Treat Me Nice

Oh, Treatment, how I loathe thee. Yes, I know, you are only doing your job. And at the heart of the matter, the reason I keep coming back for more, is because you are trying to save my life. I appreciate it. I really do. But oh, why must you be sooo damn tough? Why must you sap my energy and twist my bones?

I failed to show up yesterday (here on the blog that is) because I was simply too tired to type. After a full day of teaching hyperactive monkeys the fascinating intricacies of the Modern Language Association, I went to good old Hope for a blast of radiation. Today, I woke up and did it again. Tomorrow, I’ll be back at it. I have ten back-to-back treatments with the freaky, interstellar, radiation machine (it’s very Marvin the Martian-ish). The rays have to be administered daily and we live about an hour away from the facility, so, well, the next two weeks pretty much suck.

 

(Prepare yourself, humanoid! Feel the wrathful radiation of my illudium Q-36 explosive space modulator!)

 

You see, I’m tired, Loyal Reader. My propulsive writing schedule / crazy drive has dwindled some. I used to write in superhuman bursts – it was common to turn out about 5000 words a day (on a work day even!).  I got so much done over the past few years that I have a number of projects simply waiting in the wings. These novels and novellas should sustain me for the next three or four years (I have two novels and two novellas releasing in 2012 – if and when I sell these other works, I’ll fill out my future…). In the meantime, at my slower pace, I’ll steadily add to the pool while working the business angle promoting my brand of screwed up fiction.

But man, it’s killing me. I just wanna chill and watch TV. I just wanna power down. I joked with my wife about retiring the other day. We laughed about it, but there’s some truth in the absurdity (retiring at 37 after releasing three novels, a short story collection, and two novellas, seems pretty absurd to me – sheesh, my career has only just begun). Still, sometimes I don’t want to write. Sometimes I want to give up the keys and keep it all inside.

It’s impossible though. It really is. I spent so many years trying to kick that door in, there’s no way I’ll ever take it for granted and let it all go. It’s insanely hard to get published. Money is tight. Folks don’t invest in you unless you prove yourself talented enough to warrant the investment. It’s a huge honor to have a number of go-to publishers willing to give your work preferential treatment. The army of struggling authors trying to sell their work know what I’m talking about. Once that door opens and you develop a working relationship with a publisher, you put your best brain forward, and you write, and you keep your name alive, or, you lose your place to the next eager novelist trying to come up. Legacies are at stake here. Squandering opportunity is unthinkable.

So I type. And I try to endear you. And I work to move you. And hopefully you take to my writing, and our brains commune, and you add my work to your library to be passed on and on into infinity.

 

I especially dig the line, “I miss the comfort in being sad.” It matches my bratty mood.

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