Life is Not Fair

For lack of anything to post (not true, more like the job hammering my brain into itsy-bitsy pieces), will just post nick mamatas' excellent assessment of the life of a writer... and life in general.

Taken from here:

Guess what? You're not owed love. You're not owed a living. You're not owed respect. You're not owed a fair chance. You're not owed readership. You're not owed instruction. You're not owed indulgence. You're not owed a way out of the horns of a dilemma. You're not owed anything. Ask 100 people what it means to be a writer and most will know: it means being a starving loser who outlives whatever publication he or she manages to get by a few decades, at least. You're not owed anything but, at BEST, the neglect of a postliterate culture, and at worst the sort of calumny and brickbats otherwise reserved for child molestors and the people who hang their toilet paper in the incorrect underhand manner. That's what most non-skiffy writers grow up to expect. And then they get to be pleasantly surprised if something actually works out for them. There is no community, ultimately. And that is actually a good thing, especially given the people eager to put themselves in charge of the notional community (and its borders) on whose territory this battle of passive-aggressions is being fought.

If you're worried about vilification, you're in the wrong business.

Ka-pow! Zing! No ring!