The last week kinda sucked, with our cat nearly dying. We were quite surprised when she didn’t (I thank all the lovely kitty mojo love from Twitter). It’s likely she’s had a stroke, and she’s recovering well. We’re keeping an eye on her and doing our best to keep her comfortable. Minerva, the kitty, is really the most amazing cat I’ve ever known, and she was our first “child”. We answered an ad in the paper seven years ago for a “free black and white cat” expecting the usual tuxedo fare. She turned out to be a cow-spotted ragdoll mix with medium hair and the most delightful personality. She really is our favorite pet (sorry, Calliope).
Anyway, the toll of dealing with kitty issues was much higher than expected. I did a moderate amount of writing, finished a short story which hopefully I can announce soon, and made some progress on a proposal project for [exciting stuff I can't share yet]. Exciting things are happening, really they are. And I should be thrilled and encouraged and really jazzed about writing in general, except that it’s been unusually difficult lately.
Part of the struggle is just personal. I’ve been writing a lot of short stories, and while I’m enjoying doing so more and more, I’m most at home with the novel format. It’s comfortable. It’s my gravy. But I’m looking at the mounting novels before me, considering what the future may portend, and I’m not sure that–career wise, anyway–more novels are what I need. I’m still tinkering away on The Ward of the Rose, but that still leaves a good chunk of the sequel to Queen of None, not to mention well, Queen of None, Peter of Windbourne, and Pilgrim of the Sky. I’m sort of in a stale mate at the moment, waiting to hear back from various places. It’s not that I’ve stopped writing, it’s just that I feel, well… cluttered, I suppose is the word for it. But I’ve just been sulky in general. I know it isn’t just the writing stuff; it isn’t just the family stuff; it isn’t just the “me” stuff–really it’s a combination of everything.
I just get cranky when I’m not my usual, ebullient writer self. I get cranky with me. Then I’m doubly cranky because I’m cranky. This is what happens to someone who’s almost never cranky. I don’t know how to deal with it, so I get angry at myself. Which is never a good thing.
So it comes down to just getting through, and allowing myself a little wiggle room genuinely be cranky. I mean, heck. This month I’ve written over 25 blog posts (other than my own), churned out three short stories, and written about 7k in The Ward of the Rose. There is no failure there. The only failure is my inability to see the accomplishment there. And that is entirely my own problem.
At any rate! There is some exciting news to be shared, and I will do that tomorrow. For tonight, it’s early to bed for, hopefully, some less than epic dreams. Seriously. I get into enough sword fights on paper.