My more loyal followers will already know I'm sick. Have been since January 4th. Nothing major that I know of: more a chronic sinus/ear/head/stomach bug that I can't seem to shake despite two anti-biotics, a round of lab tests, and regular appointments with doctors. No real diagnosis=no real cure.
Add to that my poor girl was involved in a rear-end collision in January (totally not her fault), and the requisite insurance runaround afterward spilled over into February. I finally got the car fixed two weeks ago; now I just have to bring it back to the body shop for some minor touchups.
And recently a dear family member was diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor, which has kept us hopping to Manhattan for daily updates on his condition and prognosis.
Clearly, 2009 has it in for me.
What's a poor girl to do?
Keep going, of course. I have another visit with my doctor today (followed by son's lacrosse practice), an appointment with a specialist on Thursday, another college to visit over the weekend, those copy edits from Avalon to complete (halfway through--should have them back to my editor before the middle of the week!), the day job which is probably wondering when they'll see me again, and edits to look forward to on my upcoming release from The Wild Rose Press (last correspondence pegged them hitting my inbox before the end of the month.) I'm presently querying the WIP I just finished and struggling to get Katherine's website up and running.
And did I mention I still have to do my taxes, too?
I'm not even looking for extra hours in the day anymore. I'll settle for a quick rewind back to 1984 when my most pressing concern was whether or not I should dry clean my jeans.
So why does Gertrude choose this inopportune time to whisper the seeds of a new story in my ear? Somewhere that 3-month old, Baby New Year, is giggling.