The smell of unwashed boredom.

Vegas with the brother was splendid. I didn’t win much, but I didn’t lose, either, which in Vegas is practically a win. I even managed to work out while I was there (the gym was connected to the spa. What?). Now, though, I must buckle down. Two weeks to Clarion, and I’ve been writing a few times a week, but I’m nowhere near the daily habit I’d hoped to build. My writing muscles, they are flabby. Time for the wordcount equivalent of a crash diet. Going to try for a few thousand a night, even if they’re shite. I did revise up two stories that had been languishing on ye olde hard-drive, one of which has now been sent off into the ether, and Rhin and I are back tinkering on the novel, so I’m trying not to kick self in teeth too hard for all the things I’m not doing. And the real point of coming back to Flag was to make some $ copyediting, which I am doing–if I’d stayed in Chicago, jobless, it would’ve been easier to exercise and write, I suppose, but I’d have been even more broke. Boo hiss to that.

I’m about to write nonstop for six weeks, with famous people, on the beach [with the lead pipe!]. I cannot wait. Where is the fast forward button on my life remote?


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