I have to go down to Little Rock this weekend, to read from my novel on Monday. Which I am not looking forward to doing. This is the novel I won the grant for last year. That's all good, I liked getting the grant, I don't mind having to do the reading itself, it'll make a nice bit on the cv, all that is all right.
I just (a) hate to travel (b) hate to go places I have never been (c) feel entirely depressed at the moment, what the kid being whack and all, and so really don't feel like going anywhere, and certainly don't feel like I deserve to be put on display, as an exhibit of anything anyone ought to emulate, and (d) only want to sleep, which if I have to drive to Little Rock and perform at a Writer's Conference I can't fucking do.
I'm still writing, at least. It's been rough, lately, and certainly I haven't been pouring out the pages the way I was this summer, but the third novel in the trilogy is still ticking along. And I revised the first and second -- I'm reading the second to my writing group, which they are bravely putting up with. (They don't like SF, and they don't, my heavens, like gay SF, so you can imagine.) Being able to write helps make almost everything better.
Still. I really wish I was staying home this weekend. And no one was coming to visit. And I had a week off.
I mean, while I'm wishing.