Everytime I read one of Meg Rosoff's books, I just want to cry because I know I can never write some thing like that. I'm so filled with jealousy and rage. Life is so unfair and accepting it just doesn't make it any easier.
sometimes i read anthologies and i'm aghast and helpless and thinking that i should never pick up a pen and write poems or anything else for that matter ever again.
then, i realize i'm being ridiculously dramatic, and take comfort in the fact that you have to start somehwere right? And without the bad days, the bad eggs, the stuff that makes you cringe, how comes the stuff that makes you fluff up with pride?
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but;
i completely understand how you feel.
sometimes i read anthologies and i'm aghast and helpless and thinking that i should never pick up a pen and write poems or anything else for that matter ever again.
then, i realize i'm being ridiculously dramatic, and take comfort in the fact that you have to start somehwere right? And without the bad days, the bad eggs, the stuff that makes you cringe, how comes the stuff that makes you fluff up with pride?
:)
x
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