Spend the weekend writing. Wrote for nine and eleven hours straight on Saturday and Sunday, respectively. By the time I shut my laptop yesterday, my arms were throbbing lengths of agony with half-numb typing stubs on the end. But I didn't feel a thing until I stopped.
I can certainly feel them this morning. Ouch owie ow. Can't take anything to dull the pain, of course. Anything over the counter won't work, and in fact will likely make them worse, and I don't have any tramadol with me. 'Sides, if I took a tramadol, it would take all my willpower not to become a drooling zombie at my desk. Certainly couldn't write.
I've shoved everything aside to work on the story (tentatively titled "Daughter of Fire in the Clan of Bó-tù"--which I think might be overlong) for the Datlow/Windling anthology, including all the outstanding Tangent and The Town Drunk items. My things-to-do list is beginning to look like it's acquired sentience and has launched a campaign for world domination. And I've even stopped adding things to it that need to go on 'cause I haven't wanted to interrupt the writing.
This could get scary. Um, I'll think about that tomorrow . . .
Club 100 for Writers: 13
I'm batter with short fiction myself. Of course, it took me five unpublished craptastic novels to figure that out.
I like being an editor. I just read stuff and go, "hey, that's good." Of course, you need to have money to buy stories. That part sucks.
Go Eugie! Nice word count.
"it would take all my willpower not to become a drooling zombie at my desk"
"'Course getting there via word count creep is going to get somewhat grisly once I hit the "novella" stage.</>"
Novelette turns novella turns novel? Sounds familiar. Heh. I, um, didn't like, somehow curse you again...did I? Or maybe our muses are twins.