Well...this has not been the most joyful few days of my life. I pissed-off someone at AFF because I asked what a reader meant by a criticism...one that, honestly, makes no sense to me at all. Apparently you're just supposed to say Thank you and accept whatever you're given. Okay, I was just trying to understand why the reader thought 2 important characters sounded to them like they were from Texas instead of LA and should be corrected...and why it would even matter. With it came the vague hint that maybe I should not submit to them, anymore, which I was already planning not to do...but now I feel like I ought to just to let them know I won't be told what to do. Which is childish. And irritates the hell out of me. But I'm not in the best of moods, to put it nicely.
I'm also fighting off a cold or something that just will not go away. Maybe a nasal infection or something that keeps my throat ticklish and me coughing. This is on top of me getting a colonoscopy, yesterday, since I haven't had one in 9 years and I had polyps removed in that one and should have had it done at 5 years. OMG, the preparation for that will drive you deep into discomfort. To put it mildly.
But it's done, at least, and I only had one polyp removed, this time. I guess that's an improvement. So long as it turns out to be nothing but that and not precancerous. Only I am exhausted from not sleeping and having to take up residence in the bathroom for nearly 18 hours. I'm still a wreck from it.
Not feeling good also heightens my sense of futility while writing...and I use all sorts of excuses to get me out of writing. Something writers are notorious for. I want to work on this book -- nope, gotta clean the apartment so you'll have a chance of not sneezing over New Year's. Oh, I have an idea for this part of the novel -- nope, there's a verbal war you're in the middle of on Twitter that needs to be dealt with. God, when did I become such a cliche?
Here I am, going from wondering about writing something phenomenal and surprising to not even wanting to try. My typical pattern, and so predictable I wonder at the fact that I get anything done.
And it's snowing like crazy and tomorrow I've got another doctor's appointment and I have so much to do at work and I have the prospect of a quick jaunt to London, in January, being dangled before me but nothing settled and probably won't happen because it'll be too expensive, and another hand-carry to Nevada, someplace, depending on how an auction goes and on and on.
And I've crashed into whiny mode...and even I hate me when I get this way. I think I'll watch a movie and just ignore myself for a while. Wait...it's after 11pm and I've got to work in the morning.
Shit, it's times like this I wish I drank whiskey.
I'm also fighting off a cold or something that just will not go away. Maybe a nasal infection or something that keeps my throat ticklish and me coughing. This is on top of me getting a colonoscopy, yesterday, since I haven't had one in 9 years and I had polyps removed in that one and should have had it done at 5 years. OMG, the preparation for that will drive you deep into discomfort. To put it mildly.
But it's done, at least, and I only had one polyp removed, this time. I guess that's an improvement. So long as it turns out to be nothing but that and not precancerous. Only I am exhausted from not sleeping and having to take up residence in the bathroom for nearly 18 hours. I'm still a wreck from it.
Not feeling good also heightens my sense of futility while writing...and I use all sorts of excuses to get me out of writing. Something writers are notorious for. I want to work on this book -- nope, gotta clean the apartment so you'll have a chance of not sneezing over New Year's. Oh, I have an idea for this part of the novel -- nope, there's a verbal war you're in the middle of on Twitter that needs to be dealt with. God, when did I become such a cliche?
Here I am, going from wondering about writing something phenomenal and surprising to not even wanting to try. My typical pattern, and so predictable I wonder at the fact that I get anything done.
And it's snowing like crazy and tomorrow I've got another doctor's appointment and I have so much to do at work and I have the prospect of a quick jaunt to London, in January, being dangled before me but nothing settled and probably won't happen because it'll be too expensive, and another hand-carry to Nevada, someplace, depending on how an auction goes and on and on.
And I've crashed into whiny mode...and even I hate me when I get this way. I think I'll watch a movie and just ignore myself for a while. Wait...it's after 11pm and I've got to work in the morning.
Shit, it's times like this I wish I drank whiskey.
No comments:
Post a Comment