"Facepalm" is one of the laziest, most idiotic shortcuts in the sordid history of the English language. Oh, the same goes for "facedesk." If you're going to flood the world with new portmanteaus, at least be witty.
I've already written about being so very far behind, as regards work and deadlines and new projects that have to be started three weeks ago. I don't know what's left to say on that account, but I don't have anything else left to say, for the time being, about my writing. That's it. I can't go back. I can't imagine going forward. What the fuck is there remaining to say? Who am I saying it to? Over the past twenty years I've written and published tens of millions of words (conservative estimate, surely), and nothing is compelling me to choke up another ten million.
Hell, I'm having enough trouble finding the energy and interest necessary to proofread the galleys for the next short-story collection.
What the fuck do you expect?
Oh, and the editorial letter for Red Delicious arrived this morning. Whee. I've only skimmed it, but I believe my editor has correctly identified several problems, primarily related to continuity and the motivation of characters. This is what happens when one writes a book much too fast in order to replace another book that was written so badly she's willing to write – for no extra fucking charge – another book to replace it.
This is a low point, kittens. Maybe the lowest.
Not Sure What Happens Now,