I'm glad I got to see Panic live the times I did. They were one of the best concert/tour experiences I've ever had and the memory will always be really special to me. I'm bummed out that I'll never get to have that again, now, but am trying to see the positive side that
Zack offers. I'll really miss you, Panic v.1.5. Thanks for the good times. And my sympathies and good thoughts are with those on my flist who've lost their band. I'm so sorry, guys. *muchlove*
Other news: I've had a lot of sleepness nights lately, tossing and turning re: the trashy vampire novels. I'm so anxious and nervous about this. It's sort of sick. I'm so scared they're going to muddle along and sell ten copies each, which might sound like ordinary author-fear but it's not like I have an actual publisher with promotional money or even a print run backing me up, you know? They're just e-books.
The only book I know of, off the top of my head, which made it big after an initial online release is 'House of Leaves', and I'm not so stupid as to think my pathetic little vampire nonsense about teenagers and punk shows and folklore is anywhere near the realm of House of Leaves as a work of fiction.
I'm eight thousand words into book four and the writing itself is fun, because it's always fun, but I'm so tired, you guys. I'm tired all the time. It's winter and it's cold and I never have any money, and I look at
my site and it tells such a lie, it makes me look like someone who's actually doing this writer/pop-culture thing and making a go of it, rather than the reality of a total failure who lies awake at night and hates herself for sucking so hard.
I'm trying to write another book at the moment, as well as book four, an unrelated novel that I entertain vague and doubtlessly futile hopes of really selling for real money someday. And so when I'm working on book four, there's a little resentful voice in the back of my head demanding to know why I'm not using the energy on something legitimate, or at least on this other book. And I hate that, I hate it so much, because I genuinely do love writing the Wolf House books, even if they're hardly high art or even especially good.
They make me HAPPY, and I hate that my brain will never let me do something for very long just because it makes me happy -- why can't that be a good enough reason? Why does it have to matter to me so much whether or not anyone else ever gives a shit? Someone I have a lot of respect for told me that I'd shot myself in the foot by committing to this series, and lately it's sure felt like I'm dragging along a damaged limb.
Augh. I don't know. It's been a really rough few weeks and I should probably be kinder to myself, but right now I just feel so useless and pathetic and the books are going to fail so hard and then my heart is going to break, and I'm not sure if I'm strong enough right now to deal with a broken heart. I'm so tired.