Spring Sicko

Yesterday morning, I woke at my regular time, feeling like I’d been run over by a truck. No energy, sandpaper throat, hot and cold running nostrils. I decided to drag myself out of bed and do laundry anyway, because A) I am a big ol’ stoic, and B) I was convinced that a couple of hours in Laundromat B (Laundromat A is the one kitty corner from our house, Laundromat B, a few blocks away) with its calm atmosphere and the promise of clean clothing would make me feel better. I was wrong.

The near-weeping-with-joy moment when I found a forgotten licorice cough drop in the bottom of my bag should have been a sign. I am not always good at reading this kind of sign. I used the time to make some notes on the current writing and make some headway on reading a book pertinent to an upcoming Heroes and Heartbreakers post, washed, dried, folded, and headed home. I should have known something was up when Real Life Romance Hero met me at the door. He and Housemate were going to run a few quick errands, and did I want to come, or stay home and get some work done? I elected to go, because extroverted me would rather die in misery around people than die in misery alone.

Errands ended up taking a solid eight hours, six if we don’t count the two I insisted on spending in Panera, because I had a scheduled conference with Critique Partner Vicki, and was not going to miss that. To my surprise, I actually got something done, but did pay for it later. Today, I have no voice, am going through tissues at an impressive rate, and consistent awake-ness is not one of my strengths. I am vaguely amused by all of this.

 

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Real Life Romance Hero provided French toast therapy.

 

 

There’s still writing and reading to do. The ink cartridges for the Jinhao pen (currently using a converter on that one) arrived, and I want to see if they would fit the MontBlanc. The Pilot cartridges should be here any time now, and you bet I am stopping whatever I am doing at the time, to stick one of those babies in my Plumix and take it for a spin. A new friend asked me for a short story for her birthday, which is next week, so there is that. I am rambling here, and that’s fine, because it still counts for the blog entry. I still have my morning pages to write, and then it’s time to visit with Hero and Heroine, puzzling my way along to that bullet point draft in June, which now seems super close, yet still do-able.

While writing an email a few minutes ago, it hit me that the NECRWA conference is…next week. I’m not pitching this year, because I have learned we do not pitch books that are not completed yet. Head down and eyes on my own paper with HLFK and novella, and then, next year, I will have two projects to pitch, if they haven’t found homes already. Three, if I want to dust off Ravenwood and see what I want to do with that. I think I still need some time and distance there, but one never knows. One of the best things about a conference is that there are people there who are as excited about the types of books I love as I am. There are people there who want to buy what I want to sell.

Conferences are a place where a stranger can become a friend in an instant, when the answer to a generic “what’s your all time favorite romance novel?” asked of everybody at the table gets a joyous squeal from a few seats down, because that’s my favorite book, too, and we must now discuss it at length, quote favorite passages, compare and contrast with other books by the same author, by different authors in the same setting or subgenre, and detail how it affected our overall reading and our own writing. Free books and swag don’t hurt at all, either.

Where am I going with all this? Immediately, a nap. I’m thankful that both writer and domestic warrior queen duties mean I don’t have to get out of pajamas when I feel like road kill, and that I can go at my own pace, even when that pace is mostly “pause.”

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Top notch nursing staff makes sure I get my proper rest.

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