There's just no pleasing the critics. Ever.
I'm reading Monstrous Adversary (a biography of semi-literate Elizabethan pedophile Edward De Vere), the Adams-Jefferson Letters, and The Game of the Foxes (a history of German espionage on American soil in the 1930's and 1940's) in intermittent bursts. I feel so erudite I may have to go read some John Norman to recover.
On second thought, nothing is that bad. I can probably salvage my reputation with a boxful of Avengers and Danger Man DVDs.
(I just read a whole bunch of fiction back to back, so I'm trying to shovel down the nonfiction side of the to-read pile a bit so I don't run out of fiction. Besides, I can't kid myself that reading the fiction is, you know, research, and thereby distract the guilt gorilla.)
I haven't quite hit the really depressive stage of post-novel ennui yet, but I am feeling restless, drained, and at loose ends, with a big head full of stupid, and I'm useless for pretty much anything. I have five incomplete short story manuscripts open in my word processor currently ( "1796," "Lucifugous," "Paddareen," "Tideline," and "The Cold Blacksmith" ) and I've promised myself that I am finishing all of the damned things before I start revising The Stratford Man (which I can't do until I get the revision notes from arcaedia) or write the proposal for Undertow that I need to get done. But anyway, I suspect it will take a good chunk of the next month for my creativity to recover. You can only suck the well dry for so long before you have to pump some water back in.
On the other hand, I did hear that Scardown made the Locus best seller list at #5, which pretty much improved my day.
Gah. I really am useless for just about anything right now.