Hate, Write, Love

While we were at the mall last night, I went to visit my new book, which is out on the shelves a week early. Half the copies the store ordered were already gone; something I consider a good omen. Love seeing my latest book in the stores for the first time; it's always a thrill.

This week I'm finishing up Kyndred #4, Nightshine, in between running here and there for graduation stuff. I just realized this will be the fourth book I've written this year and I think my batteries need a serious recharge. Aside from the manuscript I have two more awards ceremonies and finals week to get through and I'm scared I'll forget something so I've got alarm reminders set for every morning. My old stove finally died and I'm gradually learning how the new one cooks. Jak has a nasty respiratory infection but he won't take the medicine to clear it up. Or, rather, he takes it and then returns it almost immediately, usually on a carpeted area. I need a haircut (badly.) Last night at 2 a.m. I tried to do my nails for the first time in years, and this morning it shows. I hate being behind on everything, so I write a little more each day to channel my frustration.

When I saw my dad a couple of weeks ago (Dreamveil is dedicated to him) I gave him a copy, but I had to read the dedication to him. Because he's dyslexic he's never been a great reader, but his Alzheimer's has stolen what little he could manage from him. Still, the week before that he answered the phone and didn't know who I was, so I considered it an excellent moment. Love my dad.

This weekend I have to buy a decent outfit to wear to my kid's graduation as they frown on parents in jeans and T-shirts. All I have in the closet now are jeans and T-shirts. I hate shopping so much I seriously considered borrowing a dress from a more fashionable friend. Since sneakers and flip flops aren't exactly dress-friendly I'd still have to buy new shoes. I need a personal shopper. I need a wife. Note to self: add pantyhose to the list. I'm going to write a sonnet tonight about how much I really hate pantyhose.

I have almost everything I need for my next giveaway, and last night I found a great tote to put it all in for 50% off. It looks beachy but it's not beach-only, so the winner should get plenty of use out of it and yes, I worry about such things. Found a fun, well-written YA duology I want to tell everyone about and I have to write up that post, too -- but I have to finish reading the second book first. Book will have to go in the purse and run around with me while I finish up the giveaway stuff. And then there's the other big release-week surprise I have for everyone. I love surprises.

Proposals for the next contract pitch are next on the schedule. My series plan for the Kyndred novels is open-ended, which helps, but I don't have a feel yet for how this series is going to perform. Everyone is on book two, I'm on book four, and anything can happen. So I walk around all day wondering if I should pitch two more books, one book and one with something new, or other? Or do I wait for them to tell me what they want, which is what usually happens at the very last minute and and means more plan changing, which I hate. One way to cover all bases would be to put together at least three different sets of proposals. I don't mind writing them, and that way I'll be prepared.

I have an entire year to write the next book under another contract, so for the first time in ten years I think I'm going to take the entire year to write it -- with a quota of 232 words per day. I probably write more than that for a PBW blog post; it'll be like a writing vacation. I love giving myself more time to play with story.

My back hurts. Some kids toilet-papered one of our trees out front (one of the joys of graduation week, I assume) and I spend half an hour each day picking up the pieces that fall onto the grass. There's still toilet paper in the top of the tree, which I can't reach, and I can't climb the tree, which is driving me nuts. This is the busiest time of year for my guy at work, so he hasn't dealt with it yet. But I can't let it blow all over the neighborhood, so I'm out there every day picking up the pieces. Who invented this prank? I'd really like to know so I can give them a good talking-to. And then I think, Lord, I'm turning into that grouchy old lady I swore I'd never be, and hate myself for behaving like one. Maybe I'll kill off my grumpy self in the next book -- or toilet paper some teenager's trees.

In another month it will summer, my favorite time of year. The economy seems to be recovering a little, and things are gradually getting better for my family and friends. Writer friends are starting to sell again in promising new markets. The next generation of writers are among the most talented I've seen in years; going to the bookstore is a pleasure. I have the best job in the world, and I still remember to be grateful for it every day I sit down at this computer. And when I do, and when I write, the things I complain about fade away, and all I'm left with is the joy.

I am reasonably healthy, gainfully employed, and definitely blessed. I am a writer. What's not to love?