Remember in Clueless when Cher said Amber was like a Monet painting? It looks fine from a distance, but when you get up close, it's all messed up?
Yeah, that's me right now.
I have a deadline that seems insurmountable. A volunteer task that's as difficult as herding steampunk cats. Twittering and Facebooking and guest posts and interviews. A family to tend to, children to nurture, friends to adore, and a house to keep livable. Bookstores to visit, books to sign, mail to send, cons to email with proposals and hopeful smiles. Not to mention that I'm still in my first month of book sales and struggling to figure out how to keep sales numbers up when there's no clear guideline on how to do so.
In short, I'm a total mess.
I used to think that selling a book and getting published was my ultimate goal. And it's awesome, don't get me wrong. But it's not over when the book is on the shelves. I majorly underestimated the work that goes into being a professional writer. Deadlines mean you can't wait for the muse to come to you, and editors don't really care if you have outside commitments or a need to, you know, sleep. Right now, I want to be curled up in bed, listening to the rain and reading and dreaming of the next story. That's... not what I'm doing, and I won't be able to do it until, oh, June.
So if you talk to me, and I nod and have a crazy look in my eye, now you know. Inside, I'm freaking out pretty much constantly.
No rest for the wicked, huh?