Where to start. I am not finished the next Cast novel. I’m not finished War. I had a very very very difficult November, which added to future deadline stress.
I am working on both books.
I only barely remembered that it’s January, and I have a new book being published in February (Grave). So I made a post about that. Badly. Everything I ever knew about WordPress has vanished into the backbrain so thoroughly, finding it was an issue >.<.
I promised that Grave would be available at the same time in both the US and the UK. I had intended that Silence and Touch be available before that. And, well. Fail. When I finish words for the day, I am working on making those available. But I confess that the “finish words” part has been severely in jeopardy for most of November, and also the holidays. So, to everyone’s great surprise (act surprised), the UK ebooks are not done.
Also, for the first time ever, I apparently have catastrophically high blood pressure, go figure. My doctor was unamused, and also surprised, given that I was normal a few months ago. So the last week has been doctor, vampire (well, that’s unfair, but blood tests), cardiogram, etc., etc., etc.
I am one of those people whose blood pressure skyrockets when confronted with medical professionals. I am one of those people who, in the middle of labor, stopped all contractions when I arrived at the hospital, both times. I can brute force intellectual action, but my viscera just doesn’t like what it doesn’t like =/.
Also: the lack of coffee will probably kill everyone around me, if it doesn’t kill me first.
More seriously, my worry brain is my creative brain (this lesson brought to you by nine days in the hospital with my then-three-year-old—who is now 18 and fine), so I have been almost entirely off-line. I have been reading the news as it enters my house (Globe and Mail), and focusing where I can on the writing thoughts and not the state of the world thoughts. This has been difficult, because it’s somewhat isolating.
But doing that enabled the writer brain to emerge from the fog. I can work at the bookstore without pause when everything is crumbling—but I can’t write at all competently. It becomes so much work to attain the right frame of mind (which, with Michelle’s process, is about emotional state and tonal words) that almost anything breaks it. I can logic my way through anything, but the actual writing itself is not produced by logic alone =/.
I am sorry that I have been so unavailable—but my rationalization is that none of you would be here if it weren’t for the books, and if I can’t write the books, there’s probably little point for you to be here now.
(ETA: not, because otherwise the sentence means the exact opposite of what I’d intended…)