A hard day at the salt mines, comrades. Luscious, given a couple of hours of freedom, manages to write over a thousand words on her latest Rich-Horton-And-Tangent-Online-Are-Gonna-Talk-This-Up-Like-Nobody’s-Business story. I, given a couple of hours of freedom, well…. I write that review that I’m giving to Ticonderoga online for free. I line-edit half a page on the novel before the sheer tedium of it sends me screaming to the lemonade bottle and a pace around the garden (Never mind one of the agents emailing me this morning asking if I’ve sent the package yet. I’m line-edited out. The thought of doing any more, after the collection, makes my skin crawl. I’m 1 1/2 chapters into the 3 chapters x4 edits I need to do. Shit shit shit. Why isn’t anything ever fucking easy?) I try to finish the Council for the Arts grant application that I have to send tomorrow. I look at the 2 page project outline requirement and put my hands over my face.

Some days it isn’t worth climbing down from the trees. Some days the trees are a bad idea and we should never have left the ocean in the first place. (Paraphrased from a book they really should have made into a funny movie…)

Yeah, okay, I finished the application this evening. But it’s not actually writing, is it? That I don’t do anymore.