Sick habit

I have been stalking writers again. Online. They're not necessarily writers I like or even read, but I can't keep away. I keep checking in on this perky young thing called Diana Peterfreund who writes teen novels and ocassionally poses for romance novel covers. She is prolific--three books in about a year-and-a-half--and quite the little marketer. At the moment she is taking part in a challenge to write 70,000 words in something like a month. I am jealous and admiring at the same time although I can't imagine how you could produce 70,000 good words in a month.
I also like to keep tabs on Miss Snark, a publisher who recently stopped blogging but left her archives online, and this literary agent based in little ol' Denver who keeps making big sales. The Jennifer Trio--Weiner, O'Connell and Crusie--are other fave stalkees. They are all chick lit writers I have read at times when I needed a nice, comforting, caramel-choccie kind of literary experience, andf they all have feel-good websites that make you believe they are much like yourself except exponentially more successful.
But theirs are not the sort of books I wish I could write. Mostly I like stuff that makes me feel just a leeetle uncomfortable, like this new short story collection I just finished reading, Twenty Grand by Rebecca Curtis, about misfits and freaks with money woes. Loved it, and in a week or so, when it's had time to settle, I'm going to read it again. I would be stalking Rebecca Curtis, but she doesn't have a website. Yet.