Making though the day is the most important thing for me today. I was able to sleep okay last night, but I still have this congestion, and I don’t relish driving 150 miles having to cough every ten minutes or so–like I just did. Damn, that hurts. Let it dry up today. Or let me go home early. Which I might ask for, since I think I have a little sick time now.
I had sixty nice birthday wishes on my Facebook wall yesterday, and I thank everyone for them. Yesterday was a bit of a strange day for me, and it was nice to have people wishing me a good time. Or, as one person said, “Enjoy the next orbit.” Which is pretty much how I look at it.
I know today is 4 May, and I know some of you–don’t know who–will be treating this as The Forth Be With You. Yeah, have a good time with that. Oh, and if you want to see what I think of today, how about you read the post I did last year? Warn you: it’s not nice. Oh, and for the woman last year who lambasted me, saying a “true wordsmith” wouldn’t use some of the language I used . . . screw you. You say what you gotta say, and there are some great writers who’ve thrown in a blue word or two.
Besides, I’m published and you’re not. Where’s your wordsmithing Noooooooowwwwww?
Published. Damn, that’s a pretty good word.
Yesterday I received my five free copies of Captivate and Control that I’m suppose to give away, as in do a promotion . . . and suddenly, I’m like, “Huh? Promotion? What am I suppose to do?” I’ll be the first to admit that I have no idea what I’m suppose to do. See, writers write. We don’t do silly things like whore ourselves to make money, to get people interested in our works.
But as I keep pointing out, there’s a lot of things a writer has to do these days, and self-promotion is one of them. And I need to come up with something this weekend, ’cause I really have no idea what I’m doing.
It’s not a comfortable position for me, because I’ve always been so calm, so cool, no lovers fool–and I’m really on the verge of looking like an idiot.
I know someone I can get with from the publishing company, ask her a few things, see what she says. I am considering something like, “Send me a picture of yourself topless and tell me how I remind you of a strawberry sunday–” Naw. That’s probably not going to work, since I’m more like a chocolate parfait.
When I get back to The Real Home tonight I can start my research, since the chances are good that I won’t be able to do anything from work. It would appear they’ve locked me up in Internet Jail, and they expect me to, you know, work.
Silly people. They really should know better.
By the way, besides editing six thousand words for Echoes last night–and, man, did I write something that really tugs at my heart so hard–I was with The Muse last night, and we were plotting out . . . a children’s book. No, really. You can stop laughing . . .
Yes, I’m going from selling sex to trying to write a story about a cute four year old.
Is this how your mind is suppose to work?
