First there was my 100th post, then my 200th, then came the 300th . . . what happened to post four hundred?  Does anyone really give a shit?

Here we are, five hundred posts down, and I’m writing this at 10:02 PM, on a Friday night, after a long day of editing.  Really:  about ten thousand words were read and changed, removed, or add, and three chapters to Her Demonic Majesty look far better than how they started.  I also blogged this morning about my crazy dreams, and edited a blog post for a friend.

Sounds like something a writer would do, doesn’t it?

In my 200th post–which came on the last day of 2011–I said there were a lot of things I wanted.  I started with a lot of hope, and not a few life changes.  By the beginning April, when post three hundred was written, I was waxing semi-poetically about what I’d done, what were I felt I was in my life, and where I thought I hoped I would go.

I’d have probably been better of waxing my car, because the summer of 2012 was one for the Book of Strangeness.

I was sick for two months.  I had a mental breakdown that really threatened to turn serious–probably not as serious as it might have seemed to some, but trust me:  there were a few moment when I came damn close to checking myself into a “facility” for a few weeks because I didn’t know what I might do.

Through all that I wrote.  I submitted work.  I still have one work hanging in limbo, and another that was outright rejected–the rejection coming right at the start of my breakdown.

I was also in the middle of a story that, as much as I wanted to get it written, was depressing me.  Maybe it was the material, maybe it was my state of mind–maybe it was both.  No matter:  I finished it, another short novel under my belt waiting for the Editing Fairy to come along and kick my butt.

But something has changed in the last six weeks.  Call it another outlook on life; call it finally starting to change things around; call it whatever the hell you’d like.  But I feel different.  There was a moment, probably right at the end of July, beginning of August, where I was about to say screw it and do what every other “burgeoning writer” does–stop.

Just freakin’ stop.

I was going to shut down the blog, shut down writing, kicked it all to the curb–kill my dream, as Jim Butcher called it.  Crawl into a hole and let things be.

I didn’t.  Really, I couldn’t.

There was a drive, a long drive back to The Undisclosed Location, where I knew that if I killed my dream, there wasn’t much of a point of going on with anything.  I didn’t though.  Despite the depression and the suicidal thoughts that seem to hang around like angry flies buzzing around some roadkill festering in the summer sun, I couldn’t do this last thing.

I couldn’t do it, because it wasn’t right.  And because my Muse would have haunted my ass, even in whatever passes for an afterlife.

I changed.  Work sucks, but so what?  I’m dealing.  Writing is hard:  tell me something new.  Finding time to do all this shit–I’ve already given my views on that, and I’m sticking to it.

I’m back writing–well, editing my butt off, actually.  I’m going to submit Her Demonic Majesty and not look back.  If it’s accepted, fantastic.  If not, I’ll look again.  And again.

And write more, and send it out.  Because that really is my dream, and killing the dream is the same as killing myself, and damned if I’m ready for that.

There’s too much happening to me these days.  Some is good, some is bad, and some goes right back to when I said 2012 was going to be a year of change.  Yeah, baby, change is coming.  New feeling, new attitudes, maybe even a new life.

Regardless, the dream continues.  I’ve spent most of my life hiding, worried, scared, and unable to do what I wanted to do.  I’m moving on; the hell with the old.  I ain’t got time to be sad, and though I might get depressed, I know I’ll come back out–eventually.

I have to.

I’ve got another five hundred posts to write, don’t you know?

See you when that happens.