Egad, leave it to my birthday month to screw me over. I haven’t written anything of any substance in three weeks (and counting), largely because every time I thought I finally have time for myself, something drops from the sky onto my lap with a loud, wet splat, and all plans get derailed.
The only high points of the last three weeks were the Olympics. Eeyargh.
It’s been back-to-back proofs and edits for upcoming releases, immediately followed by back-to-back health issues coming in from left field (TMI by and large, but the second whopper to hit me was food poisoning), and now? Jury duty immediately following days of severe gastric grief. The jury selection process isn’t done yet, and I’m expected to be back at the courthouse tomorrow.
I’m not a very happy person at the moment because, really, writing as an act is therapy for me. It’s my personal time. It’s decompression. It’s a much-needed escape from the utter craphood that real life throws in my face. And if I’m unable, for whatever reason, to maintain a steady writing schedule, I morph into the worst housemate ever. In Andy’s case, the most nightmarish wife and mother to our three cats.
So I’m hoping that this most recent derailment will be the last for a long, long time. Because, you know, I’d hate to get to that point where I start eating babies.