Writing is still worlds apart from writing well”, said caravaggio, and I’m inclined to agree. Looking through my work, I know I’m far, far away from being half as good as I want to be. I want to write with the searing intensity of tukneneng, the light humor of Gmajor7, and the irrepressible wit of linchpin. Hmmph. I won’t even mention the novelists and poets I love. Thank goodness I’m in psychology and not creative writing. I think I’d probably starve before I ever get published.
If my mom ever reads this, she’d undoubtedly launch on a motherly declaration of faith in my abilities. So would my dad. Sigh. Thank God for unconditional love.
I’m just ranting here. You see, I just scanned the forum thread on tips for submitting articles in peyups.com, and it made me wonder how on earth did six of my write-ups even get published. So don’t mind me. I’m also frustrated because there are still 2102 articles waiting for approval on that site, which means it’s still a long, long wait before the moderators allow submission of new stories. Grrr. God, grant me patience, and I want it RIGHT NOW.
Okay. I can wait some more. In the meantime, don’t be surprised if this blog suddenly overflows with fiction and other sentimental mush, since I can’t bother those poor peyups editors yet. I actually feel sorry for them, what with 2000+ articles vying for their attention. I can just imagine the private messages they’re getting from other writers.
Freud, Jung, and my professor call it displacement, this penchant I have for words. Or maybe it’s sublimation, because writing is supposed to result in higher cultural achievement. Whatever.
Hurry up, peyups.