This has been a year of personal pain -- most of it my own damn fault. It was plain old clumsiness that caused the fall that bruised my ribs, and misjudgment that triggered the fall off the bicycle only a few days before DragonCon that messed up my knee and leg. And a stubborn fanaticism to knit a pair of socks on size 1 needles that caused the repetivie motion problem in my wrists and elbows.

 

These are all physical pains, and I can cope with them. But what's really hurting me is the fresh wound that I and every other American writer has received from a Swedish guy in charge of selecting the Nobel Prize for Literature. According to this Swedish fellow, we American authors are just too insular (I think this might be Europeaon code for commercial and just plain dumb) for our work to ever be under consideration by his esteemed literary committee.

 

Now, I never held out much hope for winning a Nobel Prize. After all, I actually make a living writing books, but knowing the faint possibility was there was always a little flake of hope on my crassly tarnished soul. Now that hope is gone forever -- the flake having become a scab of hopelessness (I'm trying to sound literary here). I am an American. I can't help it. I was born here. My ancestors did me the disservice of fleeing the shores of Europe -- probably to escape being bored by Swedish literary snobs. Now my writing efforts will never be worthy of consideration by the most prestigious literary panel in -- well, Europe. Hmmm, come to think of it, that's a pretty insular view of world literature, Mr. Swedish guy.

 

Oh, well, at least Beverly Hills Chihuahua opens tomorrow. Maybe seeing it will help scratch the scab on my soul.

 

Susan