I just finished reading Transmetropolitan for the million-bajillionth time. Some of you are now going WTF is Transmetropolitan and some of you are more in the rolling their eyes while being all hip and exhausted from hearing about people gush about Transmetropolitan
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I would perhaps write myself not as a drunk redneck with a gun, but as...and there we stall, as I've no comparable analogy to present.
I too will revisit old works, groan at the poor construction, and then work at smothering envy as I realize that a couple of sentences or paragraphs are more than better than what I've written recently, and not only that, but the piece is finished. I stopped working on it. It had a beginning, a muddle, and an end.
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finished a first draft tonight (on the train, on scrap paper and then the back of an envelope) that i'd been working on for a couple months. i feel twitchy.
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