In the publishing of the next book, every self-published author has to face the fact that typos exist, are blamed on the author (who has ultimate responsibility), and are as hard to eliminate completely as cockroaches.
What is a practical limit for the number of typos?
A little checking provides a couple of rough guidelines:
A typo per thousand words is too many.
Three typos in ten thousand words is proofing to a professional standard.
That standard means that, in a novel of 187,000 words, one could discover 56 typos – a huge number – and still be within professional quality. But it’s a twenty-chapter book, and that is only 2-3 typos per chapter, which doesn’t sound quite so bad.
The kind of errors matters
Using the wrong word isn’t a typo – it’s a mistake. It often comes from not knowing a word well enough, and not looking up the correct usage if you’re not certain.
There are a number of these anthills to die on, and experienced writers will know the difference between may and might, principal and principle, and verb affect/effect and noun affect/effect.
No one but beginners should have problems with its and it’s, or their/they’re/there. A professional writer needs to be certain about the basics, and have a cheat sheet for the ones which cause them trouble personally.
And it never hurts to check again, reinforcing what you know, challenging what you think you know. I am getting very humble in that department, as my damaged brain keeps throwing me the almost right word, I find it slightly odd – and have the sense to check. The bigger your vocabulary, the more chances for this to trip you up.
Leaving out a short word is a typo – a good friend just caught me leaving out ‘to’ from the infinitive ‘to commit’ – thank you!
The little shorties which are the wrong word, but are an actual word, are one of my peccadilloes: it, if, is, in – it is so easy to type the wrong consonant!
Transposing a couple of letters or leaving off a final letter – happen frequently to all typists, and can be very hard to catch. Sometimes the best way is to have the robot voice of your computer or program read you your own deathless prose – and make you giggle. My current typo-in-hiding is leaving the final ‘r’ off ‘your,’ which sounds funny when read back to me – YMMV.
Paying for professional proofing
does not guarantee perfection, unfortunately. It may be worth it but I think it doesn’t teach you anything. You’ll still make mistakes and typos, and have to figure out how to make the corrections stick in your writer’s mind, if they’re the kind you can learn from such as using a word incorrectly.
If you accept the corrections made by a pro too quickly, you may not move the problems into long-term memory properly – and so will continue to make that kind of flub. It’s worth taking some time to ask yourself why they happened, and whether you can make a permanent self-fix.
And you’re still the one with your name on the book.
So wish me well on what is the final proofing:
Sending out ARCs I think are perfect, and getting back the little niggly (and wonderfully welcome), “I liked it – but on page #n, you have a typo…”
Embarrassing – but I am grateful for every catch.
And vow to learn from them.
Can’t be perfect – but I can always become better.
As working people, the ‘system’ promised us, if we worked hard and saved our pennies for retirement, didn’t spend it all, that we would enjoy some years of healthy living, ease, family, and freedom.
Now they want to renege.
The rest of the world wants to go back to ‘normal,’ ignore any public health measures that might prevent passing on a deadly virus which keeps mutating into something even more dire (so far), has killed oh, around a million Americans directly, and, if I’m reading the statistics right, another million or so in ‘excess deaths’ – deaths which wouldn’t have happened if normal ailments had been treated in hospitals in a timely manner.
Well, those hospitals were full of covid patients – still are.
And after every new peak, ‘they’ are quick to assume it’s the last of its kind (remember after Delta, and before Omicron cases started climbing stratospherically?), and give up restrictions before people get tired of them.
The view from the vulnerable block is pure astonishment
In the US and in much of Europe they are already preparing to ‘live with the virus’ – everyone will eventually get it, THE OLD, SICK, VULNERABLE, IMMUNOCOMPROMISED, FRAGILE WILL DIE, and the world will go back to being a lovely place for idiots to party and catch covid at a concert, restaurant, or bar.
And take it home to Grandma.
Who needs Grandma anyway?
People who might have lived for years, decades
Because what they had, while not fun, is manageable: diabetes, heart disease, obesity…
Or potentially curable: some forms of cancer, getting a replacement kidney or a part of someone’s liver or a heart transplant…
are incredibly susceptible to getting covid.
They don’t just fade away: death from covid is painful, exhausting, humiliating – and with little support from family and friends – lonely.
And people dying of covid in a hospital cause other people not to be able to lifesaving surgery or care – and die, too.
Let us get rid of one of these right up front:
Obesity. It’s an ugly word. It’s a word of our time. Before, the chubby of us had reserves for surviving – and potentially fighting off – some diseases, and lasted longer.
Be that as it may.
It is not something that someone can change quickly. Or at all.
Doctor-supervised diets have a 2% success rate after two years.
And it is a cop-out. Just because a doctor doesn’t like it, and blames everything on it, and says, “If you just lost weight and exercised, you wouldn’t be sick,” doesn’t make it so.
And back to the important qualification for being useless: there isn’t a person on this Earth who can lower their weight consistently and safely QUICKLY.
Another is exercise
For post-viral illnesses such as long-covid, ME/CFS, and possibly any others such as chronic Lyme disease, exercise is CONTRAINDICATED. Read that carefully. It means: “Doesn’t help and DOES harm.”
The exercise-and-it’s-all-in-your-head brigade have been thoroughly debunked, their statistics shown to be bad science, and guidelines are changing everywhere. Not fast enough – and with rearguard actions by the biopsychosocial cabal trying to claim their methods actually work (they don’t want to lose all that lovely research money, ‘treatment’ money, and prestige; and in some cases knighthoods or damehoods (sic?)).
New people with our diseases are needy and desperate. They will grasp at anything that offers hope, and they are not good at separating the quacks from the legitimate scientists. They are given something and told it works, and they try over and over, blaming themselves when non-proven methods actually DON’T work.
Worse than that: they make themselves sicker. For every post-exertional crash, the baseline lowers on what a person can safely do. Enough of those, with the very best intentions, and people end up bed-ridden or worse.
Exercise is dangerous for people recovering from these viruses. DANGEROUS.
I always thought, when I was younger, that I would be able to work my way out of anything by just putting the effort in.
As an old person, I would keep walking, keep doing yoga, have the time for more exercise.
And that people who ‘let themselves go’ had brought it all on themselves. Well, some of them have. But I’ve been trying for over three decades and guess what? NOPE. You can’t work yourself out of CFS.
You DO stop going to doctors because they don’t like illnesses without a cookbook approach. They don’t like mysterious illnesses that somehow have normal bloodwork – for the tests the insurance companies will allow.
They don’t like taking into account one of my widely-shared symptoms: intolerance of medicines. We are the people who get all the side-effects of almost everything that works for ‘normal’ people. I actually went through four of the five classes of blood-pressure medications after getting stents (and both Plavix and Effient – which made me deadly ill). My last cardiologist in New Jersey said the fifth kind of BP drugs would most likely make me quite sick, so we skipped them.
The protection of the booster shots for the immunocompromised
should be extended to the elderly if it is warranted.
I’m in the vulnerable category – I got my fourth shot, considered the second booster shot, four days ago. My arm still hurts and a day after the shot during which I felt as if I had the flu was followed by two days of not getting much done because of being a bit woozy and brain-fogged, and I don’t care at all.
In a week and a half or so, I will have whatever immunity my body can build up from the shots, and I was the one who nagged my doctor’s office as soon as the CDC said people like me should have another booster.
We are back, cautiously, to congregant dining – but the husband and I are taking it very slow because I don’t want to get covid at all (I already have the equivalent of long covid; online friends who have had covid on top of ME/CFS are struggling). Everyone here wears masks, distances socially, and avoids as many group activities as possible – except for today, when we celebrated the lives of those fellow residents who left us this past year with a short ceremony and two songs – sung through my KN95 mask.
We are all wondering what will follow Omicron and its B version.
It will take a long time before people like me will feel safe – and seeing mask and other requirements vanishing left and right, when the scientists tell us it is NOT over, doesn’t help.
PLEASE continue to be careful and smart even when the official rules relax.
The life you save may be someone you love.
I’m hoping my brain will be usable for writing fiction tomorrow.
Please pop over to prideschildren.com and follow if you are a fan of mainstream fiction of the ‘big book variety.’ There is a short story prequel there and a sample. PLUS the first scene of NETHERWORLD, and reports of how close it is to being published.
This post was composed while not completely with it – may be a bit ranty.
When you are reaching the end of writing a novel, it looks as if you’ll never finish.
Encouragement comes in odd places:
a reader wanting to know when the next one is out
sales you didn’t expect, didn’t advertise for
the writing going particularly well
a tough section written
and a review that blows your metaphorical socks off (one gets so jaded).
This morning, my inbox contained a link to that kind of review, and I encourage those who are here for the fiction to take a quick look at the books’ sister site, Pride’s Children . com, and sign up there if they haven’t – because NETHERWORLD will be here early next year, and that encouragement keeps me focused.
An encouraged and supported writer (thanks to all my visitors and commenters and fellow bloggers and friends from FB and GR – you know who you are, and I hope you know how important you are) is a happy writer, and is probably writing much better than a discouraged one.
I don’t buy the drugs-and-alcohol motivated writer narrative (one reason being because my body doesn’t process alcohol fast enough and I don’t tolerate most meds), so I have to go on HAPPINESS, the universal salve.
Sleep and lowered stress would be nice, too, and research to treat and cure this dratted disease (ME/CFS). I’m doing the best that I can.
When did THEIR time become more important than ours?
When did CLIENTS become patients?
When did their needs to be in control become more important than the clients’ rights to timely and adequate and compassionate service?
When did their convenience supersede ours?
When did taking care of disabled clients become a burden to them, an inconvenience to their mission?
When did their control become more important that our PAIN?
When did it become acceptable for them to frighten patients, to threaten them with dire consequences for not obeying instructions to the letter, to TELL them they will end up in the ER with a massive attack of something? (This has now happened twice.)
When did THEY end up with all the cards – and the self-righteous belief that they know best for OTHER people with REAL LIVES?
This is the letter I would LIKE to send to my medical services group – if I dare, once I have carefully weighed the consequences to my future treatment.
Think about that: I have to worry that they might be bothered by something I, the person responsible for paying them, might say. As nicely as I can.
First, though, I would like to say: don’t mess with a writer – they are good at nuance, both reading it and writing it. Not on the spot, of course – that’s for narcissists and sociopaths and politicians and comedians – but afterward, when they’ve had a chance to think.
And to realize what just happened.
And rewrite what you think just happened into the correct narrative that takes the CLIENT into account.
Except rewriting the narrative created by the thoughtless ‘professional’ requires 1) rereading it (I won’t – too negative), and 2) putting in an enormous amount of my own time – knowing it probably won’t work. Or change anything.
THE LETTER TO MEDICAL PERSONNEL AT XXXXX which I may never send.
Because I need some kind of medical care, and all of these are similar in that they think they know it all, and they OVERWHELM you.
My mind keeps nagging about the letter I should write to my medical providers about energy, visits to specialists, and fear-mongering. Which was applied to me, a disabled person, at the end of a too-long-for-a-disabled-person day.
And the tone of the after-visit summary took my breath away – and made no mention of or accommodation for that disability which caused so many of the problems. Bullying a disabled person is NOT nice.
I will NOT have the procedure unless I decide it is necessary, there are several more worrying symptoms, and they don’t respond immediately to medication. And do NOT appreciate how I was treated so cavalierly.
I need to write the letter so it appears in my medical record, and I can point to it, but I don’t expect it to have any effect on anyone there.
Do NOT treat disabled people the way you treat normal people – we can’t take it.
And no, it doesn’t NECESSARILY help to bring someone else along. Then I have to deal with THEM, too.
The calculus of what I can take vs. what I need is ongoing: don’t assume, ASK.
And more than asking, could you make a climate where I will think of asking myself, EVEN when exhausted?
CLIENT (person who pays the bills)
The above is not coherent – I’m still going to let it stand, because the incoherence is generated by the system.
I’ve let this one stew for almost a month, and I’m still angry. I was going to just let it drop, leave the unfinished post among the almost 100 draft posts I never finished.
Not naming names – and I’ve decided it isn’t SAFE for me to let them know what I really think, so I’ll keep tweaking the interactions (as in my previous state – which was as bad or worse) instead of taking them head on.
Other options to minimize the problems
One is to do as much as possible via video visits; those are usually on time, one-on-one because the provider isn’t popping in and out or pawning you off on a nurse.
Another – based on my last visit to another city for treatment – is to make sure you have done the paperwork part of a visit SEPARATELY via video BEFORE the in-person appointment. I find it a major problem to have filled all the paperwork before the visit, and to be grilled over every single thing in my medical history again anyway.
I will explain that it is very difficult for me to do BOTH in a single visit – and, by the time I get the service, I am exhausted and frazzled and not being as coherent as I tried to prepare to be.
LEAVE the minute it gets to where I can’t keep going. I keep trying to respect THEIR time, at the cost of trying to continue to talk and even be awake and coherent when things go on too long. Going back is not a great option, but maybe I can finish by video.
Stand up for myself in some small way each time.
Say, “This is not helpful.”
Risk being labeled difficult.
Complain to higher management – with specifics (respectfully – that writer nuance).
Because the stress of doctor visits has gotten to the point that all I want to do is avoid them.
For my kind of extreme plotter, you might think everything would be planned down to the last jot and tittle – before writing.
It seems that way for some scenes I’ve written – I know exactly what I’m doing when I go in, and then I do it, polish a bit, and get out – and we’re done.
Because having the content and the outline and the knowledge of where a scene will go can make it easier to see what fits and what doesn’t, as I go.
Unfortunately, they’re the minority of my scenes.
Another set of scenes takes more work because there is a lot to include, and the correct path through all the necessary points can take me a while to organize.
And then there’s 32.2.
The sow’s ear of the title.
Oddly enough, a scene for which I had plenty of content.
But it came out of my head very oddly, as almost a single long piece of dialogue, a phone call no less, with the banter between Kary and her best friend writing itself as I eavesdropped.
Very realistic – I could SEE them talking, SEE the little connections, the friendship, the gentle poking when one person thinks they know better what the other needs, a scene you might overhear at brunch, or in a park, or while watching the children on the swings at the playground…
And it was wrong
Boring – to me!
And I could see a reader doing the thing writers dread: skimming. Skipping ahead to see where the meat starts again. Not seeing the content because it was in the form of a dialogue between two women.
Just getting to the realization of what was the problem took me days.
Because there was nothing obviously wrong, and I write dialogue all the time, and it wasn’t particularly bad.
Good dialogue doesn’t guarantee great scenes
Almost a thousand words of good, realistic but compressed dialog.
You hate to give that up – and it took quite a bit of practice to be able to do that in the first place, create dialogue that gives the reader necessary knowledge in the form of a story.
I almost did what I never do: let it stand, leave it to the beta reader, move on and come back to it later, live with what I knew was highly imperfect (in my standards) because I had no idea what was going on that produced it.
But I did know:
The brain fog was thick on the ground and I couldn’t see over, through, or around it.
And this is what I produce when I can’t think: ‘almost’ writing.
It depended too much on the reader’s previous knowledge.
There was not enough scene-setting.
And it repeated things the reader already knew – a capital sin if done in any quantity: do NOT give readers an excuse to start skipping!
I bit the bullet, lowered the dose of a medication I thought might be the culprit for the recent fog increase (it was), waited for a couple of days until, thankfully, the head cleared.
Then I took all of the scene except for the initial paragraph, and put it in another file in the Scrivener project, fully prepared to dump the whole thing if necessary.
And I was able to get back to work – because I was darned lucky.
My greatest fear in life is that I will reach one of these points, know something is wrong, and never more be able to do what I’ve been doing to analyze, understand, and, fingers-crossed, improve what I’ve written, from the first gasp to the final zinger.
I’ve had this happen before to a smaller extent – I had to learn to write every kind of scene (and there are more kinds, I’m sure) – and since I’m still writing, have emerged every time.
But brain fog is more insidious than exhaustion, and you can’t just rest it away.
Brain fog scares me
It alters my essential self.
This time I found the cause, and it was something I could change. There are consequences, of course – in this case more physical pain – but I have other alternatives for physical pain, even if I’m trying not to use them (to spare liver and kidneys from having to disassemble those molecules and get rid of them); in the worst case, I can just tough it out, do some of the physical things such as stretches or (in non-pandemic times) immerse myself in the therapy pool’s warm water, wait until it passes if it has a specific cause…
Do not recommend your favorite remedy for brain fog – thanks, but I’ve tried an awful lot of things over the years that didn’t work, and I don’t have the stomach to try more. Assuming you even have one – brain fog is a particularly difficult ‘symptom’ to treat because it is so vague and amorphous and non-specific.
It’s a Catch-22: you need to be able to think to work yourself out of brain fog, and you can’t think until you’ve worked yourself out of brain fog.
Sometimes the passage of time helps.
Sometimes the disappearance of a physical illness, or its successful treatment or management, helps.
Sometimes – the scary part – you’ve lost that part of yourself and it isn’t coming back.
And sometimes you figure it out.
Once that cleared
I took a hard look at what I had been ‘creating,’ that conversation that repeated things unnecessarily.
And I got to work.
I went back to process: I’ve detailed my Left Brain righT method before; I still use it, tweaked a bit but usually to add a detail, not change something already there, seven-and-a-half years later.
Step by step I followed my own prompts for considering, choosing, refining – including much smaller amounts of that big chunk of realistic dialogue – listening to the bits as I locked them in (to make sure the language flows), defining the structure, doing the work I call writing fiction, and little by little, 32.2 emerged from the shadows of a disaster.
It started doing what it was supposed to do, and I got less scared.
The instructions for getting to shore safely when caught in a riptide are to let the current take you where it will, while swimming slowly across, until you’re out of its grasp.
If you try anything like fighting the current, you will drown after you become exhausted, unless one of those nice fit lifeguards sees you and gets to you in time.
Because the current is stronger than you are – by many orders of magnitude.
What is brain fog?
If you have to ask, you haven’t had it. I’m glad for you.
It is feeling, within your own skull, that you just can’t think.
That your brain is in there somewhere, maybe, but you can’t get to it. Other names are chemobrain, fibrobrain, stupor, …
No matter what you seem to try, you can’t get out of the fog – and you can’t think.
It can be caused by illness. By medication. By sleep deprivation. By eating or drinking too much or the wrong thing.
It is a huge part of life with ME/CFS (myalgic encephalomielitis/chronic fatigue syndrome).
It robs you of hours of time.
Healthy people may have ways of exercising through it. Some people can take a stimulant like caffeine to focus and wake up, or ADHD meds.
Rest SHOULD help, but for people like me is often not restorative.
And what is this thing you’re calling a vagal wave?
The vagus nerve enervates much of your body, from the spinal column up to your brain, and out to your limbs. Including innards you don’t have conscious control over, such as your digestive system.
It covers so much territory, it’s hard to know exactly where the sensations are coming from sometimes.
I get periods of time, long ones, when it feels like a wave motion is going on in my body, and all I can do is sit there and let it do its thing. Sometimes painful (the meds after stents caused a horrible case of constant waves of pain in the gut), sometimes not.
When I sit in front of the computer screen, ready to write or focus or think, but the waves are going, all I can do is to grit my teeth and live through them, hour upon hour.
But I’m a problem solver by nature and training
and I finally was able to pay enough attention to the combination of not being able to think, and feeling as if I was in an aquarium (the modern kind with waves).
Data is essential for problem solving, both to identify what’s going on, and then, when you come up with solutions, to see if you’ve managed to change something.
And I finally collected enough data (over months of not being able to write very often), to see some correlations.
I have to eat. We all do. And I can’t think starving, so I can’t postpone the eating TOO much, plus I seem to get these shaky periods of low blood sugar if I put off eating too long, and then it’s an emergency to eat something.
I don’t eat many carbs, so it baffled me – sugar messes with my brain, and the day after eating sugar there’s no way any thinking is going to happen. I don’t even bother trying any more.
But I FINALLY noticed
that 10-30 minutes after I EAT, the waves start, and the brain fog.
I used to try to push through – and the only result of that was to spend hours in that state.
I tried taking naps when I got tired – but they weren’t organized or planned, and the effects didn’t seem to correlate with anything; it was just something I HAD to do.
And I finally figured it out:
My damaged and severely limited energy metabolism doesn’t have enough at any given time to do BOTH: keep me awake and functioning (or even get there), and digesting my food.
It took some tweaking, but I have found a system which takes advantage of my need for napping and my need for food, and times them so that they don’t conflict.
So now I run a time-share
I get up, drink First Diet Coke, and try to get a bit of writing or organizing done before I eat anything.
When hunger tends to shut me down – anywhere from a few minutes to a couple of hours later – I prepare for the next phase: I eat something (mostly protein), but I start getting ready for the changeover from thinking to digesting. I take notes so I can pick up easily when I come back.
And when I feel the waves starting, I get into my jammies, pull the shades, turn the lights off and add an eyemask to block external stimuli, and get in bed.
I set a timer for 35 minutes.
If the wave approach is gentle, I’ll do a quick range-of-motion set, a couple of minutes worth.
If the approach is sudden and severe, I just crash. I used to fear this part – now I just realize I dragged my feet too much.
Lights out. Body temperature drops abruptly (ergo, the jammies). Sometimes deep sleep, sometimes a coma-like state.
The digestive part of the vagus nerve’s control takes over – and I don’t get in its way. No reading. No TV. NO COMPUTER. No trying to think, or push through it, or ignore it.
Just give in.
And when the alarm goes off
I get up, stretch a bit. Get some water, and Second Coke, and NO FOOD.
And within minutes I’m functional again (inasmuch as I’m ever functional), and I can usually work/write for an hour or two until I’ve used up my nap energy, and need food again.
I try not to do Third Coke after Second Nap – that’s too much caffeine for the day (each can is about 45mg of caffeine – peanuts compared with a cup of coffee or an energy drink, but it’s about as much as I can tolerate at a time without getting scarily shaky).
What I should do is not drink First Coke until after First Nap, but that has other physical problems related to it that I prefer not to go into here.
For years I’ve taken 3-5 of these 35 minute naps every day.
And I ALWAYS wake up in a better state than I laid down in.
But this is the first time I’ve coordinated all the pieces, and added the realization that DIGESTION TAKES PHYSICAL ENERGY.
And that my energy supplies are so low, I can’t afford to have the processes of thinking and starting digestion going at the same time.
I’ve been testing this system for the past week
I’m only taking 1-2 naps most days – probably because they are at the right time.
Eating is the trigger – every time. I hadn’t realized how strong it is as a trigger. Though it makes perfect sense: you eat, your body starts digestion. Duh!
Not having a good night’s sleep can cost me the first workable period, and, on a bad sleep night, I may not be able to recover the following day at all.
If I exercise at all – and right now we’re only allowed to use the pool in a predetermined half-hour slot during the 8-11am time – even if it’s the gentlest possible stretching in water – most or all of the rest of the day is shot, because I can’t make up that energy. So the two swim days a week are going to be non-writing days, most likely. Evening would work, but the county rules for the pandemic require a staff person supervising, and the facility is only providing that on weekdays in the morning. Before, I used the pool alone whenever I wanted to, and it was usually in the late afternoon or evening.
If I try to defeat the system and push through, all I do is foul everything up, and get neither rest nor functionality nor good digestion. Timing is critical, as is diversion of energy from one stream to the other.
I might have figured it out sooner
if I had a readout somewhere on my body of both energy usage and remaining stored energy.
I’ve been fighting this battle for years, but I never got quite the data until I noticed the crash after eating – and thought about it. And then it made sense: I’m broken, but I still have some small amount of control.
What I need was all this pandemic isolation and time, and the frustration of the crashes, and some insight that I still don’t know where I got. I have time – lots of it – but was not making much progress in writing NETHERWORLD, except what felt like randomly.
And when the brain was there, I could write for a while – and then it would go.
The PRINCIPLE is the key
I have only enough energy for one process at a time.
I’m lucky I do. I think aging takes its toll, too, and I’m probably producing less energy, total, every year.
Many people with what I have don’t have even this amount to work with – and spend their days playing catch up, with task after basic task barely getting done.
I’ve written this in the hopes of saving someone else with this kind of severe energy deficiency management the years of figuring out how to make the most of their energy creation and storage capacity.
Please let me know if this is of any use.
And pray it makes me a faster writer – I really do well with my brain on!
My thanks to Stencil for the capacity to make interesting images for these posts. Give them your business if you need to produce this kind of image – they have lots more stuff available than the free accounts use.
It has become common for writers to tell other writers how to write.
Unless they are discouraging other writers deliberately to keep the competition down!
And every writer who has any control (beginners can often see only one way to do things) constantly makes choices:
Is this word the best word for this use?
Will MY readers think this is pretentious – or the reason they read ME?
If I use a sentence fragment as part of my style, or this particular character’s mental processes, or [select reason] – will MY readers get their panties in a twist?
Can my intended readers follow plot complexities?
And – most importantly – am I limiting myself by the way I prefer to write?
All of these are valid questions, all have to be answered regularly, all have many answers.
How to choose?
I’m asking myself these questions, as usual, because I just finished the last two scenes in a chapter, and it took me two whole days of using AutoCrit (my online editing program) to get the text the way I wanted it.
Two whole days of whatever brainpower I could muster is still a lot of hours.
And they are hard work. Choices come down to nuance, nuance to familiarity, familiarity to everything I’ve ever read – and processed.
For an example, I’ll put up a section of these scenes, and show the differences:
There are hundreds of little changes between when I’m finished with the story and when I’m finished with the language.
The original was fine, with nothing hugely wrong.
But I’ll find I overused a particular word or phrase.
Or a piece of dialogue doesn’t sound like the character (Cecily, like Andrew, is Irish).
In fact, just as I finished checking the above comparison, I realized I’m missing two places where my tiny intimation of the speaker being Irish is incorrect (I use ye’re – but still have you’re) – and that will be checked several more times before publication.
This section comes from Scrivener – and is missing italics. I’ll have to check to make sure those are as I want them, as discussed in a post on my stylistic choices.
I do my own editing
This is a statement of fact, not a battle-cry.
I found early that my brain is too damaged to do the negotiating, arguing, back and forth, discussing – that goes with having someone else edit your work.
And that it was easier for me to take on the task, plus it forced me to improve my bad habits immediately.
I like the control. I accept the responsibility. And the mistakes I make will get corrected asap if egregious, with the next major revision if minor.
And there isn’t an ant’s chance with an anteater that I’ll have to defend my own choices: nobody can possibly know my style better than I can.
I have the sense to use an excellent beta reader – and always pay attention to what she catches or notices (she’s usually right).
For someone like me, it even saves a lot of time (a relatively expensive commodity for me). Because I handle a single scene (up to maybe 3k) at a time, and it’s familiar to me because I just wrote it, so I don’t have to reload anything into my memory.
The pitfalls of that are obvious: the mistakes will get overlooked because they are so familiar. So I have many passes for just one thing. I have checklists. I keep a list of the things I haven’t mastered.
Nothing’s perfect, but that does get a lot of the little typo buggers.
Is it ‘good enough’?
Yes – after I put the hours, the work in.
Is it getting easier? Yes – if I still put the hours in, and the work, and don’t try to shorten the editing phase by getting impatient to finish.
I think it matters.
It does make me very slow.
I think it’s worth the effort.
Does lack of editing in published work irritate you? Do you notice it?
Thanks again to Stencil for the ability to create graphics – and their free account. If I ever need more than ten a month, I’ll get their paid subscription!
But the last flooring was installed, the staging ladies have done their thing, and our real estate agent is now our real estate agent (all the advice up front doesn’t count until you sign on the dotted line – at which point all kinds of things start happening, like open houses and a lock box on your front door…).
We haven’t recovered from the trip.
We have no place for our stuff – the stuff we need to function as inhabitants of a house (where is my skillet, and how will I make eggs when the gas isn’t reconnected yet?). Which may be a problem, as the period between when you put a house ‘on the market,’ and the time when you are removing your last belongings so you can hand over the keys, is an unknown variable.
I don’t know where anything is
It happens to everyone, but it is especially hard to deal with when you have ME/CFS and daily brain fog: and now it’s far worse because some of the stuff in this house was put away by someone other than me, in a hurry, and without labeling either the box or the corresponding card in my card file. Or worse still, labeled as ‘miscellaneous.’ Aargh!
I located a few of the critical items in very odd places. Not sure I have everything I need, as distinct from the comforts, even yet.
And the dryer vent, taped by the painter, is loose – so I’m not sure I can do laundry (I’m living with the absolute minimum amount of clothes out).
Everything is to be kept tidy
And by ‘tidy’ we mean the way the staging ladies left it (a model home look), or restorable to that condition on short warning, when someone uses the system to ‘book an appointment.’ Aargh!
Meanwhile, we do have to be allowed to eat. Other Half and his good friend are down there trying to reconnect, safely, the gas to the stove.
But the forever home may be available soon
Don’t know exactly when, as they actually have to get everything they asked us for, and decide whether they want us. It is possible for them to reject us.
And it is possible for us to be legally required to leave our ex-home because it belongs to someone else after all these years, before we have a place to land.
It’s a first-world type problem – and I’m not whining – except complicated by my limitations. Residence Inn America for two months? We probably could survive. Rent or buy an RV? Ditto. I think.
So we’re adjusting.
And I’m marveling that I’m still standing – and taking a nap every chance I get so that I can be coherent for the next crisis event. Such as talking to the people at our brokerage (Vanguard) and being able to satisfy them that I’m me, so we could transfer money. By phone. Since the money has actually been received at the other end by the right people, I did it.
A bit nerve-wracking: you will be asked a series of questions, based on (?) publicly available information, and if you miss one, you’ll have to go the long route of being identified some other way. I’m still chuckling over one question about a boat we owned. And wondering where husband hid it all these years.
I love Vanguard. They get things done, and always have alternatives. I am currently furious at one of our banks for the way they made a decision (which led to the nerve-wracking phone ID). And at the other for the fraught way they handle wire transfers, as if you were a criminal actively trying to circumvent laws. Why is it that the people the laws are intended to protect always feel the brunt, while the people who should be caught and punished never even feel a thing? Being law-abiding is becoming more difficult every day.
There is a For Sale sign on my yard. After 37 years.
Life is interesting, but I’m finding the watershed point was signing those papers, and I’m strangely free.
That and the deposit wire-transfer going through on the same day is… unexpected.
There is an oddness to the idea of pineapples in the wild that pleases me.
The modern pineapple is a huge, heavy fruit, supported by a strong stalk. Much like modern melons, watermelons, and papayas, it is hard to believe (okay, impossible) that they are the way we see in the supermarket solely due to evolution.
Evolution produces fruit which attracts animals that eat the fruit and scatter the plants’ seeds, with their poop (fertilizer) somewhat farther away than the plant can throw. In our case, the pineapple, continents away. Shop Rite has pineapples.
Why pineapples, and why now?
Because I have to get back to writing blog posts.
It has been a desert for a while, as all the chores crowded in to vacation and retirement community decision and coming back to a house where everything was in boxes (for the painters) and the staging ladies had transformed the now-sparse contents into a model home.
So many things that HAVE to be done crowded out the optional ones.
The lack of window shades on most windows makes it like living in a fish bowl, only fish are not required to clean their own bowl. It’s nice if they do (by eating the algae, etc.), but that’s asking for perfection. Husband has done marvels with something I didn’t even know existed: temporary paper shades from Amazon which get cut to the right width with scissors, and attached with temporary mounts.
Sleeping has been possible, at least in our bedroom.
Where did THIS pineapple come from?
Stencil – I was looking for an image to write some words on, and the pineapple grabbed me, since I know I saw a picture the kids took on a hike with a wild pineapple growing in a fields (might have been a former Dole plantation).
Today is the first day in a while that something major and required didn’t take over all the energy for the day, but I have gotten out of the habit of putting my thoughts into some kind of order, and I’ve been a total slug all day.
And now we come to the single part.
I check my emails several times a day. Just habit. And hoping there might be an interesting thing to read, or a tidbit of a conversation setting itself up. And one not purely utilitarian and needing an answer, like the email from the woman at the solar company who needs my monthly input to get me the solar energy credits (SRECS) from our installation.
With me ignoring my blogs, and all, I am reduced to input (you don’t get much if you’re not writing) from two people today who saved my brain from the mush: a patron on my Patreon who commented on the new scene available there (the finished scene from Book 2 that I’m serializing). A very favorite patron.
And one of a kind I hadn’t seen in a while: a reader on Wattpad who commented, and is reading the beginning of Pride’s Children which remains there as a sample, as allowed by Amazon’s KDP for books in KU.
With limited promotion for either of these sites, I don’t often get comments. But getting one – from someone discovering my writing for the first time – was a kick in the seat of the pants as to how much I need feedback.
Single project authors can get lost.
Stories of authors saved by someone else: John Kennedy Toole, A Confederacy of Dunces, (whose mom insisted on getting his manuscript accepted for publication after he committed suicide in despair – and won the Pulitzer – posthumously). Austin Tappan Wright, Islandia (whose wife typed up his 2400 page manuscript after he died). Even Stephen King, whose wife rescued Carrie from the circular file.
How many more are there out there who spent years, decades on their creations (Tolkien) AND (the more important part) created something of great value?
Rescued by a single act of feedback from a reader?
Computers, word processing software, and the internet now make it possible for writers to create works which are massive and available to many – if the many only look.
As in everything, I fear the great majority of the epics are not great fiction (wouldn’t know, haven’t read them) simply because of Sturgeon’s Law: statistically, they can’t be. But those many projects include a few good ones for some reader somewhere.
Readers keep us writers working. It’s that simple.
Unless the writer has many other sources of support as a writer, the projects can seem hobbies, dilettantism, something to do that is not video games or watching TV.
I thank today’s two readers. It had gotten a bit parched. I’m still here. I love readers.
Must get moving both on writing – and promotion – to find more. I am not unhappy to admit I need them. Even if I claim to write for myself.
I have acquired a new job: living in a house with white carpets.
We made one of the two choices offered:
Sell the house after cleaning it up and fixing the obvious and/or necessary problems, or
Update the house as much as possible before putting it on the market.
The easy choice: sell more or less as is
Clean things up.
Touch up all the paint – I still have the cans of good quality Benjamin Moore paint in the basement, and a card file with a paint sample for each, and a list of which rooms are painted/trimmed in that color.
Have the carpets cleaned.
Add a credit to the house price for new flooring to be chosen by the new owners to their taste – and which it would be so much simpler to have installed when the house is empty between us leaving and them moving in.
Put on market.
Live in your own home, only tidier, until it sells.
The hard and expensive choice: upgrades
The lovely staging ladies we hired and the husband decided to go with alternative #2.
They say (and I hope they are right!) that homes that look dated don’t sell – because the homebuyers of today lack the imagination to see their own possessions in a house decorated by and full of the belongings of – someone else.
Our real estate agent said that the division among buyers was about 50/50, and we should do what we wanted to. That many people who might buy a four bedroom house were locals moving up, and would be buying for the school district and for more room for a growing family.
But she seems excited that the upgrades are being done, and is hopeful they will help sell the house more quickly.
Houses that don’t sell can hold up future plans
Which puts us in an interesting position.
Because we are looking for the best fit in a CCRC (continuing care retirement community), and will go to a lot of trouble to pick a specific one (or small number thereof) which will suit us, and they tend to be close to full capacity, we may be on a waiting list for a while.
This means 1) we need to get on that waiting list asap, and 2) we may be living like gypsies in a caravan, with this one sold, and no place to go for sure, for an indefinite amount of time.
After all our planning!
The supposedly accepted method is to wait until they offer you the place you want at the CCRC of your choice, and THEN put your house on the market and sell it in the typical 60-90 days it takes for the CCRC to have the unit you are offered ready for habitation.
The cart has gotten before the horse
On the theory that even if we were doing the ‘accepted method,’ we might as well get started on the known necessary repairs, and we did – but I never expected them to turn us out of our home, and to be living in a house – sans window coverings because the painter wants them gone and houses show better without them (!) – for an indefinite time, with NO unit offered to us for us to move to.
Not exactly sure how it has happened.
Part of it was the wish to get the house to market during the supposed spring selling time frame (which we will have missed).
Another, other houses staying on the market for a long time.
The third – get other people involved, when the one of the homeowners has very little energy and really needs help – and the juggernaut takes hold and roles on.
And now everything we own is in boxes in the basement – to get it out of the way of the carpet installers (here all day yesterday), the kitchen/dining flooring installers (soon), and the painter (thankfully scheduled while we will be away).
We’ll be living, for an indeterminate amount of time (hope it isn’t long), in a house with no shades.
And white carpets.
And white walls.
And everyone agreeing that it is much harder to get stains out of white carpets!
Learn from me: you can’t control the juggernaut, and you keep poking away at the things you can control (changing the carpets) before you realize what you’ve done.
Corollary to Murphy’s Law: Anything that can go wrong will, and will cause a lot more work.
Another reminder to do these things sooner rather than later if you want to have any choice in the matter. I can’t imagine doing this ten years from now.
Over this past week, while struggling with the chore of de-junking a house, divesting myself of decades worth of stuff, and getting my singing in, I have been physically exhausted (even though I direct the work, not do it).
The sleep I’ve been getting has been fractured, erratic, odd – and never deep enough.
So, the perfect time in life to take on another major task?
So, of course I did
As I mentioned in the previous post, I started a Patreon page for Pride’s Children; NETHERWORLD, Book 2 in the trilogy (see button on sidebar – I figured out how to have one with a link!!!).
Because, among other things, I realized that the moving tasks are ordinary. And while they need to be done, and every detail has to be supervised by me, and there has been a huge emotional content (you try capturing in a few scrapbooks about twenty years worth of homeschooling three kids!), it wasn’t hard, or tricky, or complicated, or complex, or even challenging.
Ordinary stuff. Every homeschooling family has tons of stuff to dispose of. Every family moving out of a long-time home has a lot of stuff.
But there is no great intelligence or problem-solving ability necessary; in fact, that gets in the way because methodical and utilitarian are the words that describe the process. Just do it. Make a decision: box it for the move, declare it object unnecessary, give it away.
What keeps your brain usable as you get older?
I’m convinced it is USING that brain, not letting it get fuzzy and lazy and go easy.
Starting a page on another platform for promoting your work – that’s complex and challenging. Patreon doesn’t make it particularly easy – I find a lot of applications which are developed for online and Windows use somehow seem to lack menus and a sitemap which works and guides that are more than basic – and I had to keep poking to find even rudimentary details. Such as which is the best way to get your money out (when you get any).
Inexplicably, for Direct Deposit via Stripe, the payment page gave you a form to fill out which required banking information AND your Social Security number, but which didn’t mention fees.
And for Paypal, it listed some fees which could reduce your take.
Thus giving you the impression that even though Stripe usually costs money, the direct deposit part didn’t. Making it better than Paypal.
Stuff like that. (It’s not true, BTW. But you have to figure it out based on the amount being transferred, by going to the two payment methods’ sites and doing the mental work.)
Digging and logical thinking
It would be nice to have no fees to deposit your money earned into your bank account – Amazon does it, right? Amazon’s fees are probably included in their calculation of their cut – they just don’t break it out.
Doing this kind of mental work, hard, new, in a different and unintuitive (for me) format is worth doing – because it keeps me flexible – for the next thing that comes along.
I’ve found myself getting lackadaisical about learning tasks like how to control the network of TV and Netflix and Amazon video and Youtube – the spouse clicks thousands of times a night while organizing a couple of hours of something to watch. I let him do it, most of the time.
But watching TV is not my profession. Writing is. And I take it seriously for now, and as long as I can do it. And it changes continuously, but no one is going to make it easier for me.
So I charge in, do the work, maintain the flexibility to attempt and conquer the next challenge, and revel in the ability to still master the new.
It’s exhausting – and necessary.
And then there’s all the daily physical exercise
Which keeps the physical pain under some sort of rough control, so I neither take too much additional medication nor sit here in a haze of pain, unable to think.
But physical pain is boring. Not intellectually challenging.
So I’m not talking about it.
But I gotta get my mental ‘steps’ in, and push that to the limit.
Do you find yourself slacking off when there’s something new to be learned? Are you conscious that you’re passing up opportunities to keep the ol’ cerebrum functioning? Are you making an actual choice?
Don’t forget to visit the Patreon page – the first chapter’s on me (pages are public), and you don’t even need to figure out how to create an account, and then have to close it. Feedback welcome, whether or not you will use the platform to read.
HAPPY EASTER – to those who celebrate the holiday religiously, and HAPPY PASSOVER to my Jewish friends.
As a blogger, lately I am the most erratic of correspondents. I am simply overwhelmed by the enormous lists of things that keep getting added to daily, often by things that insist on queue-jumping, and being taken care of FIRST. Me, me, ME!
The passport dilemma
On Thursday evening my daughter casually mentioned that she had just received her renewed passport, because it expired this May, and the family has plans for a vacation in May. As I congratulated her on her foresight, for some unknown reason I said, “I’d better check mine,” even though it turns out we’re not leaving the country.
BUT airlines always want you to show them ‘government-issued photo ID’ before they let you on a plane, and I have only two forms of that, my driver’s license and my passport.
So I checked – and, it turned out, we had BOTH applied for our passports together, ten years ago when she was 16, and mine was expiring in May, TOO. Funny how that works.
So panic set in, because the process takes 4-6 weeks FROM THE TIME THEY RECEIVE YOUR APPLICATION. Yeah, I can count. Late May is barely days after those 6 weeks IF I get myself in gear and get that application in FRIDAY.
Those who know me also know that leaving the house is a big deal, because of all the spoon-using steps it requires: Getting the brain on. Taking a nap. Getting dressed. Filling out paperwork on the web on the government website (’nuff said). Getting a photograph of the appropriate quality (thanks CVS). Getting a Priority Mail envelope ready from among my office supplies. Remembering to take the stapler to attach the photo. Driving to two different places.
These are steps healthy normal people take without a second thought, adding it to their list of errands for the day. For me, this is Hannibal over the Alps.
All accomplished. Home. Damp the adrenaline. Stare at the wall for the rest of the day.
The driver’s license.
The next day, Saturday, the husband brings up the form which the State of New Jersey, in its infinite wisdom, seeking to remove the people who MISUSE handicapped license plates and placards from their lists, forces the people who really need them to do MORE PAPERWORK, including getting a doctor certification.
I need this. I look up the paperwork, and navigate a DIFFERENT government site, start up the form, and get to the place where it wants to know when my driver’s license expires. This is not information I carry in my head, since I’ve been renewing by mail for years, so I look at the thing, realize it is expiring this very last day of March 2018. Aargh!
It is almost a comical repeat of the PREVIOUS day’s excursion (I normally try to leave the house no more than once or twice a week, and reserve one for singing at church. This is Easter week.)
It turn out the spouse (who does the paperwork since he retired) has been meaning to get to this. We BOTH have licenses that expire this very day. Oh, joy!
I’ll spare you the details, except that they include getting documents out of the safe to satisfy the state of NJ that we actually exist and live where we say we do (to be safe I bring every document we have), we scramble to get there after I figure out that, even though the DMV in NJ is CLOSED on Good Friday, it is actually open on the Saturday between Good Friday and Easter Sunday (go figure), and we have until 1PM. Sort of.
I frantically try to find something that proves the DMV office is OPEN, and hit on the little camera they have for the inspection lines! Which has a time stamp of NOW, and shows cars in line. They’re open!
We get there.
The line snakes out of the building and halfway down the block.
Thank God – and all those who fought for them – there are handicapped parking spots right by the door, so I can sit in the car while the husband stands in line, and finish filling out the paperwork, and get everything ready for inside, so as not to hold up the process.
A kind official, seeing me sitting in my walker, moves us ahead a few spaces.
We are out of there with brand new licenses, good for four years (we’re probably moving to a different state THIS year), and a whole host of papers to put back in the safe. But I don’t have to drive to church on Easter weekend with an expired license, and all I have to do is make sure the insurance cards – which have been sitting in the Master’s piles since DECEMBER – get into the cars before we drive to church.
And the Easter egg of the title?
I remember the first time I saw an Apple II something with a graphical user interface – and a mouse! – in the Apple store in the Princeton Shopping Center while trying to help a writer friend of my grandparents (Aaron ‘Rod’ Marc Stein, author of 115 novels) choose his FIRST computer.
It was as if I had found my soulmate. I gently ignored the salesperson (who was having a hard time explaining everything), and used MacPaint on the demo computer, with the mouse letting me size an oval, and add jagged and wavy lines across the oval to separate into sections, sections which I filled with the patterns available, to create a quite decent EASTER EGG. I can still feel the rush!
I wanted to find an Easter egg picture at Stencil.com, but inexplicably for this time of year, couldn’t among the free images for the month.
You’ll have to use your imagination. I seem to have lost MacPaint somewhere in the past many Mac years. Created in an instant by a novice, it was a thing of beauty.
I will be dead meat tomorrow.
So be it. We’re singing for the 4:30 Easter Mass at the Princeton U. chapel, and I wasn’t able to drive in for Holy Thursday, Good Friday, or the Easter Vigil last night (have to be in semi-decent shape to sing, and can’t do nights any more), and I’m not about to miss today. So off to First Nap, then lunch, then Second Nap, and the husband is driving, which will save energy.
Tomorrow (and the rest of today) I will be useless, but that’s my life.
Things get tied in knots; sometimes the only solution to a bad marriage is a divorce. But that applies in other situations:
Teacher/student – this teacher has it in for your kid, for whatever reason, and the only way the kid will survive is switching to a different teacher, or a different school.
Parent/child – the child must leave home to get away from a controlling parent OR the parent must eject the nestling which has turned into a cuckoo bird and is eating the family out of house and home.
Boss/employee – leave that job, if you can, before it eats your soul; fire that employee before she sets the factory on fire.
And one I’ve done once before, in many years in the system: if the main stressor in your life is a particular doctor, switch before they stress you into the heart attack they think they’re protecting you from.
The signs were many.
Doctors have different outlooks on life, differing way of using ‘guidelines,’ different bedside manners.
Because change is so hard for me and others with ME/CFS (usually entails MORE doctor visits, transferring of many records, finding the new person, hoping you don’t have an emergency until you’re comfortable with the new one, getting them to read all your paperwork…), we often stay too long with one who ‘at least fills out the Social Security paperwork.’ I don’t need that any more – but worrying about blowing a gasket (ie, stroke) from an occasional blood pressure spike is a sure way to spend your life worrying about your pressure, which RAISES it.
I had reached the point of considering my home BP measuring device an additional stressor, and the taking of the BP another. But I have friends who have had strokes, and it ain’t pretty.
It reached the breaking point a month or so ago when something (I have an idea now, but no proof) led me to have a BP spike DURING my semi-annual cardiologist visit, in their office. ONE measurement. They refused to take it again (to see if it would be coming down), and instead went to full alert.
Full speed ahead, man the torpedoes!
To make a very long story short, after having an abysmal experience with – and stopping after ten pain-filled, zombie-brained, gut-wrenching (lit.) days – another BP med, I switched cardiologists – to the one I just saw (and had met during one of my hospital excursions and noted he was a breath of fresh air then).
He says, not only don’t worry about it, but don’t measure it! He realized the process had become stressful, but that my record of measurements didn’t show a real problem. He suggested, since I need salt to maintain blood volume, and don’t follow a low-salt cardiac diet, that I might have had too much some night (yes, yes, yes! very possible – when I add salt to the occasional popcorn or nuts!). NO ONE had ever told me it could set off a spike.
He actually listened to my difficulties with tolerating meds, said I’d tried most of the first-line ones, and reacted badly, and that the next line of them would likely have even worse side-effects. But that he didn’t think I needed any.
I see him in six months, and the largest stressor on my list (death due to not taking the doctor-prescribed cardiac meds) vamoosed in a puff of smoke. Plus the secondary stress I was also ignoring: going to that office and that doctor. It’s subtle.
Changing was the right thing to do – and a serious object lesson: listen to your stress level. If a doctor constantly puts you on red alert, consider whether this is the best doctor for you. With the other one, I felt every time that I was defending myself from being put on medication I didn’t need.
Such a relief: I agree.
I should have listened. To myself. We’re not all alike; neither are they.
I was just worried the first one would prejudice the second one, and I would then have to go far afield to find… You can always stress yourself out.
And I learned that the salt I need may cause BP spikes. Good to know – will watch that more carefully.
Concerned about occasional blood pressure spikes, I asked the cardiologist to prescribe something with the fewest side effects possible, and was given a prescription for an angiotensin II receptor antagonist (ARB) called Diovan, which was filled with a generic called Valsartan – and I’ve again lost ten days of my life.
After I’ve had a horrible pain and zombie-brain time with it, I start getting more detailed with my research, and find out the Celebrex (my pain med and ONLY other prescription med, which I finally found after trying about thirty other things) and Valsartan (and not only other ARBs, but also ACE inhibitors and betablockers (my old pal from last year, metoprolol – which contributed to last year’s hell, and which I also won’t take again)) are contraindicated because each drug makes the other drug less effective.
I’m getting very annoyed at people who don’t check drug interactions.
Also, people like me, with ME/CFS, are often sensitive to even small doses of meds. Starting on a SMALL dose would make a lot more sense. Maybe they think it was a small dose. I don’t. Ask my husband about my pain-filled week+. I don’t like to spend a long period of time breathing through pain I can’t seem to get control over, while worrying about the extra load in painkillers and what they will do to me and my poor overloaded liver and kidneys.
Just generally annoyed – and farther behind – AGAIN. It gets tiring. And when they don’t even call back after a week after I reported side effects (they said they would), even more.
I halved the dose, then quartered it, then stopped. Five days later, I’m starting to regain control, and my mind worked last night for a couple of hours. Woo hoo!
And yes, I’m aware I’m two days late for Pi Day, and didn’t get any pie. Hope your life is more even-tempered.
And I’m still worried about those occasional spikes. But no med will help if I CAN’T TAKE IT!
If you’ve wondered where I’ve been, part of is these last two weeks has been entertaining a guest: Mr. FLU.
And yes, I did get the flu shot back in October (I always get one), and every year as far back as I remember; possibly that’s why the worst effects lasted about a week.
But getting over the whole thing is no picnic. I am on tissues with extra softness – by necessity. I can’t wait for my heart rate, which went up to 100 bpm and stayed there for days during the worst part (normally, for me, around 60-66) is driving me crazy because it is still hanging up there at almost 80. It’s exhausting in itself.
Life and my Universes
Also had lovely houseguests.
And today, by dint of I don’t know what force, I finished a scene I started, according to my notes, on Jan. 21. Way too long, but had only sketchy notes as to what absolutely had to go in it, no rough draft for this one, and no brain. I swear it feels no different, finished, than the ones I have more to go on than a title and several Dramatica appreciations. I even listened to it in the robot voice, and can pronounce myself satisfied (if I ever get there).