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Won't Say Anything At All
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I wrote this very depressed entry and opted not to post it, because it wouldn't have made me feel any better. It's just been a bad couple of days -- the Virginia Tech shooting naturally unsettled me, as did having to write an obituary for the son of an SF writer who died there (I didn't know the guy at all, though we had a couple of mutual friends). On a rather different scale but more personally depressing, the latest cat food recall includes food we do feed our cats, and the other night one of the cats was rather disgustingly sick, and now we're afraid it's more than just typical cat effluvia. We've tossed the old food, but still. Plus we're going to press at work this week (finishing the issue today, actually), which is always a bit stressful, and means I don't get my usual Wednesday off, which makes me struggle to hit my freelance deadlines and otherwise throws everything off -- when I go grocery shopping, when I do laundry, etc. (Thus, I'm running out of clean underwear and we're out of milk.) So it's a combination of small and medium-sized personal fears mingled with basic anxiety and a little numbness, with the additional inability to bury myself in peaceful routine. I'm trying hard to shake it off.

There's been good stuff, too -- some long-awaited writing money came in this week, which means I can afford to buy groceries, and the first blurbs for Blood Engines (from Kelley Armstrong and C.E. Murphy) are amazing. I got cover flats for Blood Engines and it looks great (I'll post the cover soon). I'm trying to focus on the positive. Me moping around and snapping at people doesn't really help anyone.

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