Since I squandered the weekend by socializing and being sick (the first being much more pleasurable than the second), I have tonight to get some writing assignments done. Well, I actually have until Wednesday night, but I’d much rather finish up a couple projects tonight and get them sent out before Wednesday. And we all know how well I work under pressure, right?
(And Rose, I hope your procrastination has yielded pure genius.)
I’ve spent the afternoon/evening camped on the couch reading magazines and watching episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer on DVD. Not a bad way to spend a Sunday, I just wish I felt better.
My sole accomplishment today has been to clean out my refrigerator. I’m running a little bit of a fever, so that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. I found stuff in the freezer from, as best I can estimate, November. Ewwww… It’s one thing to make a casserole out of leftovers, but it quickly turns into a science experiment when you’re not even sure what you’re working with.
After excavating the remains of the fridge, I made a simple little pasta salad for lunch so that I could actually eat something semi-nutritious. I feel virtuous. Still sick, but virtuous. Maybe if I have a salad for dinner I’ll be all better tomorrow!
I guess the insomnia has run me down to the point that I now have the immune system of a newborn kitten. I’m sick and it sucks. I hate summer colds. I especially hate summer colds when it’s raining like it has been for the past couple of days. It’s dark and dreary and I’m sneezing and coughing and just generally feeling lousy and all I want is soup… except then I go outside and it’s 90 degrees and definitely not soup weather.
I know I got this stupid cold from the petrie dish of germs that is my place of work. Take one library, mix in a few hundred disease-carrying kids and it’s a wonder I don’t have the plague. I’m in a whiny mood and I want someone to stroke my hair and rub my back and feed me ice cream (since I no longer want soup) and tell me I’ll feel better tomorrow, even if it’s a big, fat lie.
As Henry the wonderdog’s response to my whining is to bring me squeaky toys (which are the cure for all the bad stuff in life, as far as he’s concerned) and stare at me dolefully until I feed him ice cubes, I suppose I’ll go take another dose of Benadryl Cold and fall into bed.
I need to put some writing time in this weekend to meet two July 1 deadlines. Neither is expecting (or requesting) my work, so it’s really just a matter of wanting to sell a couple of pieces. I will admit that I work best under pressure-- I don’t know that my writing is any better, but I do get the work done when there is a deadline hanging over my head. Of course, it’s also nice to open my files and have something already written and near-ready to be submitted, which is the case of two other markets I intend to submit my work to next week.
I have been pondering my novel writing, or lack thereof. I intend to get back on track soon ("soon" being relative, of course) and use the short fiction and nonfiction to supplement-- rather than be the sole focus of-- my writing pursuits. I currently have three directions to go with the novel writing-- finish and edit the mystery that has languished on my desk for nearly two years; continue on the work-in-progress (which currently has only one chapter written, but I have at least a third of it drafted); draft the YA idea that’s been in my head for the past week or so and see where that takes me.
While the mystery has the best short-term prospects, it hasn’t held my interest the last couple of times I’ve sat down with it. I like the characters and the overall concept, but I have plot holes big enough to drive trucks through that need to be fixed. Frankly, I despise major editing. I love first draft writing and I don’t mind clean-up editing, but when the first draft is inherently flawed, I have problems motivating myself to go back and fix it. I’d simply rather move on. And yet, I think I’ll be disappointed in myself if I don’t at least attempt to market this book.
Ah, decisions. I should just stick with short fiction, it’s easier.
Is it me or does it seem impossible that Christmas is only six short months away? Better start shopping.
Speaking of time flying, my high school reunion is next year-- my twenty year reunion. I’m not sure how that happened, but it seems impossible that people born the year I graduated from high school are high school graduates themselves. I remember when I thought anyone born in the 70s was a baby. Now 80s babies are having babies themselves.
Me? I’ve somehow crept into my late thirties while still bopping to Prince. I guess there are worse ways to grow old.
What’s it all about?
Life. Love. Writing. Editing. Sex. Books. Romance. Movies. Friendship. Photography. Teaching. Coffee. (Lots of coffee.) Travel. Feminism. Academia. Insomnia. Memories. Experiences. Rants. Raves. Reviews. Chocolate. Mmm… chocolate. Musings of an insomniac writer. Want to know more?
