Of course, I have no problem with explaining what I do to people. It keeps me off the streets.
Speaking of which, despite being sleepy--I'm contemplating a walk, actually; it might perk me up, as I think the sneezing and tiredness are allergies acting up--I've managed to write two essaylet thingies I was meant to do, which means, since I finished the read-through on Undertow and the revision of "Chatoyant" over the weekend, all I have to do by the end of the year is the proposal for Dust and to write "Lumiere."
Then, of course, the 2007 to-do list ("Periastron," Dust, the rewrite of All the Windwracked Stars, and the revision of Ink & Pen, the title I hate) kicks in. But that's pretty doable, really.
Yanno, one of the things I had to learn as an artist was not to take myself too freaking seriously all the damned time. I pass this revelation along to you for free. If you do, the next thing you know, man, you're Morrissey.
Life is one big faceplant. Roll with it.
Oh, look, the cat's stolen my chair again.