"I won't let you let me down so easily."
Awaking from an especially horrible nightmare this morning, maybe an hour and a half ago, and I still haven't shaken it off. For a long time, they weren't an issue, but the Lamictal can make them more vivid, and I recently upped the dosage to 350 mg. So, for now, the vivid dreams are back. My past rains down on me while I sleep, the might have beens and essentially weres, slightly rearranged. No monsters and shit. That stuff, I spend every day putting to paper. The horror of the day to day. The horror of living.
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The world is afraid of ennui, as though it were an invalid emotion. As though it's shameful to express ennui. As though it is unsightly. Or will lead to a drop in creativity and so bring the global economy crashing the rest of the way to its knees. Of course, the world is full of shit. We know that, kittens. From this LJ in 2010:
I am behind on being alive.
I hit these points, and I'm just tired of blogging, tired of writing, tired of it all. And don't go telling me how I have to write, how I have to write to be me, how I can't not write, how I'm driven to write, and so on and so forth. Because it's not true. If, tomorrow, someone gave me enough money that I would never have to sing for my supper again, I'd spend the rest of my life birdwatching, curating my gigantic and mostly uncurated fossil collection, reading, exploring New England, and just being alive. I'd probably never write much of anything else ever again.
And this is not to say I do not appreciate my readers, because I very much do.
It's just to say that I am very fucking tired, and tired of being tired. And no, I cannot afford to take some time off to recharge. No, not even a week or so. I have to keep this up for...well, for however much longer I have.
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Yesterday, work, but not writing work. Editing. Phone calls. Planning a project I cannot yet disclose. My agent. Editors. Proofreading. That sort of day. I had to deal with an editor who wanted to remove a dedication from the end of "Goggles (1910)," "for consistency with the rest of the book." It's a very important dedication, for three people who have given me joy. I prepared to raise hell, but it wasn't necessary (thank you, Ann). It was that sort of day. The fuck all sort. Today, I begin work on that project I cannot yet disclose, and I do the line edits on Chapter One of Fay Grimmer.
Last night, I had an eight o'clock appointment at Rockstar to have my labret piercing done again. You will recall it was pulled out by means of a most amazing, dumfounding, and angrifying accident on Saturday night, and that the hole healed within just a few hours. Billy, my piercer most of the time, did a fine job. I turned pain to pleasure. Then went home and ate spicy chili. This morning, there's only a little soreness, virtually no swelling.
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It's not too late to order you copy of Confessions of a Five-Chambered Heart. There are even still copies of the limited, which comes with the FREE hardback chapbook, The Yellow Book. Come on. You know you want it.
Ta,
Aunt Beast
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The world is afraid of ennui, as though it were an invalid emotion. As though it's shameful to express ennui. As though it is unsightly. Or will lead to a drop in creativity and so bring the global economy crashing the rest of the way to its knees. Of course, the world is full of shit. We know that, kittens. From this LJ in 2010:
I am behind on being alive.
I hit these points, and I'm just tired of blogging, tired of writing, tired of it all. And don't go telling me how I have to write, how I have to write to be me, how I can't not write, how I'm driven to write, and so on and so forth. Because it's not true. If, tomorrow, someone gave me enough money that I would never have to sing for my supper again, I'd spend the rest of my life birdwatching, curating my gigantic and mostly uncurated fossil collection, reading, exploring New England, and just being alive. I'd probably never write much of anything else ever again.
And this is not to say I do not appreciate my readers, because I very much do.
It's just to say that I am very fucking tired, and tired of being tired. And no, I cannot afford to take some time off to recharge. No, not even a week or so. I have to keep this up for...well, for however much longer I have.
---
Yesterday, work, but not writing work. Editing. Phone calls. Planning a project I cannot yet disclose. My agent. Editors. Proofreading. That sort of day. I had to deal with an editor who wanted to remove a dedication from the end of "Goggles (1910)," "for consistency with the rest of the book." It's a very important dedication, for three people who have given me joy. I prepared to raise hell, but it wasn't necessary (thank you, Ann). It was that sort of day. The fuck all sort. Today, I begin work on that project I cannot yet disclose, and I do the line edits on Chapter One of Fay Grimmer.
Last night, I had an eight o'clock appointment at Rockstar to have my labret piercing done again. You will recall it was pulled out by means of a most amazing, dumfounding, and angrifying accident on Saturday night, and that the hole healed within just a few hours. Billy, my piercer most of the time, did a fine job. I turned pain to pleasure. Then went home and ate spicy chili. This morning, there's only a little soreness, virtually no swelling.
---
It's not too late to order you copy of Confessions of a Five-Chambered Heart. There are even still copies of the limited, which comes with the FREE hardback chapbook, The Yellow Book. Come on. You know you want it.
Ta,
Aunt Beast
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