"Nothing was clear to lonesome Quoyle. His thoughts churned like the amorphous thing that ancient sailors, drifting into arctic half-light, called the Sea Lung; a heaving sludge of ice under fog where air blurred into water, where liquid was solid, where solids dissolved, where the sky froze and light and dark muddled."
I need to read more crappy books when I'm working on writing. Things like that passage above make me think I haven't got the words in me to be a truly fabulous writer. In college, I kept a shelf next to the computer of all the books I'd read over the past year or so that were complete and utter shit. I assumed that if those awful beasts could get published, then certainly whatever I was writing at the time could be as well.
And now I'm 35.
Gotta keep on keepin' on.