This and that

So it's January, in the deep north. Produce is nasty. Unless one heads to the fancy-smancy market and pays a fortune for it. But o' insanely-priced mango, you were succulently worth it. As were you, five-dollar sweet potato chowder.

Conversations during Smackdown.

TV: *plays Finlay's music*
Moe: *scampering in* Finlay!
TV: *plays M. Hardy's music*
Opera: Rats! He's not gonna defeat Finlay.
Moe: Boy Vs. Boy! How about if my boy wins, you give me a backrub, and if your boys wins, I give you a backrub?
Opera: No way. My boy does more jobs than a temp agency.
Moe: Okay, we'll do it the other way around.
Opera: I'm not betting against my boy!
Moe:
Moe:
Moe: Can I still have a backrub?

Later...

Opera: *pouts*
Moe: At least your boy got his storyline furthered.
Opera: I hateses him feuding with the Joey Mercury. Dicking around with Joey Mercury isn't getting him to Wrestlemania.
Moe: Matt Hardy isn't going to Wrestlemania, baby.
Opera:
Opera:
Moe: Can I still have a backrub?

Waaaaah. You'd think that because I'm the last person on the face of the Earth who watches Smackdown--it's the better show, really. Ask Lance Storm-- WWE would sometimes cater to a wish or two of mine.

(no subject)

Ugh. Too much editing is hard on the heart. Especially when all that editing highlights how much re-writing needs to come next.

(no subject)

So despite my resolution to go easier on myself about my writing, I'm not.

I'm frustrated and down and confused. It seems like improving is always a one-step-forward, two-steps-back journey for me. Like as much as the Grand Suck of The King is embarrasing me, I'm also saddened that I don't write multi-layered, mucho-plotted stuff anymore. I gained some competency, but lost a lot of gusto.

I miss having big ideas and bull-in-the-china shop writing sessions. I'm frustrated that whenever I focus on one thing, every other element of my writing goes downhill.

I'm tired of being on the cusp. Like I can see greatness, but it's just as likely I'll topple into rotten. I'm disappointed by all the time I've swandived into rotten, and I'm disappointed that I get disappointed when I should just shrug it off and say something stupid and "uplifting" like "Well, now I know how NOT to write that. Har. Har. Har."

I'm frustrated that when ever I try to journal about this, nothing concrete comes of it. If I can't even figure out how to express my issues, how can I solve them? Grrr. I'm frustrated that I want to talk craft beyond anyone's tolerance for the subject. I'm frustrated that I sometimes want to talk about writing more than I want sit down, shut up, and write. I'm frustrated that I let myself get frustrated.