I have a lot of ambitions. I'd like to collect at least one each of the major awards, thank you. I'd like to win Hugos for both editing and writing someday. I'd like to be an instructor at one of the Clarions, at Viable Paradise (props to scalzi on that, btw), at Odyssey. I'd like to see one of my books become a gaming system, a decent comic, even a movie.
Guess what? I don't control any of those. That's why they're ambitions, not goals. I can't even control my next sale. I can influence them by writing well and steadily. So last night I balled up as much of my anger and frustration and adrenaline hangover as I could and set it aside in the cloakroom of ideas. Because by God, if I couldn't win a Hugo yesterday, or even have a decent day, I can damn well get a story out of the moil of emotions.
One of my several great gifts in life is being an emotional Weeble with a fairly positive groud state. I feel much better this morning, on no more cure than a few hours' fitful sleep. And pretty soon I'll write a very angry story. If I do a good job, you'll be angry, too.