When the Cat Grasps On To Life

I feel a little bit better now. Better enough, at least, to put down my thoughts in more of a coherent manner.

My dad came into my room not too long ago, just to check on me because my door was closed. Inevitably, he discovered me crying, inquired what was wrong, and I told him about what I had just found. It felt so good just to talk to someone about it, and I was immeasurably grateful that he had walked in at that precise moment. I had no one else to talk to; indeed, if I hadn't been found, I wouldn't have told anyone. Not yet.

I learned that my grandfather has written quite a bit in the past--not creatively, more analytical than anything else. It eventually came to the point that whenever he released a new book, the critics would brutally tear him into pieces without even reading what he had written before doing so. I wish that the same would apply to me in this case, because some of my "flamers" had valid points, even if they noted them harshly.

In English, we watched a movie on John Steinbeck, and as we did so, I couldn't help but notice the parallels between us. Steinbeck, after being criticized extensively for The Grapes of Wrath, took their words to heart and never wrote a word of fiction again. This is something, about only an hour ago, I considered doing.

But I suppose that I do feel somewhat better after talking with my dad. I am not, by any means, happy, but I've been coaxed into not deleting A Maid in the Malfoy Manor from HPFF. It's been deleted from everywhere else except Quizilla already.