I suspect that I should do a Robot Devil read-through on "Singing Them Back" before I finish it and ask for crits on it: does that make me feel angry? No? Okay, good.
(I also have the vicious flying llamas in my head, but that has much more to do with last night's concert than anything in this book or Futurama.)
porphyrin made me feel like much less of a wimp by commenting on me holding all of Thermionic Night in my head while writing it. It felt to me like it was a big thing to do (along with all of its two sequels and a rather alarmingly large etc.), but it's good to know that some of that feel got into the book. Ummm...I hope it's good to know. Maybe people aren't going to like having icebergs plowing through their crania, metaphorically speaking.
("And by metaphorically, I mean get your coat." See? The Robot Devil episodes are so useful.)
Ahhh, the life of a writer. Always something new to fuss over. One of the good things about "Dead Poets' Society" is that I can label certain categories of fussing J. Evans Pritchard modes of thought and abandon them without further consideration. The trick for a real champion worrier, see, is to try to limit it to quality worries. One's brain is already pretty good at coming up with a large quantity of worries, but only some of them really deserve to be developed and polished.