s something weird going on in my head–almost every idea turns into horror or dark fantasy. Not a problem, but it makes me wonder, though it shouldn’t since I’ve had a morbid fascination with the dark, the terrible, and the deadly all my life.
No more feeling guilty about not writing–’cause either you write or you don’t. Guilt is a useless emotion in the pursuit of an art. It serves too often as a substitute for procrastination, another form of resistance, and resistance never sleeps, as Steven Pressfield states in The War of Art. Soon enough you’re feeling guilty about feeling guilty for not writing. Writing is hard enough, sitting down to write is hard enough–no need to borrow trouble.
Printed out SWEET TABOO, but not ready to read through it yet. Still have not finished the rewrite.