Son of a ^%$#@

I've hit that stage where I'm really digging into the images I've just created...and...I hate every last one of them.

I hate the blown highlights in this one, and lack of definition in that one. I hate the composition of this other one, and that other one, well, what the hell was I thinking? I've wasted time and energy, and bothered someone else, and for what? A hard drive full of crappy images. "Hang it up now, A," my screen taunts, "for a Weston you'll never be."

I go through this with myself. It's my standard routine. It typically takes me a few weeks to start thinking that my work just might not suck big time. Maybe it only sucks small time. Maybe, just maybe, it might not suck at all and might be something someone else would enjoy looking at. When I get there, I'll show it to a friendly audience such as M, who has to say, "It's nice," because he loves me and he wants to sleep in his own bed each night. That boosts the ego just enough to show it to some other folks, maybe like Stef (who is brutally honest) or Amy (who is a professional designer for Pete's sake) or any of you via the blog.

But right now, tonight, having spent hours at the computer poring over the images, I'm at that phase of thinking, "How much would a used Nikon D100 bring?"