Life is always full of nasty tiresome surprises like this. Why did I start writing again? Why did I start writing fanfiction? I love it dearly, but it ATE MY SOUL.
If I hadn't started writing maybe something else would have filled the void - something normal, like drinking myself into a liver disease or a vast passion for rolling around in the mud at Oxegen.
STUPID. I'd be better off hitting myself in the head with my pathology book. Anything, anything but this treadmill-like existence, constantly pouring my soul into things only for them to go nowhere.
And then there was Anthony Trollope. He has an incredible talent for making me want to strangle each and every one of his characters. I do want to find out what happens in the end of The Way We Live Now, but oh! The meandering way he writes does my head in. I foresee another Dickens situation, ie, classic and acclaimed writer failing to penetrate Rachel's thick head. One day, I suppose, I will admit that I am a prole and give up the fight. Today is not that day. Tomorrow, maybe.