(no subject)

There is an onerous mental weight that comes from being convinced that taking up writing may be one of the worst things I ever did to myself, even worse than the time I ate bad chicken, or the time I accidentally stabbed myself in the ass with a drafting triangle, or fell down my basement stairs and impaled my foot on a curtain rod. (Or, y'know, the hundreds of other things I've done like that.) Mostly because I am now very paranoid about food that might be off, and I'm very careful about where I leave my drafting implements and not putting stuff on the stairs to trip over and so on, but the writing thing I just keep doing to myself over and over and over again.

Actually I feel the same way about having gone into IT, too, which pretty much covers 80% of my waking life with a thin, oily sheen of SUCK.

Added 400 words today to the story-in-progress. Go me, whoooo. I like this story but suspect it stinks. Will have to ask my Usual Beta Readers when I finally have a draft done.

Oh, and I've got tendonitis in my thumb, so it might be a while.