Again With The Crisis-of-Faith Thing....

I don't know. Everywhere I look at the moment, I keep being smacked in the face with reminders of how difficult it is to (a) get published and (b) make a living out of writing. It's not like I don't know this. It's not like any of us go into the business for the yachts and the four Caribbean cruises a year. The chances of being the next JK Rowling have got to be on a par with any given RADA graduate becoming the next Catherine Zeta Jones. Or, I don't know, someone who went to RADA. She might have done. I don't follow her obsessively the way I might follow, say Zachary Quinto.... guh.... mmummumummuh... huh.... hmmm....? 
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Nothing, I don't know. What?

My point is, it's another one of those Debbie Downer days (which seem, strangely, to be linked to the phases of the moon. Being female sucks, sometimes) and I'm basically on here now for three reasons:

(a) to moan; I might as well be honest about it
(b) to make fun of myself for moaning, and
(c) to avoid finishing off the boring stupid nitpicky damn stuff in Edge (I have, for example, discovered at least one Chapter Pluh and one Chapter That Follows The Last Chapter in the current MS, which made me snicker happily but also made me fear for whatever other placeholders I might have left in).

But I digress. To to get back to the object of today's Random Synaptic Rant, I'm not sure, for example, that I overly needed to know that middle-performing novelists of many years' standing are currently being dropped by publishers and agents alike, simply for not being the Catherine Zeta Jones (Zachary Quinto Zachary Quinto Zachary Quinto) of the literary world. I'm not sure I needed to hear that it's harder than ever these days to find an agent and then for that agent to persuade a publisher to publish you (really, when is it ever not hard for these things to happen?). I know it's hard, but the only reason any of us manage to keep on trying is because we know it's hard but we also know it's going to be different for us. This is very difficult to sustain when we're assaulted from every angle with a chorus of how badly everything in the universe sucks.

People, everything in the universe does not suck. I intend to demonstrate this one of these days.

Oh, and my thesis is the spawn of a syphilitic demon from the seventh pit of Hell. Today. Tomorrow we might be friends again (though don't hold your breath, because it's requiring me to read Cicero at the moment and that whiny little sod gets right on my tits), but today we are not speaking and IT KNOWS WHY SO STOP ASKING IF YOU LOVED ME YOU WOULDN'T HAVE TO ASK!!!