I wish I could say that I'm in better spirits than yesterday. There's too much work and too little time to be feeling this way. I've got just fourteen days to do everything that has to be done on Daughter of Hounds, which is an awful lot, and, also, the galleys for Alabaster arrived this morning from subpress and those have to be proofed, as well.
I tried to only rest yesterday, but I'm very bad at doing nothing. A lot of energy was wasted fretting about one thing or another. More energy was wasted trying to lift this black mood. I did manage to see a little of the Olympics, including the men's halfpipe, and it was good to see Shaun White recover from his botched first run and learn this morning that he's come away with the gold. However, I have to say that the medals themselves are the most wretchedly hideous things I've ever seen passed off as Olympic medals. They look like someone spray-painted CDs.
As for Daughter of Hounds, I still feel pretty much the same way I felt about it yesterday, which is to say: Right now, I feel as though I could never write another novel and it would be for the best. Maybe I won't feel that way next week or next month. I suppose we'll see. I've put too much of myself into Daughter of Hounds, much more than I could spare. Now I want to hide it away somewhere, in a closet or beneath the bed. I don't want to see it edited and copyedited and published and reviewed and commented upon by readers. I just want to put it somewhere safe, and it could always be mine and never anyone else's. I don't know that I've ever felt this protective of one of my novels. I just want to keep it safe. Perhaps, I'll come out of this as I get on with the revisions. I don't know.
A few people yesterday, reading the above, suggested that my work with Wicca might offer some means of alleviating some of this anxiety regarding the ms.
And now I have to go face all those damned red marks I made last week...