If you’ve wondered why I’ve been a little scatter-brained this year, slow to get back to folks, skidding sideways over deadlines, blogging not nearly as much as I used to, well, I thought I’d give you a visual aid.
That’s everything that I’ve had published in 2011: novels, short stories, essays not counting the blog. (Not actually though, the Wyverary Govournesse webfiction and A Silver Splendour, A Flame are not pictured, because we didn’t have any more screens to show online stories on!)
It’s just shy of half a million words of fiction.
If we went for the last twelve months? There would be two more books on that stack. Author is shown sleeping because that’s the thing I am most interested in in the whole world right now. I knew going into it that 2011 would be one of the hardest years of my professional life, and boy howdy, it was. It was good in unimaginable ways–the NYT Bestsellers List, the unique wonders of the tour, Australia, my new house. And hard in unimaginable ways–the sheer amount of books, the constant state of “on,” the deadlines, personal heartbreak, and moving into that new house. The fact that I have only three books coming out next year seems posh and relaxed.
At the end of a year I often berate myself–I could have done more if only I hadn’t watched so damn much DS9 or socialized at all or read anything on Cracked. I am lazy, I have no work ethic, I’m one year closer to death and I could have written more if only x, y, or z. I’m actually still doing it this year, because if only x, y, and z, I could have written the proposals that sit half done or finished my epic Persephone poem on time or not been so late on a, b, or c. But for the first time, I’m putting a boot down on that voice because fuck me, I physically could not have done more. I ran myself straight into a burning wall of breakdown, and all those beautiful books are what I have to show for it. Not bad, old girl.
Great Pumpkin forgive me my sins and grant me rest.