Manuscripts and Galleys: 0
That's right. They are all sent back. And my apartment is clean, and my laundry* is in the washers, and I have nothing to do until Thursday, when I am going to buy bookshelves and lumber, with which I will convert my bed into a platform bed.
Oh, thank God. Because the post-novel ennui is hitting like a ton of lead. (I get post-novel ennui both after a draft, and after delivering some big stage of the book.)
Sometime next week, I will reread what I have of Pinion, and finish it. Then, I will write a gonzo space opera novella called "Periastron." Then I will fall over again.
But right now? The plan is DVDs, coffee, wine, and getting snowed in tomorrow.
Also, songs about stabbing, because they make me feel better.
*washing laundry is one of those things, for me. I'm super-avoidant about it, and then I do it, and I'm always like, that wasn't so bad. I have come to the realization that I have post-traumatic stress disorder-related avoidant behavior that is triggered by washing clothes.
Isn't that the most ridiculous thing ever? When really, doing laundry isn't all that bad at all. It just stresses me out because I have associations.
Thank you, Mr. Pavlov. Don't let the door hit you on the ass on the way out.
The nice thing about knowing how one is broken and having a little perspective on it is that one can see just how damned silly it all is. You can't fix it, of course. But if you know where the obstacles are it's easier to get around them.