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"Give me, quoth I!"
Mar. 23rd, 2004 12:54 pmThat goddamn article from Jane "Austen" Doe has cropped up about five time on my friends list now. So, in a blatant act of rebellion, I'm not going to say a single thing further on the subject.
Hiding upstairs to work on my novel. Novels. Because, dammit, I need to get these packets out by April 5. Or I will hate myself forever. Or at least for the next week. And I need to pick some short stories to send out tomorrow. And tonight I actually need to go to bed at a decent hour (read, around 1 am) so I can get up, prep the stories, and send them off. Dammit. And maybe this time I'll pick some consumer magazines that might actually pay me for the stories. I want to be paid to write, dammit! Although I'll settle for seeing my name in print a couple dozen times first.
I need to call temp agencies. Just to get a little cash in-flow. My car needs a tune-up. Ugh.
I shouldn't complain. I actually have it pretty damn good here. I have food, a bed, a roof over my head, clothing. The boyfriend's parents don't nag me nearly as much as they should. It doesn't seem to matter that much that I can't find a job (and, to be brutally honest, I'm not looking that hard. I think. I go through the paper every monday and do the usual round of phone calls and e-mails, but other than that... ). And I can actually spend my time doing what I want to do, which is trying to get my writing career the hell off the ground. It's heaven, of a sort. It'd be better if I actually had some money coming in from somewhere. Every once in a while I contemplate a career as an exotic dancer just to be able to make exorbitant amounts of money. But then I remember that the exorbitant amounts of money don't actually come from the dancing, it comes from the hooking and drug dealing. So I stop.
But it's not all bliss and heaven right now. The boyfriend's sick. He has whatever his mom had a week ago. I think I'm getting sick, too, my head exploded in a shower of snot when I woke up (two hours late, damn alarm clock) this morning. I hate sick. I can't afford to be sick, dammit. Fuck off, sick. Go bother someone else.
"I am Snape, the potions master."
"Bother bother bother bother bother bother bother!"
Heh. Silly thing's embedded itself in my head now.
Okay. I'm going to get my ass off this chair, I'm going to grab lunch, and then I'm going to go upstairs and write like a mofo. Actually I'm going to edit like a mofo. I'm going to edit for hours and hours and try and actually get the first three chapters of Sofia done. And then I'm going to try and hack out a query letter tomorrow. I may try and write the synopsis tonight. If not, I'll work on Different tonight. And goddammit! Both of those stories need a title. And I still need an index page for my writing journal. Not to mention that I need to start putting up my short stories again. I just hate coding all the italics and paragraph breaks and everything. Oh well. Lunchtime. And then edit and submit time. Because dammit, I write faster than anyone I know. And if I can crank out ten novels in a year and submit them... someone's gotta accept me eventually.
Ta.
Hiding upstairs to work on my novel. Novels. Because, dammit, I need to get these packets out by April 5. Or I will hate myself forever. Or at least for the next week. And I need to pick some short stories to send out tomorrow. And tonight I actually need to go to bed at a decent hour (read, around 1 am) so I can get up, prep the stories, and send them off. Dammit. And maybe this time I'll pick some consumer magazines that might actually pay me for the stories. I want to be paid to write, dammit! Although I'll settle for seeing my name in print a couple dozen times first.
I need to call temp agencies. Just to get a little cash in-flow. My car needs a tune-up. Ugh.
I shouldn't complain. I actually have it pretty damn good here. I have food, a bed, a roof over my head, clothing. The boyfriend's parents don't nag me nearly as much as they should. It doesn't seem to matter that much that I can't find a job (and, to be brutally honest, I'm not looking that hard. I think. I go through the paper every monday and do the usual round of phone calls and e-mails, but other than that... ). And I can actually spend my time doing what I want to do, which is trying to get my writing career the hell off the ground. It's heaven, of a sort. It'd be better if I actually had some money coming in from somewhere. Every once in a while I contemplate a career as an exotic dancer just to be able to make exorbitant amounts of money. But then I remember that the exorbitant amounts of money don't actually come from the dancing, it comes from the hooking and drug dealing. So I stop.
But it's not all bliss and heaven right now. The boyfriend's sick. He has whatever his mom had a week ago. I think I'm getting sick, too, my head exploded in a shower of snot when I woke up (two hours late, damn alarm clock) this morning. I hate sick. I can't afford to be sick, dammit. Fuck off, sick. Go bother someone else.
"I am Snape, the potions master."
"Bother bother bother bother bother bother bother!"
Heh. Silly thing's embedded itself in my head now.
Okay. I'm going to get my ass off this chair, I'm going to grab lunch, and then I'm going to go upstairs and write like a mofo. Actually I'm going to edit like a mofo. I'm going to edit for hours and hours and try and actually get the first three chapters of Sofia done. And then I'm going to try and hack out a query letter tomorrow. I may try and write the synopsis tonight. If not, I'll work on Different tonight. And goddammit! Both of those stories need a title. And I still need an index page for my writing journal. Not to mention that I need to start putting up my short stories again. I just hate coding all the italics and paragraph breaks and everything. Oh well. Lunchtime. And then edit and submit time. Because dammit, I write faster than anyone I know. And if I can crank out ten novels in a year and submit them... someone's gotta accept me eventually.
Ta.
