There are times I'm amused by the excuses people come up with for not writing. Then there are times when I'm less amused.
Today is one of the latter.
I've been back to work for a week now after the flu from hell. I still have a lovely little bronchitis cough that will not go away. It still doesn't take much to fatigue me.
For example, I had my annual gynecological exam this morning. After my visit, I stopped at Starbucks to pick up coffee for DH, tea for me and some breakfast. Everything took me a whole whopping hour. By the time I got home from just those two errands, I was so tired I could barely crawl up the stairs to our apartment.
Despite the lingering health issues, I've written a hair over two thousand words this week, and edited a good chuck of a novel. So when I read yet another article about some writer whining she can't make a living because it takes her ten years to write one novel, I'm like "What da fuck?!"
You get out of writing what you put in. If you don't put in much, you aren't going to get much out.
I've been writing, but not publishing (much) over the last couple years. My income has dropped because my readers aren't getting new stories from me. And it's no one else's fault but my own.
I'm trying to finish the multitude of stories I have started over the last two years. Granted, the month of April has been a total waste thanks to the hell flu, but I'm hoping I can stay healthy and finish a few things.
And if I don't get them finished and published, then I have no fucking reason to whine about not making money. Right?
On Not Writing
4 hours ago