(no subject)

One day, I will pay attention to my own advice.

I didn't go to bed early, as you see. I worked on an article, instead. I now have an article that's 6,000 words too long. This is a lot better than having no article at all... Also a lot better than moping.

Actually, it's 6,000 words too long *and* it lacks a conclusion. I still feel morose, but I no longer feel lazy. If the article were, say, 3,000 words shorter and had a conclusion, I would feel positively hardworking.

Update: It's now only 5,000 words too long. I shall lose another 1,000 words and then I have earned more sleep. I wish weight loss were as easy.

(no subject)

My article is now only 2,000 words too long. In thinking through why certain words had to go and certain ideas were less relevant than I had believed, I started thinking about a chapter in my dissertation. I'm wondering if it really makes as much sense as I thought it did.

Thank goodness for having got drafts in early. I have all week to think through the chapter, and I can do that while working on my conclusion. I don't think it's appallingly bad, just that I might have fudged a couple of steps. It's in an area I'm supposed to know something about, so I suspect I was just a little intellectually lazy.

This is where it's really handy to work on related but not-the-same items. I spotted my issues in time.

And now I really do need to go to sleep. The virus still demands much sleep. I'd rather work, though. Work is more fun.

(no subject)

I'm awake. This is one of those small miracles. I'm awake and this virus won't go away. I want to use the "Who will rid me of this troublesome virus" line, but it's been done, and besides, I have a friend with the other virus, the one with vomiting and stuff, so this virus might be the Never-Ending Virus, but it's definitely the lesser of two evils. And sleep through it. And whinge through it. Still, I was totally pathetic last night, so there's hope it will go, oh, by the end of the next millennium.

I'm doing a lot of facing-of-fears this year. When I get a virus like that I'm sometimes prone to use it as an excuse to not to do things I'm frightened of. It makes it easy to hide, especially when the social life is not much in existence. Last night's mammoth editing effort was something that had been sitting around for a while and of which I was (and still am, but less so) terrified. This is mainly because of the significant bad luck that has attended these kinds of activities in the past.

That still attends them, in fact. I have a record of not a single US publisher (fiction or NF) ever answering a snail mail letter of ms proposal or submission, no matter their policies of replying to everything or within a certain time. They insist on the snail mail, though. They don't answer email queries about that snail mail, either. One actually complained that they never got mss about such-and-such, when mine was there (registered, for I was testing to see if it was worth spending such a fortune on postage and if the US mail was to blame, which it might be for some things but was not for this). I sent one last snail mail thingie last year and have not heard a whimper, and now think I shall just not bother. I get a few non-answers from emails, but not the clanging silence. Email contact with publishers only in future, unless they have actually asked me for something.

That's a bad example, for I have resolved it by deciding not to give so much of my income to the postal services in return for non-answers. Where I've had nastiness from journals, though, I have a choice of different journals. I don't have to develop a fear about sending material out. That's what I'm trying right now - to break down my caution about sending stuff. I have projects, from my interviews of writers about history to various analyses, and they need to find homes. This year is the year for starting to get a couple of them into print, if possible. And if I can plough through the fear of the last bad experiences while I'm not well, that's a bonus.

The truth about being my age and single is that there is a great deal of being alone. The lack of replies echo and the nastiness I get sometimes has more room to roam. It's only loneliness if I let it be so (which is too often, right now) but it can turn to fear very easily. That's why I'm facing down so many small terrors and a few big ones right now. Life's too short to spend it cowering.

(no subject)

I'm back in the land of historical food, but only this week. In fact, I'm merely dipping my toes in the smallest lake of the land of historical food.

This week's Canberra Speculative Fiction Guild meeting is all about Conflux, so Conflux organisers re bringing food from the favourite recipes from the various banquets. When I heard about this of course I volunteered. I've been given the Southern Gothic banquet and have two recipes in mind. I did the shopping today. One recipe will appeal very much to lovers of "What Katy Did at School." I'll be going in early and quietly working at an article in the kitchen, for my normal lift gets me to the meeting a bit late, which won't work at all if I'm bringing food.

I did the shopping for Wednesday this afternoon, and ran all my other messages as well. Well, the ones I could run today. I have the same number of messages for tomorrow. All this walking is good for me. It has to be. It's a little challenging, for my feet just want to walk me straight back to bed, but each message accomplished feels like a mission accomplished, so it's worth while.

Right now, it's strategising time, for I have at least one meeting (possibly two) and teaching tomorrow, and the same on Wednesday with the times reversed, and possibly only teaching on Thursday. Plus I have maybe three thousand words to write in the interstices. And all of this must be done despite my feet wishing to wend me back to bed.

(no subject)

The yahrzeit candle is lit and I am drinking ginger wine. Also Iam watching 'I Claudius' (who is not yet born, he has just announced). Tonight is a minor kind of time travelling.