My life is in a vicious cycle right now. Tomorrow will be my sixth day in a row working (with only two of those days being less that eight and a half hours...yuck). I have Wednesday off thankfully, and I have the feeling that I should get started on my packing because Illyssa's new roommate wants to move in as soon as I can be out. I'm just worried about how many books I have now...


In other news, I started reading another Margaret Atwood novel after I finished Oryx and Crake. This one's called The Robber Bride and it is, as usual, making me feel very bad about myself. I must be a special breed of masochistic, because I'm enjoying the story very much. The only problem that I'm having is that I find it impossible to analyze Atwood's style. It changes from every novel and differentiates within each novel depending on the character. I've overwhelmed by just how good her writing is. I can't even begin to TRY to copy her, or to ever mimic her in the slightest. And even if I did, the story would end up being pathetic. I'm not clever or interesting enough to have introspection that keeps readers' attentions. Thus I fill pages up with dialogue.

Perhaps my characters are not real enough. If they were human in truest sense, then I would be able to spend chapers at a time in their psyches, right? Since I'm not interesting, I create people who are, right? Right. Supposedly, anyway.

Most people who know anything about my characters can tell you that I do well in making them developed and thrive in their verisimilitude. What's wrong with them happens to be how UNINTERESTING they happen to be. *Sighs* Soemtimes I think that if I write my story, someone is bound to like it. Someone out there likes to read weird books with no plots and normal-ish characters. I know I do.

I don't know anymore. Maybe I should just stop worrying about it and wait for everything to come to me, although it feels like procrastination. And I've always enjoyed hunting the Muses with butcher knives...