I am putting together the column idea for Luna Luna. It's going to be so much fun.
I am trying to cobble together a money-making scheme for next semester for I cannot continue to kill myself with stress and make myself monstrously happy but so terribly enormously gigantically unhappy teaching.
I am going to snag a residency for next year. I also want to teach in some summer programs. That would be completely ideal for me. I love to travel in bits and spurts.
And I touched base with my agent. Another rejection today, but with good reason. The book is difficult. It is not easily-accessible. These are lyrics, flashes. I suppose they would be beastly bad for someone who doesn't thrive on language. Poetry. But this was from one of my dream presses.
I suffered the stomach slings and arrows this morning, probably from a combination of things the last couple of days. It's frustrating not knowing exactly the thing to put my finger upon.
And then there's my ass. I don't know if it's because it's smaller, but my tailbone no longer appreciates my leaning back in my recliner. This is how I write. This is how I'm writing at this moment. But I have a pillow under my ass and am positioned in such a way as to make it less awful but my tailbone is angry nonetheless.
And I must work on the novel, which leaves me quite cold and full of dread. I don't have an idea of what to do with it. Except perhaps, just chuck everything I don't love and start from scratch. That might be quite freeing and I could use some freeing.
Whatever happens, being in the house all day is quite stupid, at least when it's clear and sunny. If I teach online next semester, or if I spend all my time writing, then I must get out of the house or get into different rooms so my ass doesn't quit working altogether and I don't become bonkers.
What is it that I did last year, when I wasn't working? How long has it been since I worked full time?