A Sale! And Other Things.

52-day sale of "Over the Bridge" to The Harrow. The Little Story That Could finally finds a home. Both of my stories based on a piece of art by tiny_wings have now sold. It also means that, at least for the moment, I'm batting a thousand for the year. 1 sale and 0 rejections

careswen's crud crawled across the comforter and crept into my nasal cavity. I'm feeling pretty miserable, truth be told.

I did manage to take down the Christmas tree and all the various decorations. The laundry and I continue to be locked in a life and death struggle. I need to price new appliances, and soon.

1150 word exactly. I might have gotten more, but I can't breath and the Nyquil is clouding my judgment and I'm pretty sure none of these words will survive the rewrite process, since they mostly center on not rushing a waffle or some such silliness. I very nearly wrote Mae and Jill smut, just because, but the sensible part of my brain reasserted itself before anything tragic could happen.

I need to spend part of tomorrow working on a basic outline to follow for the end of the novel. Not knowing exactly what is going to happen is starting to slow me down.

Death or a Word Meter?

A Sale! And Other Things.

52-day sale of "Over the Bridge" to The Harrow. The Little Story That Could finally finds a home. Both of my stories based on a piece of art by tiny_wings have now sold. It also means that, at least for the moment, I'm batting a thousand for the year. 1 sale and 0 rejections

careswen's crud crawled across the comforter and crept into my nasal cavity. I'm feeling pretty miserable, truth be told.

I did manage to take down the Christmas tree and all the various decorations. The laundry and I continue to be locked in a life and death struggle. I need to price new appliances, and soon.

1150 word exactly. I might have gotten more, but I can't breath and the Nyquil is clouding my judgment and I'm pretty sure none of these words will survive the rewrite process, since they mostly center on not rushing a waffle or some such silliness. I very nearly wrote Mae and Jill smut, just because, but the sensible part of my brain reasserted itself before anything tragic could happen.

I need to spend part of tomorrow working on a basic outline to follow for the end of the novel. Not knowing exactly what is going to happen is starting to slow me down.

Death or a Word Meter?