There are some jobs where you go to the office, clock in, do your work, clock out, and leave. Writing is not one of those jobs. Writing is who you are, every minute of the day, whether you're working on the story or not.
As I mentioned, I'm working on editing Zenith and I have until the end of June to do so, a date that is approaching far quicker than I'd like. After that last post I went to my day job as a receptionist, came home, and went into immediate care. I spent the next seven hours on a doctor's examining table, getting my blood drawn, being sent to the hospital, having a CT done, and waiting for results. Through that whole ordeal, between thoughts of "I bet it's appendicitis" and "ow ow ow OW" and "OH GOD I HATE NEEDLES" and just "uuggghh," there were thoughts like "I'll have to remember what a CT is like for when I'm writing about Ciera" or "Maybe the disease she can have is stomach cancer." I've had Ciera's story rattling around in my head for years, (where a teen is struggling with a terminal illness and doesn't tell her friend) so even when I was on the table, part of me treated the experience as research. It's a job you can't leave at the office, you can't leave at home.
That said I haven't gotten much done since the last entry here, because I spent such a long time in the hospital. I'm alive and I spent all of yesterday out of town away from my computer at a Memorial Day picnic. Tonight hopefully I can find some time to focus and get a few chapters knocked out before I have to turn my attention to homework.
Deadlines are great for me, ovarian cysts are not, even if they afford me chances to research a future project.
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