There’s something about this year that has left me feeling incredibly behind.
I’m carrying over projects from last year that should have been finished by now. I’m still plugging away at the Viking revision… and I don’t mind telling you that I’m just not good at timestreams. The whole revision has been plagued by the feeling that 1.) I should finish what I’m working on and 2.) I should probably be revising Flying Eunuchs From Outer Space, instead.
Flying Space Eunuchs would be much more… uhm…. me? Well, that sounds wrong. It’s more typical of what I write in general.
I still have to drag a short story out of the cellar and send it off to some poor, unsuspecting magazine.
And, naturally, the story that’s at the top of the list is one with more political content (and fewer Eunuchs) than I’m completely comfortable with. The one I wrote for the 52 week challenge this week is still a little rough. (Untyped. And I’m not sure I don’t hate the ending.)
Which brings us to the topic of typing. You’d think there’d be some gullible young man (or possibly a robot of some kind) who could be suckered into typing for me. I have a mountain of untyped material. Someday, when I’m cold and dead, someone will look at that and say, Not bad. Someone should type this.
I need an instant gratification hobby. Something where I can do the thing, and then have the thing, and move on to the next thing. Something like building birdhouses, or knitting, or wood burning. (Actually, uhm, no. Not wood burning. Bad idea.)
Something for right now.