First of all, I feel like crap. The new NSAID my Rheumatologist prescribed, Diclofenac, hurts my GI system even when I take it with food (as they recommend). For several hours after a dose, I'm in massive tummy discomfort. And I have to take it twice a day.
I've also got some sort of cold or bug or my immune system is having a mild freak out. I've stopped taking the Methotrexate and am on hold until my blood test results come in, letting me know if I'm one of the 1 out of 10 that would experience life-threatening side effects on Imuran. So my immunosuppressant meds are reduced to a very low dose of prednisone--prime time for a flare-up. My throat's sore, my fingers feel swollen, and I've got a lingering headache. Plus I can't take anything for my various aches and pains except Tylenol, because they interact with the Diclofenac. And Tylenol does piddly squat.
Then, On Spec finally sent me word about the story they've been sitting on. 333 days. That's nearly a whole year, and the answer is "no." They said it was charming, but in the end decided it wasn't for them. Wah! I'm very disheartened by this rejection. I really was hoping to have found a home for this story. Damn.
Also, received a your "work was on our short list for publication consideration but . . . " from Flashquake on (duh) a flash piece they've been sitting on since November.
And Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine told me via form letter to snog off.
Sending everything back out again, of course, but paired with the lack of winning news from Phobos, I'm having a very dejected time of it.
Working on the Urban Fantasy rewrite. Ended up with something like forty-four crits of it. Should have it done and the story out the door before the weekend. That's the plan, at least.
In a fit of angst, fury, and despair, I started another novel. 3500 words into a paranormal romance. Yes, a romance. Why? Because I've never written a romance before. Glah.
This week totally blows goat chunks. And it's not anywhere near over yet.