And of course, I've been just suffused in gorgeous prose while doing the prep for the class, and I think, unnoticed, a little envy demon has been sitting on my left shoulder, and a little despair demon on my right shoulder, both of them whispering that I will never ever be able to write, or think, as well as those guys did.
Okay, deep breath. I may not be able to match some of the greatest American writers that ever lived, who spent decades confronting some of the deepest and hardest issues of their time head-on.
My SF novel may not quite reach those heights. It is okay. It can still be a good book, and entertaining, and even, hopefully, worthwhile.
(We read Hawthorne and Poe next. That should be better.)