Dreadful, dreadful, DREADFUL

Mr. Earbrass has rashly been skimming through the early chapters, which he has not looked at for months, and now sees The Unstrung Harp for what it is. Dreadful, dreadful, DREADFUL. He must be mad to go on enduring the unexquisite agony of writing when it all turns out drivel. Mad. Why didn't he become a spy? How does one become one? He will burn the MS. Why is there no fire? Why aren't there the makings of one? How did he get in the unused room on the third floor?

Edward Gorey, The Unstrung Harp

Words so far today: 8. All 8 of them suck.
Reason for stopping: I was seized by an irresistable urge to reconcile my checkbook.
Mood: "I am a talentless hack. Except that I don't even put words out quite fast enough to be a considered a hack."
Notes: I try to console myself with the fact that at least I opened it and glared at it for awhile.