This is one of the days when you flat-out forget why you wanted to be a writer.
I have been working since 6 AM. It is now 7:21 PM. I have no idea how many words I have written, re-written, and re-re-written, but the number I can actually keep toward tomorrow is 536.
I cannot blow off, half-ass, or shortcut the proposal. Its successful sale will comprise probably half of my total household income for this year, and incrementally smaller amounts next year and perhaps the year after, depending on number of books sold, payout schedule on the contract, and pub dates on the book. I cannot delay the proposal, because I need to make the sale so I can get paid.
The proposal is, however, eating me and my HAWKSPAR revision schedule alive. I am looking at time bleeding out of my schedule like I sliced the damned thing’s arteries; and I know I have no wiggle room. My due date on WFH-I is May 30th on a schedule so tight that I’ll be doing copyedits on it a week or two after the first turn-in and galleys maybe a month after that.
I am lost, and somewhere between tonight and tomorrow, I have to find myself. And maybe remember all the things I love about my job, because right at the moment, I seem to have forgotten.