Added 17:10 Monday afternoon:

Yea, verily: Who is that, prowling across the steppes! It is Xat, hands clutching a bladed baseball bat! She screams gutterally:

"I'm seriously going to brutalize you in such an unsafe manner, you'll age fifty years!"

What is your battle cry?

Monday morning. It's grey and chilly. I'm coming off of a cold.

I'm having issues with my writing. People don't seem to understand what I'm doing. I don't know how to deal with that. It's as if they want everything fed to them with a spoon. Am I such a poor writer that simple stories are beyond my ability?

People are confused by my references. I don't understand why it's such a difficult thing. You don't know something, look it up. Simple. Is it my job to explain every little nuance and second-guess the intelligence of the reader? How insulting.

I find it strange that people aren't aware of these references. It's not like I'm referring to 13th century marriage practices among the Albigenisians. Nope. Most of what I refer to is stuff that's been popularized in the media. I don't know. People act as if I'm the smartest thing they've ever met. I ain't that smart. I'm just curious.

Have I been ruined by my appreciation of Burroughs, Delany, Aylett and Olsen? I enjoy a writer that makes me work a little. I like the places where worlds collide. I like writers that make me think, whose stories linger on in my imagination.

Is that too out of step with the rest?

Gah. Just call me confused, frustrated, worried. Egocentric, too.

There's a part of me that says to hell with it. I'll write what I must. If I'm lucky my style will come into fashion. If not, put me on the pile with all the other never discovered writers.

Hell, I don't know.

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