Writing comparisons are invidious.

Started my rewrite of "Shadows Over Summer House" yesterday.

As it happened, I also started a new book to read. (I read at least an hour every night before bed.)

I examined my bookshelves and saw the James Lee Burke book, "House of the Rising Sun," and asked myself, "Do I dare?"

I took a chance and started reading.

You ever have the experience where you think you're pretty good and you've done a pretty good job and then someone comes along who makes you feel like you're an amateur?

Yeah, well.

Beautiful writing, heavy characters, lots of action and drama and atmosphere, and brilliant dialogue.

Fuck me.

If anything, it's almost too much. He can load a scene with so much that it can sort of overwhelm things--or maybe I'm just aware as a writer what he's doing.

Oh, well. There will always be someone better at what you do than you are.

I'm not sure what it is I do?

I just get these ideas and the urge to tell a story, I see them in my head, the words come and I put them down on paper. I enjoy it and the stories seem to make sense and the words flow, so why wouldn't I do it?

I have no idea if I'm any good or not. I have no idea even if I would read my own stuff given the chance. I can't expect people to read me just because. I can hope for that, hope that people enjoy it, but other than doing my best, I have no control over that.

I guess I can aspire to that level of writing, and at the same time enjoy and admire it.

I like writing and it's very fulfilling so I'll just keep doing my best.