I have three stories I need to be writing, a novella and two short stories. A very short novella and two short stories. No way I'm wandering into another 20k-word thing, not any time soon. And I should have had the proposal for Interstate Love Song written six months ago. Few things are more soul destroying than being forced to write a synopsis for an unwritten book. I might as well try to draw a road map to a country I've never visited. This is what publishers expect, even after thirteen novels. They want to see a beginning, a middle, and an end. They want to know exactly what they're spending those precious few pennies on.
I swore I'd never write another Lovecraft story. I'm about to write two. Such is the strength of my resolve.
I'm queasy and tired. Yesterday was an utter nightmare, mostly because I'm shitty at keeping my insides inside.
I should stop this, before I get angry all over again.
Later,
Aunt Beast
