Meaning: Gary rushed around today-on his first day off after a seventy-two hour work week--tracking down the electrical problems in my office. He finally traced the problem to an unused forgotten outlet behind the boys' computer desk. I'm not sure how it became the source of our electrical dead space, but who am I to question the electricity gods (or is it gremlins)?
I am apparently awful when I don't have some kind of personal space to retreat to. So this had less to do with love and a lot more to do with calming the storm. Sorry dear.
Meanwhile I continue to edit Troubled_Waters and Willows Blood and deal with self doubt as a writer, but slog on anyway for lack of a better idea (though sometimes tempting--quitting isn't better nor as easy as it sounds). I was comforted in a small way by a story Jim Butcher, the author behind the Dresden Files, told about his own journey to publishing.
I especially liked:
There is an enormous weedout factor for wannabe writers. The good news is that you aren't competing with every published schmoe out there. You're only up against the rest of the wannabes, and it's like the old axiom about being chased by a grizzly bear. You don't have to run faster than the bear to get away. You just have to run faster than the guy next to you.
I guess I liked this because I am rather good at not giving up. But the results vary enough that I cannot say with any confidence that it's always been the right thing to do. Sometimes I just keep writing because I really don't know what else I'd do. Other times I write because I have a stage in my head and it's no fun putting on plays in front of an empty auditorium.