The (Metaphorical) Hangover

If this weekend was a big ol’ party, then today was the hangover.

No, no, no.  I don’t mean that I’m pissed off at anything that happened.  I’d love to go back and relive it all.  But I guess I wasn’t ready for the sudden influx of positive vibes coming my way.  I woke up this morning and thought, Whoa!  Did all that stuff really even happen?

They did.

So now I’m looking at all the stuff on my plate: No Tomorrow, the next Andrew Ursler story for Arts Collide, my research essay for Spry, getting started at Carpe Nocturne, getting the ball rolling with Kill-ifornia, and writing something for next month’s Roar Shack reading because I don’t have anything else fresh and ready for the mic.

So that’s *counts* six things on my plate.  There are twenty-four hours in a day, or thirty-four if you talk to my dad about his younger years, but with sleeping, eating, tutoring, and bitching about reality TV, that really leaves me about ten hours that I can dedicate to writing, or a little over an hour and a half per project, and that I can’t do.  For example, I can’t get 3,500 words down for No Tomorrow in an hour and a half.  I’m lucky if I can get even a thousand words down in an hour.

Fortunately, a lot of these projects are fairly light and don’t need to be worked on every single day, which translates to: if I can balance my crap, why can’t you?

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