0200 hours: Bloody hell! I can't even write a decent critique any more.

0800 hours: I tried to get at least a couple of hours sleep last night, but my body didn't cooperate until about 0400 hrs. Sometime after drifting off, the books shifted on the bookcase above me. Being awakened by the Websters Unabridged Dictionary falling upon your head is not the best way to start the day.

Unfortunately, it failed to kill me so I have to finish the Arabian stallion story which is now at 5,000 words and only one short scene from the end. I'm exceedingly annoyed that I didn't bring along any reference books that describe what happens during a race and all the key word searches online turn up thousands of sites with descriptions on race betting, etc. but no actual blow-by-blow detail of what the horse is doing when it runs the race. As the POV character is viewing the race from the sidelines, I can probably get around this. I did want detail, however.

Next up will be Razor blades, plastic bags, and pills. A story, not an action upon my part. Back to science fiction set in the future where everyone is genetically engineered and has neuro implants. The story will be told from the POV of an EMT [because it would require more research if he was a doctor]. In a nutshell, the implants will automatically notify the nearest emergency center if your body is in distress and the EMTs race to the scene to save you. Male viewpoint again. I'm going to write in male viewpoint until I can get the characterization right.

An advantage and disadvantage of rotating instructors is that you get settled into one methodology and then the rules of the games change. By the time we finish, we'll have six different viewpoints on how to play the game and in the final analysis, only our own matters.

Delany writes literary. I admire those that can write literary. I wish that I could write literary. I would never willing read literary works because they're boring as hell and my eyes glaze over while waiting for the author to get around to the point of the story. Reading literary works is one of those things that I occasionally force myself to do -- sort of like eating bad-tasting food that's supposed to be good for me. But this doesn't mean that the literary style is not a valid one or that I am a lazy reader. Rather, it simply means I am not the audience for literary works and maybe I should rethink just how important it is for me to be able to do something I don't enjoy. It's a matter of mastering a skill and I find it highly annoying not to be able to master it. However, I have to keep asking myself why this is important to ME. I don't force myself to listen to music I don't like so why do I force myself to read literary works and try to figure out what other people see in them?

I think it boils down to the snob factor. I've been told over and over, time and again, that you're not a real author if you can't write literary works. It's even worse than the old debate about media writers versus REAL writers.

There's a place for operas and there's a place for rap music. I need to pick and choose what works best for me.

Week four isn't even completely over yet and this week has wrung more out of me than any other. I've gone from enthusiasm to tears and depression which were not all totally related to sugar high and crash. I'm beginning to come to grips with the fact that there are many things I hoped to acquire at Clarion that are forever beyond my grasp and it reminds me much of the time when I was fifteen and realized I would never be pretty.

Bear with me for a moment of reflection. My mother has a large bust size. My sisters are equally well endowed. Until I reached adolscent, I always assumed that I would blossom into a beautiful woman because I foolishly believed wishing made it so. Sometime during my early teenage years, I realized I was short-changed in the gene pool. I inherited the physiology of the women in the pictures of my father's side of the family. Thin and relatively flat-chested and with faces too strong to ever be pretty. At that time in my life, there was only black and white and no shades of gray. Anyone who wasn't pretty was ugly. I defined myself as ugly and stupid and that definition hung with me through most of my life before I realized it was possible to be plain and of average intelligence.

So now I'm coming to grips with the fact that no matter how hard I wish and how much I work, I will never be a gifted writer. I am a competent writer who might someday -- with a hell of a lot of work and effort -- become an average writer of published fiction. I will never be great. Of course, I knew this going in. But it's still much like looking in the mirror when I was fifteen and realizing I was never going to be beautiful.

I am disappointed.