Today I learned that my resume had been rejected from a company that actually quite needs me, and that Sight Unseen had been not-accepted (it isn’t a rejection until the bother to tell one) by the most recent magazine to which I’d submitted. And I was up late for a Pet Emergency, and there’s packing to do. And the Zombie Love Story awaits.
Clearly I should be doing things. I’ve little energy with which to do them.
*sigh* Life. (“Life,” said Marvin dolefully, “loathe it or ignore it, you can’t like it.”)
Okay. Nap has been had. Sake has been had. Sake has been had again. I am, in fact, planning to get some sake now. And then – positing an ability to walk the hallway without bludgeoning myself unconscious against one or more walls – I shall write something. Just so I can say that I did.
It is, as I understand it, what we writers do. And I am apparently one of those, these days. About damned time, that’s my feeling.
Where’s my sake?
Edit: I skipped more sake, but wrote 250 words. Good ’nuff.
Crossposted from Epinephrine & Sophistry