I woke up with Double’s Captain of Her Heart playing in my head, and the song sank its teeth into the tail-end of a dream. A Lalique glass belt buckle was somehow involved, and all of a sudden there’s an entire story I’m never going to write. No, no, no. The world just ain’t ready for that.
Especially given what’s wearing the belt.
Realized–while making coffee–that I have three whole, finished books out on submission, and yet I’m not excited or anxious. Which is…strange. One of the three is even the start to a trilogy I really wanted to work on, but I am not perched on the edge of my seat, heart in mouth. There’s merely the low crushing sense of, “well, you’ve given the world a few more reasons to hand you bad news, so have fun with that.”
Maybe I’ll feel differently after coffee. Or a run, since I can now strap my ankle into a brace and hobble at moderate speed. That excites me; I do like the treadmill and it gets things done, but dear gods I prefer hitting the pavement. Which is not anything I ever thought I’d say, but the bug has bitten. Sunk its teeth deep and now I’m addicted to the dopamine of regular outdoor exercise. WHAT IS THIS SORCERY.
I suppose there has been stuff that qualifies as good news–my agent is happy, my editors are (largely) happy, the marketing folk at two different publishers took time to tell me they’re happy. Not only that, but the fireworks ban inside city limits (voted in 2015, became effective 2016) has done its work, slowly but surely. There was mortar fire the night of the Fourth–enough to made Boxnoggin shake, pant, and hide behind me until past midnight–but it wasn’t rattle-the-windows close, and walkies on the morning after were not a matter of dodging vast piles of spent ammo and cardboard casings while gunpowder reek hung in the air. In fact, the streets were damn near pristine.
So all that is good, it’s wonderful, but I’m waiting for a shoe to drop. Or an entire closet. Just can’t seem to settle, and while I can look at the bright side it provides little solace. I just blink, mutter, “that’s nice,” and turn back to the day’s work.
There are worse states to be in, I suppose. I keep looking at the Post-it taped to my desktop–amid a forest of others, I admit, but this one in particular–that says Balance is not the same thing as being in control. Some days the reminder is comforting, others it’s not so much, but right now it seems both value-neutral and deeply apposite. The sense of being at a precarious, trembling point of equilibrium, waiting for a shattering jolt or a plunge sideways, has lodged in my bones.
Today there’s base wordcount on two projects, a subscription drop to format, and the biggest chunk of working time will be spent on revisions. Yesterday broke the seal on that last item, fully and formally, so now I’m in the weeds laying about with a machete. I will hack a path through this text, even if it takes turning the font to Comic Sans so I can spot repetitions and typos. (Still mad that works. Will never be normal about fonts, never.)
I should get started while the morning’s relatively cool. Boxnoggin sacked out hard last night. Now he’s recovered fully from the Fourth and full of prancing, not to mention nosing me at intervals with meaningful looks. His Majesty is on a schedule, and I’m holding up the parade, dammit.
Upward, onward, inward, excelsior, and all that.
…Still thinking about that belt buckle, tho…