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
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.