I like writing. A lot. I love the act of making a world out of thin air and weird sounds. I love the telepathy of it. It makes my soul warm.

I HATE the business of writing.

I hate combing through lists of literary agents who write vague blurbs about what kind of books they’re hoping to represent, searching (fruitlessly, it usually seems) for someone who might, maybe, possibly be interested in my book.

I hate querying. Pasting my elevator pitch into an email with however many pages of the culmination of 12ish years of my life’s work this agent will deign to read, along with a line justifying my sending it to them to begin with: “Your MSWL said you were looking for high-concept YA fantasy…

I hate pouring out this effort, time I could be spending in so many other ways and places, and knowing full well that what I’m most likely to get back is a rejection that’s graced hundreds of inboxes just like mine.

Guess what I’m doing today.

All that, plus feeling incredibly depressed.

Nothing to be done about it but keep plugging on though.

So thanks for listening.