The vicodin has just kicked in so this won't be a long post tonight. I can't take this stuff too often as it gives me hives after a couple of doses, but my neck shoulder have been hurting for nearly two weeks and I'm tired of the pain. I've been living with compressed/pinched nerves since my early twenties--I hurt most of the time, though generally it's a dull ache. The shift from warm to cool weather seems to make it worse. I don't have to be anywhere in the morning, so I took advantage of it. Good stuff, vicodin. Fills one with warm, peace-loving thoughts and a deep wish to just hug someone.
I've spent an hour or so pouring over market lists, searching out short story genre sites. Over the last couple of years I've accepted that I am not, not, not a writer who is ever likely to make it in literary circles. I can talk the talk, but I cannot walk the walk.
In casting around for ways to make extra money that will not conflict with my already ridiculously full schedule, I've taken another look at writing as a source of extra money. It is that or the oldest profession in the world and I'm not that good at it. I simply don't have the makeup for it. In fact, I hate it. I really, really hate . . . cleaning. (Why the look? What did you think I meant?) However, if I'm going to write for money, I'm going to write what I want to read--sci-fi, fantasy, weird stuff.
I've spotted several likely recipients, bookmarked them and now need new material. If anyone is listening (and judging from what Statcounter says, I'm talking to myself), I'm open to suggestions.
Okay, feeling dopey now . . . Best to stop before I start singing We are the World.