This year has been an utter bitch. I am working, but it’s slow as fuck, mostly because I keep getting my feet knocked out from under me (stupid lockdowns, stupid sudden need to replace a well pump, stupid need for more insulation, stupid mask ordinances, stupid amounts of election fraud…all adds up to stupid stress levels, and a stupid higher likelihood of getting sick…which is what keeps happening). No excuse, but definitely a reason.
I did manage to get a short story written last month. First draft ended up at around 6,600 words. Not bad, considering. I am going to probably go back and revise and expand it, before I set it aside to decide what I want to do with it.
I read and edited two friends’ works, and enjoyed the absolute hell out of both.
And I’ve got the first draft of Having a Pint about 2/3 done (I have managed around 8,000-9,000 words in the few days I’ve managed to write), and am starting to head toward the climax. Poor Meg’s got complications coming at her from all directions. It’s kind of fun to play in her world and learn more about it with her. I just hit 40K words today, and am going to see how much I can get done this week, when I’ve not got laundry every damn day just to keep the kids’ school masks clean in rotation (believe me, it’s a heavy enough chore that, even with the kids doing their own laundry two days, Andrew doing his another day, the other two or three really knock me on my ass).
Thing is, and I’ve been forced to accept this very much against my will, writing work is still work, and it does actually take from my energy budget, even if and as it refreshes me mentally and spiritually.
The Godshead Tavern 