I’m not dead! Really! The Hugo nomination did not kill me! It’s just been a whirl of trying to get crap done, murderous allergies, appalling taxes—I owed more than my CAR cost! And when did the state suddenly turn into a starving wolverine?—and more trying to get crap done. I’m in the death march stage of art for Book Eight, I have to start writing Book Nine–by which I mean I should have started it a couple of weeks ago–and I am trying to come up with a new project for Life After Dragonbreath, which is tricky and involves returning to the rejection circuit. (If you thought that once you had a successful series, you no longer got rejection letters, think again. You just get a better class of rejection letter, which generally boils down to “This one isn’t for us, but since you can obviously sell books, send us the next thing!”)
And we had our driveway re-graveled, which means that there are suddenly large gaps in the wooded area, and if I want any control over what goes there, I have to put the plants in the ground NOW, because disturbed dirt = weedtopia. So I am getting up every morning and dropping seven or eight plants into the ground, which involves digging holes in miserable ground. (Shrub sized holes, some of ’em.) Then I stagger in and shower and compose blog posts about how overworked I am, and now I have to go write on Book Nine, codename Toothbreath.
Whew. But not dead!