"I am the son and heir of nothing in particular."
The monsoon has left us, and the heat and sun are back. Frankly, I was truly sick of the rain and lightning and flooding and thunder and darkness. Bright and sunny today (with a chance of a late afternoon shower that has yet to materialize). Our high was 91F, with a heat index of 101F. Outside, the world is scrubbed clean, and the birds and insects seem very happy.
I had a 9:45 a.m. doctor appointment that went better than expected.
I have spent part of the day thinking about how hard I have to work in August...and September...and October, because my productivity has been savaged by the depression, anxiety, and ill health of the first half of this year. Never mind the horror of a winter. My obligations to Subterranean Press, those come first. But there's also Sirenia Digest, and there's something I hope to get to Ellen Datlow, and there's this mosasaur study that I'm lead investigator on but have thus far delivered very little. It's all pretty terrifying, and you lay over that the bills...and the political uncertainty. I cannot overstress the fear and anxiety from the political situation in America right now. How does anyone just work through this without getting derailed? Fuck if I even know.
A very good episode of House of the Dragon last night. Season One was a little wobbly, but so far Season Two is solid. So, thank you GRRM for creating such a marvelous world, even if it's other folks writing these tales.
Honestly, I mean August to be constant fucking work. I intend to prove to myself I have another decade of productity in me. If, in the course of these endevaors, I also prove it to others, well, that's cool, too. But my writing career (and my scientific career, for that matter), has also been about me first, second, and third, proving to myself what I am capable of doing. And, I admit, dispelling the doubts of my detractors. But I look back at the last two or three months with utter self loathing. Until this morning, I'd gone 53 days without leaving the property.
Just don't count me out yet.
Later Tater Beans,
Aunt Beast
11:24 a.m.
I had a 9:45 a.m. doctor appointment that went better than expected.
I have spent part of the day thinking about how hard I have to work in August...and September...and October, because my productivity has been savaged by the depression, anxiety, and ill health of the first half of this year. Never mind the horror of a winter. My obligations to Subterranean Press, those come first. But there's also Sirenia Digest, and there's something I hope to get to Ellen Datlow, and there's this mosasaur study that I'm lead investigator on but have thus far delivered very little. It's all pretty terrifying, and you lay over that the bills...and the political uncertainty. I cannot overstress the fear and anxiety from the political situation in America right now. How does anyone just work through this without getting derailed? Fuck if I even know.
A very good episode of House of the Dragon last night. Season One was a little wobbly, but so far Season Two is solid. So, thank you GRRM for creating such a marvelous world, even if it's other folks writing these tales.
Honestly, I mean August to be constant fucking work. I intend to prove to myself I have another decade of productity in me. If, in the course of these endevaors, I also prove it to others, well, that's cool, too. But my writing career (and my scientific career, for that matter), has also been about me first, second, and third, proving to myself what I am capable of doing. And, I admit, dispelling the doubts of my detractors. But I look back at the last two or three months with utter self loathing. Until this morning, I'd gone 53 days without leaving the property.
Just don't count me out yet.
Later Tater Beans,
Aunt Beast
11:24 a.m.