Productivity sucked. Sales sucked. And I have no one to blame but myself. Or the Great God Murphy.
Yeah. I'll blame Murphy. The honey bee invasion was definitely not my fault.
The rest? Well, when I complete and release only one novel the entire freaking year of 2014 (it was under the Alter Ego pseudonym), I can't expect to make much money. Oh, I was writing, but the concentration to complete and edit any short stories, much less novels, were beyond my capabilities due the extreme stress in dealing with the house in Houston.
And by extreme stress, I mean so bad that I ended up at the beginning stages of congestive heart failure on Memorial Day weekend. I had rooms to paint, carpets to stretch, and appliances to replace every time I turned around, and I found myself on doctor-ordered bed rest for nearly a month. It was ugly. It was scary. All I could think was I would die and never see my family again.
Things eventually worked out. The family's together now. I'm writing again. I feel a hell of a lot better than I did in May. GK keeps me honest and healthy by going with me to the apartment complex's clubhouse to workout six days a week. (Except last week. We both agreed we needed a break. But we'll start back up today when he gets home from school.)
So what does my 2014 experience mean?
It means I'm more grateful than ever for my family. It means I love my job. It means I've got lots of stories to finish.
It means I WILL be the master of my universe in 2015!
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