Missed a few days, oh well. That's how it goes with summer.
I think my prayers seven weeks ago have been answered - I'm happy where I am, at this point in time, and trying to use my days wisely. This means that I am reading and writing, and still learning German. Also, I am talking to friends on IM to all hours (you know who you are!). :)
Why would anyone voluntarily choose to be a writer? The more I try to create fiction, the more I realize my limitations. I improve, and yet I'm never where I should be. I showed the first chapter of Erthe to my mother last night, and the highest praise she gave was that it was "editable."
"That means it's not a total loss," she explained.
Such lofty laudits floored me completely. I am admittedly quite young, but each time I type a sentence I still hope that this time, perhaps, I will have gotten it right. I suspect that if I live to be 80, I will hope the same thing.
Yet still, always this insane compulsion to keep on trying.