greygirlbeast (greygirlbeast) wrote,
greygirlbeast
greygirlbeast

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Howard Hughes, B.C. (before coffee)

In the near distance, audible even through these thick plaster walls, some goddamn idiot is wailing "gospel" at the upper limits of human vocalization, and, near as I can conjure, the sound is being greatly amplified by some infernal electronical device. Ugh. It's Sunday morning. Must I have Xtianity foisted upon me even on Sunday morning? In the form of sound pollution? I assure you, this is not what Mr. Tesla had in mind. It's been going on for the better part of an hour. Fortunately, I have driven my ear buds in deep and turned the volume up loudly enough that no trace of the caterwauling is getting through. Better deaf than annoyed, I say. Deaf women do not have to hear wailing Xtians on Sunday morning. You don't get this sort of racket from the Hare Krishnas and Buddhists.

The last three days have been sort of a mess, and I thought it best just to stay clear of LJ until the clouds had moved along. Well, actually yesterday was okay. It was Thursday and Friday that deserve most of the blame. Especially Friday. Friday was the very first day to earn an L in my day planner since May 18th. The worst of it has been the insomnia, and the bad dreams, but at least the former finally seems to be releasing me. I got eight hours sleep last night, and seven the night before. I'm weaning myself off the zolpidem tartrate.

Yesterday, I wrote 1,413 words on The Dinosaurs of Mars, making it my most prolific day thus far on this book (which I still hope to finish by the end of July). The story keeps surprising me, and that's one of the only reasons I write, for the surprises, the tales I can only hear if I tell them. In this respect, it's going well.

In two or three days, though, I'll need to set TDoM aside and write a couple of pieces for Sirenia Digest #20. I have at least one good vignette taking shape inside my head; I'm sure a second will make itself known to me almost anytime now.

But I am having to face up to an inconvenient and annoying truth — I have allowed myself to become overextended. There is far too much on my plate. And virtually nothing that I can take off. Not if I wish to keep the bills paid. Not if I wish to make use of the opportunities presented to me. The best solution I have been able to arrive at is that I will take on no new projects — not even a short-story commission — until at least October. As Neil says, the power of No. A considerable portion of the insomnia has resulted from my incessant worrying about how I'm to actually meet all these deadlines and do so having written stories that I'm happy with. It is not enough to write prolifically. I must write well prolifically. I must not begin to compromise quality for quantity.

And I must get more exercise.

Take a good multi-vitamin and detox regularly.

Eat better, spend less time online, read more, hug the cat, leave the house at least once a day.

It's all very simple, really.

One day this week, and I suspect early this week, I will have an announcement which I will be pleased to make. As soon as all the t's are crossed and all the i's dotted. Even though it means more work. But there you go. I am a slave to my goddamned aspirations. And my intentions, both good and bad. Anyway, the platypus says the next bus for Mars leaves in fifteen minutes, and if I'm not on it, my ass is in for that fabled "world of hurt," so I suppose I should wrap this up. Later, kiddos.
Tags: insomnia, lifestyle, sirenia, tdom, writing
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