So, I had tried to remedy my sentiment-je-ne-sais-quoi, the general Frenchman's malaise (sorry Frenchmen; Sartre's fault) that afflicted me the past few weeks, by perceiving and actuating a conflict between "Writing," and "Being a Writer" (obligatory serialized philosophy joke: and Being and Nothingness). For a long while, I have Written to Be a Writer, and I thought that perhaps I had been putting myself under undue stress and would profit from a philosophical rebellion towards "Writing As End-in-Itself."
No! cried out my primordial self. Apparently, I can't really do anything without Stress. By demanding of myself to Man Up and Be a Writer, I can write; otherwise, I just connive strategies to ambush Nazi armour--a skill several decades too late to be of any use.
Besides, I lack bazooka or PTRD.
Anyway, on Saturday I finally re-submitted all eight of my un-re-submitted tales. Look out, world! One of them, actually, had to wait until this morning, because Canada Post are a bunch of lying stinking filthy rotten government employees who can't list the correct opening hours for their Dalhousie Street location.
(Disclaiming aside: I'm allowed to knock them, because I'm also employed on the public dime. Do I have any more professional pride than Canada Post's web administrators, you ask? I will not deign to answer such a leading question!)
I'm also working on a new short story, because the novel known only as "Misty Cleareyes" has gone into the vat to ferment--and will hopefully exit it a strong, hearty ale. This new short story involves bugs, space, flamethrowers, and asteroids, so I'm really not breaking any new ground. But I'm pretty down with it.