No sick days.
If I don’t work, I don’t eat. Maybe not today, but on a future day where the crops sown today are harvested, there will be no harvest unless I get the seeds in the ground, the words on the page, and the websites updated.
Meanwhile, I want to go back to bed and have someone bring me juice with a bendy straw. I’m tempted to take the laptop to my bed and work there, but the sick kid is in that bed, and he’s not so sick that he wouldn’t want to touch the magic! buttons! All of them. Particularly the off button right when I’m in the middle of a hot idea.
Anyway, 1600 more words and I can go lie down. Today’s protip is “wash your hands after touching your friend’s boogery baby.”
I got no writing done last night, because my husband was drawing something for me.
Specifically, he was drawing a logo for my future author site. He was trained as a graphic artist, although he now in a related field and doesn’t do much logo design anymore. But I have seen him do them as freelance jobs, and when he offered to help me, I said “Hell yeah!”
Now, I’m a scrapbooker, so as the veteran of many, many title bars, I know there is much more to a header than picking a nice font and typing out my name and tag line.
But good lord, I never knew how many steps were involved, or how much communication has to happen before what is in my head comes out of his Wacom tablet.And my original idea turned out to not be doable, so we had multiple iterations on the concept before we reached something that looks good. The final complication is that my contracted book is contemporary, as are the two out on submission. However, the WIPs are steampunk, and there’s a bit of a sci-fi flavor in about half of my work to date. We needed to design something that would work for multiple types of stories, even though all of them are technically erotic romance.
I don’t know how I could have afforded this process with a professional billing by the hour. Man, can I pick a mate or what?
In a quest to support my end of the family mortgage while I get published, I have a variety of jobs. One of them just started – a gig blogging three times a week for a client. I know from past experience that blogging here is going to be more of a challenge while that side job continues. It’s not just the blog. When my day job consists of a lot of writing, fiction at night is really, really hard.
I’ve heard it said that writers should take day jobs that don’t interfere with the writing muscles – working at bookstores, waitressing, etc. I am not sneering – a day job at a bookstore would be perfect in so many ways, but there are two major flaws for me. One, trust me when I say that the four bookstores near me are not hiring. The stores are virtually empty whenever I go in. Maybe they’re crazy busy during the evenings, but I doubt it. And two, the bookstore isn’t going to let me take my toddler to work.
That leaves me with earning a living the only way I know how, and that’s with my keyboard. At least I’m warmed up when I finally get to my fiction every night, right?
This morning, my husband and I woke up our little boy at what I used to call the ass crack of dawn. We dressed him, which annoyed him, and then we put him into the car without any breakfast, which enraged him. Fortunately, by the time we got to the hospital for his tear duct surgery, he was a ray of sunshine. My mate said our little guy didn’t cry even when the anesthesia mask went on.
I feel weird even calling it surgery, because basically, they stuck a wire into his tear duct and out his nose in order to pop a little membrane (something that happens naturally for most kids before they’re six months old). He was under for less than ten minutes, and it didn’t hurt. He came out of it so fast that we didn’t even sit down in the waiting room before the orderly fetched us. He was more irritated at waking up to find a nurse cuddling him when he’d fallen “asleep” with Daddy cuddling him.
He is currently fine, and happy to be dismembering Mr. Potato Head.
Me, I’m a wreck, wondering if it’s too early in the morning for Bailey’s. See you Monday.
I’m already self-employed – I’m a consultant and a non-fiction writer before I go into a phone booth and put on my glasses – so all this yammering about health care makes me kind of want to reach out and hit people. If you believe in the American dream, in pursuing your dreams to be self-employed, in the importance of writing and art, you might consider making a fist yourself.
Like most of us, I have a family. I love my family. Lights of my life and all that. But jeez louise, people. The hero just busted down the door to save the heroine from the gun-wielding stalker, thus proving he (the hero, not the stalker) is not the beta male she thought he was. He’s totally alpha. And he just proposed. AND he’s taking charge of their celebration sex right this minute, blowing the heroine’s mind, so I ask you: Is now REALLY the time to be asking me where your shoes are?