Bitching students, the value of a book and the one who should be in my place.
Tuesday, 11/23/04 - 10:20 pm.

The computer hates me tonight. Literally, because computers don't hate, do they? They just malfunction. But it's got me really upset. Printing has always been a pain in this household, no matter the computer or the printer. Something always goes wrong.

I printed my psychodinamics essay, to turn it in tomorrow and get rid of that assignment. I have until december 6th, but I need to get at least one thing off my back before finals begin, on december 1st.

On a related note: I hate classmates in general. Students bitch too much about things they're paying for getting done. I mean, kids, it's not the end of the world, and it's definitely not the end of your career, if the professor says: you can't use the textbook for this exam. That's just one thing. Today in psychodinamics 45 minutes were spent on them bitching. They're always unhappy about evaluations...ok, they're not supposed to be happy. They're supposed to work hard.

Today I was supposed to sell three books. Irene was buying them, for her, for an aunt and for a friend. But she didn't have the money. You might think it's pretty capitalist of me to think about the money, but it's not that I want to get rich.

I've learned from my dad not to complain about the price of a book. Because you're not just paying the material or the AC of the bookstore, you're also paying for the hard work of the author: all of the nights he didn't sleep, all of the time he spent sitting, trying to get every detail right...such things that money really can't buy, but that represent an intellectual (and material, yes) effort that just can't be given away for free.

So there.

All of the books that have been given away so far, about 20, haven't been paid for. Those are the ones you send to relatives or close friends, or to the kind poet who wrote your prologue because he thought your writing was worth fighting for. My dad is taking five to a small bookstore/restaurant tomorrow morning. My dad is well-known in that place, so that could be good publicity for me.

I knew this would happen. Most of I'll buy your book promises were bound to disappear as soon as I had the book in my hands. Some remain, but for now all the doors are closed for me, and now no one is interested in it. I saw it coming.

I'm also having some post-release depression, because I've realized my book is not as good as some people say it is. My brother hugged me effusively this morning, saying it was "so, so good", and my family of course is thrilled, but what would I expect? They're my family, they're the good kind of family, too, the one that's always there to support you. But in reality, this book is something that anybody could've written.

Don't get me wrong, I'm quite proud of what I've done. It's probably the biggest accomplish of my life so far.

But I feel a little guilty, too, because this morning I found Cel's little website. Well, she's a member of some kind of Diaryland site, only it's related to writing and post your tales and poems and essays and whatever. Anyway, I read her stories and her poetry...and I hated myself, because she should've been the one published, not me. She's always been a writer, a very talented one. I am not...I'm a victim of the circumstances.

I kind of hate myself right now.

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