(no subject)

There's something really depressing about a conversation with your mother in which you learn that the house you hoped would be done and ready for you to move in in two years won't be ready, probably for four. And then talking about how you should really get a paying job when you move out there, like you won't be a successful or at least money-making writer.

Ugh. That was cheerful. On the plus side, I did talk to my Mom, she's already getting empty nest syndrome and my brother hasn't even moved out yet. If I move back home? I want my old room, dammit. Mom can just move the hell out and back to her room, I lived in that room for ten years. So there. And I'll have to find a job in DC, but that can't be too hard. Plenty of people need secretaries.

Less with the maudlin! More with the productive! Got no noveling done yesterday. Boo. Got lots of catchup done yesterday. Yay! Went in to work and before I'd even walked through the doors of the building it's, "do you really want to be here?" Well, no, I want my three day weekend. So today will be a day of noveling my ass off, editing, and reading the Kelley Armstrong book I finally picked up to get a further idea of what genre all these women are writing and succeeding at.

'cause, fucking hell. In three or four years I damn well better be making enough money at this. I am a good writer. I am a kickass writer. I can do this. As long as I also kick my own ass to work, edit, and finish. Commence asskicking!