Monday, March 2, 2015

A Week in the Life Of . . .

Now and again people ask me, "What are you working on?"  I guess they think I actually work, which is a good sign.  Or perhaps they recognize that writing is work . . . especially the way I have to do it:  late at night or at ungodly hours of the morning when I frequently rise at 3 a.m. or thereabouts.  I'm not complaining, but my goal is that someday (in retirement?) I will actually be able to write in the daylight instead of in the dark.

But in answer to these inquiries:  "Yes, I am always working on something."  In fact, I am always working on somethings (note the plural). 

Last week, for example, was a very productive pipeline despite having the flu for two days.  Before and after the vomiting I had a number of deadlines to meet, producing four essays to be published in March, and I also received word from Poetry Quarterly that they were accepting three of my poems for publication this summer.  (I thank the editors and their kind words about those respective poems.)

In addition, I also proofed an entire book (Common Ground) now in the galley stage, and began working with a designer on another book that will also be released in May of this year.  (Two massive books in one month ain't for the faint of heart or for the sleepy . . . but I figure I'll have time to sleep when I'm dead.)

I also received word that another publisher is interested in one of my books on cancer--or, more accurately, cancer support.  I'll be hot on the trail of that puppy very soon and will have to write that one quickly.

And finally, I received word that my book, The Other Jesus, did not receive a Wilbur Award . . . an accolade given each year to various books in religion (kind of like an academy awards ceremony for nerds).  But hey, it was nice to be considered, though I doubt anyone would want to take a selfie with me.

All in all, a rather memorable week, puking and shakes notwithstanding.  

And, although Becky claims I got sick because I am worn out, I actually don't feel tired at all.  Rather, I feel stoked.  But I'd better be.

With all these pages to write and a short time to get there, I'd better buy some more floppy disks and keep my water bottle near the monitor in case it bursts into flames.  Call me a Luddite if you like, but I doubt there's another writer in America who is still dredging up work from his old Tandy 1000.  

Now excuse me while I catch two hours of sleep.


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