Just read and re-read and am re-reading J.A. Tyler's "All These Violent Children (An Episode of Hills)" up at Word Riot. What sick images. Twisted, writhing rhythms. A work of great horror and greater beauty. Yes, I wish I wrote this. I'm burning with a jealousy now.
Then I read here that this is a tease of a 80,000 word novel he's calling Water. The description nearly caused me to give up my own writing in a fit of gnashing and weeping. It sounds absolutely brilliant. A masterpiece.
Days like this I think of my own meager, unpublished little books and I ask of them, What can you make of yourselves, out in the world, when such wolves slink low along the hills? My poor little books, so pink and bemused admidst a gray terror.
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