After a chat with my rheumatologist, I am reassured that it isn't the Imuran causing the bruising (since my platelet counts are apparently copasetic) but most likely the Prednisone I've been on for a year and a half. Long-term steroid use and all. And I say: This is supposed to reassure me??
I've been telling my doctor I want off the stupid Pred for months and months! I know what long-term use of the stuff can do to a body. And lo and behold, it's doing it to my body.
Going in on Friday for a CAT scan. Never had one of those before. I cleverly scheduled it for 1pm, and the instructions say not to eat for three hours beforehand. Hmm, that would be during my normal lunch. Dammit. By the time the thing is done with I shall probably be about ready to start gnawing on my arm.
Still fiddling about with marketing numbers in order to pretend that I'm doing something writerly while the words logjam in my head. Actually, I've got a story that's beginning to coalesce. Been doing some research on the Japanese tanuki and finding myself intrigued by their mythology and charm. Got the dregs of an outline bouncing around, but nothing on paper yet. Not sure if this is a short story effort or a novella. Hoping to get it to burgeon into a novella, but right now I've got just about enough to make it a totally unsaleable length. Yup.
According to my records, "The Tax Collector's Cow" marks my twenty-eighth sale. I'm two shy of thirty. Why is thirty a magic number? I dunno. It's sort of an age of maturity number, I guess. It's also nice and round. So, anyway, two more sales and I'm at thirty.
You hear that, editors? Want to give a gal a break and send me a couple more quick acceptances to make my numbers look good? Helloooooo!
Well, couldn't hurt to give a shout out.