Still packing. Still writing. Still having a rather stressful week at the dayjob, courtesy of unruly technology that insists on not-working even after months of people trying to address the not-working issues. Suspect that I’m going to go into work tomorrow and be told there’s nothing we can do to fix the issue, which promises to be the kind of adventure people have in mind when they curse you to live in interesting times. This despite working late tonight in order to try and rectify things, or at least get the news now so I won’t fret about it for the next thirteen hours.
On the plus side, today’s email brought the news of a potential reprint sale that means I may be able to cross yet another goal off my not-so-secret-list-of-writing-goals-I-have-no-control-over-and-therefore-don’t-talk-about – news, as always, once contracts are signed and things are official – and I’ve been quietly filling out the forms that will officially mean I no longer live in my flat, and there copies of books I’d pre-ordered in the post and new books to be pre-ordered so they can arrive in the midst of next year and the dayjob contained one of those conversations you get to have, very occasionaly, with someone who really loves the short story as much as you do.
So I guess, overall, it washes out as a win.
Or, as the Spokesbear puts it, SNUFFLES FOR EVERYONE!
Anyway, it’s, er, eight o’clockish about now. I figure I’ve got another four hours of writing ahead of me before I collapse from mild exhaustion. Tim to go back to the story du jour and see what’s what.
Wish me luck.