Dear God above, could I feel worse? Doubtful. Exceedingly doubtful. But you know what coming down with the flu means? Sick days. Entire hours away from my day job to sprawl in glorious, unladylike abandon in my comfy bed. Now, to normal people, I guess God-help-me-I’m-sick means rest and, I don’t know, healing up or whatever. (*SNORT* Foolish, foolish mortals.) Not me. Oh no. In betwixt and between bouts of fervently longing for death, I get to write! Productivity, thy name is pandemic flu. Behold and tremble with fear!
Or not. Because what I’m really doing is messing around in a promo workshop I’m taking through NEORWA when I’m not eyeball deep in revisions & edits. (Or snot.) Three books sold so closely together translates to no fresh content for me for the next little bit. Which sucks, honestly. I was grooving right along in my m/m contemporary, IN THE RED, and making whoa, did I write that? progress when the offers started rolling in. But them’s the breaks. A bird in the hand and all that. Three birds, I guess. Three and a half? IN THE RED might actually be a baby bird since I already pitched that one and promised the first look at it to one of my editors. I’ve also got a good head start on a m/m D/s story that I know, just know, my other editor would adore.
No! No more pitching books. I am drowning in books. Drowning in revision and edits. Drowning in workshop.
And drowning in snot.
Ugh. Back to bed.
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz…
