I'm working on a number of writing projects, and I'm finding myself disappointed with my writing ability. Part of the disappointment comes from the repetition that I think I am injecting into the piece and part of it seems to be coming from the act of writing itself. Or maybe I just feel sort of empty afterward. I am not sure. It's certainly a new feeling.
I wrote something today, and I almost felt a bit of sympathy with George Lucas. As soon as I hit publish, I immediately had to revise some of it. And then some more. And then, the next thing I know my protagonists are annoying children and racists aliens. Maybe not quite that bad, but close. I've already got a few paragraphs I want to add to the thing, so I guess it's a good thing I haven't really told anyone about my other blog, er, um.