'Bridge of Dreams' review: or, I Shall Never Write Again

In the interests of full disclosure, and because it is the Sort Of Thing We Do, I offer you a link to the nastiest review I've had for a decade.

At which I should of course shrug and sigh and say "So it goes", accept that you can't win 'em all and move on. Of course I should.

And of course I'm not, I'm sitting here dwelling on it, fretting about it, convinced that he is right and I am crap. And especially this new book, which I'm halfway through and have been deeply worried about anyway: I'm sitting here staring at the current page, writing phrases and deleting them, chewing my insides out.

For yes, I am that fragile. Stupid, isn't it...?

Sometimes, just sometimes...

...all the internets pull together, and find treasure in the deep.

Half my friends have been pointing to this story or variations, about "Death Cat", who predicts your dying hours; and then some smartypuss on cat_macros comes up with this, which makes me very happy.

Also, I like how I whimper and you-all don't just give me the slapping I probably deserve, y'know? Just sayin'. But thanks.