greygirlbeast (greygirlbeast) wrote,
greygirlbeast
greygirlbeast

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very tired

It's snowing outside. Just flurries, nothing that will stick, a few sizable flakes. But Jesus. It's March first. In Atlanta. I've had enough of this crap.

And here's that sickness I spoke of. Not the sniffles, the other thing: I do not feel well this morning. I don't feel sick, I just don't feel well, either. Sort of the way that an absence of war is not peace, peace being a positive state in and unto itself (like war). Wellness is not a negative state, not merely the absence of sickness. So what's in between? That's the sickness I mean. It's very much in evidence this morning.

I've been considering, for about a month now, ending this journal. After all, its stated purpose was to chronicle the writing of Low Red Moon, a book I finished long ago. I suppose the release of the Subterranean Press edition means that chapter of my writing career is probably closed. I said I wanted to show my readers what it was like for me to write a novel. Done, repeatedly. Truthfully, I'm considering ditching all web presence except my work on Nebari.net. I could just write my books and stories and send them out into the world to sink or swim.

It's not that I haven't enjoyed your company, because I have (well, most of you), just that I fear part of this sickness arises from all the time I spend online, all the silly fretting over what people think of me and my writing. And it's a lot of time. A fearful lot. I spend, on average, one hour each day writing and posting my journal entries. That's a minimum of seven hours a week. And, since I often take as long as two hours, the actual number of hours per week is much higher. And that doesn't figure in the time I spend reading other people's journals. Five hours a day is probably closer to the truth. But let's go with the minimum. At one hour per day, that's about 28 hours a month, 1,540 hours a year. That's frelling insane, even that number which I know to be a gross underestimation, when I have so much to write.

At some point, this journal stopped being about writing and promoting my books and became an end unto itself, an end I don't need. But this isn't a done deal. I've not yet decided. I just thought you guys deserved to know that there's a possibility it may wrap. I just need to think about it some more.

I've been feeling especially bad for Alan Alda. How's that for weird? He was so good in The Aviator, and I thought, it would be so frelling cool to see Hawkeye win an Oscar. But it went to Morgan Freeman, instead. And Morgan's cool and deserving, but it felt too much like last year, when Bill Murray didn't win.

My brief essay on Skin has been sent away to England.

Perhaps I can bring myself to work on a new vignette for Frog Toes and Tentacles today. I hope so.

Please have a look at the eBay auctions. Note that we have copies of Murder of Angels.
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