Depression

Three work days, three stories, and not the kind of stuff I used to jam out in my 15-stories a week community tri-weekly days, either. My brain is seriously fried now, and it feels like the wheels are about to come off.

The photo of Dave Slusher, scheduled for 12:30, wasn't shot until after 2. It's 9 p.m. and it's still not back. The publicity stills from Area 51 have disappeared into the ether. The cover illustration won't be done until tomorrow... and tomorrow is when it all gets put together.

I'm a wreck, I tell you.

Meanwhile, my piece on blogging is a complete and utter disaster. Thirty-eight inches of mainstream fluff that my fellow bloggers will probably rip to shreds. I hate it. It's incomplete, amatuerish crap, but a deadline is a deadline. I know most people won't know the difference between the good stuff and the bad stuff, but I'll know.

Of course I'm hardly the one to judge. People tend to like like the stuff I hate, and vice versa. I think I'm just gonna go drink.

This is how this business eats you up.