My week in review: go to work, come home, sleep. Lyme Disease bites the big one. And waiting for my thyroid uptake test bites too. I’m officially, clinically exhausted.
So the best I can do right now is take adverbs out of my manuscript. I lost count at 100. Poor Bethany, my editor. I swear, exclamation points are next.
I quit EPIC (well, you basically just deloop yourself). I found the administration (not all, perhaps) too opinionated for my liking. Nah, I’m hedging. I find that no opinion matters but the President’s. I must have received a dozen personal emails on the topic after I expressed myself there. “Stay, help change it from within.” I’m finding it hard to change my contacts these days. I’ll leave that battle to others.
What is MY organization? RWA might eventually have some benefit for me, but for now? Where’s my networking group, the one that lobbies for authors, who tries to make things better for all writers–even small press writers? The one in which you form connections, encourage one another, stand tough?
So, Chippewa folded, you know that. I think it may have stirred up some nerves. What felt like an open market is shrinking. More authors, fewer houses, probably better books and better companies left standing. I feel for those left in the dust. All sorts of misinformation about POD floating about.
Can’t much get myself on loops at all these days. They are dying a prolonged death–who needs more promo posts?
So this Lyme and thyroid double whammy has meant that I have gained about fifteen pounds while eating about 1000 calories a day. My resting heart rate is now 40 (it was always good from exercise, but now I feel barely alive). I dug through my sweaters and found an unworn gift, a Christmas sweater. I put it on, just for kicks. My God, I looked like a frumpy old lady. I pulled out my black turtleneck and felt much better. Now the cat has a new bed, complete with reindeer, snowflakes, and little bells. Unless you’re seventy, please for the love of all that is holy, don’t put on a Christmas sweater.