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It’s really a shame I don’t like coffee

I’m tired. Are you tired? Me, I’m tired.

It’s strange to think we’re only three months into the new year and I am already flat-out exhausted.

Maybe it’s something to do with getting old. Or being a parent. Or the current political climate. Or suffering from high levels of stress. Or anxiety.

Maybe it’s a little bit of all those things and then the concerning stuff I know is out there but have yet to identify.

(Or does that last one just fall under anxiety?)

Whatever the cause, I am done tuckered out.

Out of gas.

Kaput.

I’m so lethargic even my fitbit is starting to worry about me.

Fitbit: Hey, you OK? You haven’t moved much lately. Have you fallen down and you can’t get up?

Me: Urggggh. So tired…

Fitbit: If you let me Bluetooth into your phone, I can call 911 for you.

Me: No way in hell! I’d rather die that reveal my private health data to your master’s servers!

Now the conventional wisdom is I should take some time off, find a quiet place, and relax.

Soak in a hot bath.

Sleep in a bit.

Meditate.

Conventional wisdom is a cruel harpy, jabbing me hard in the side every night just as I’m about to nod off.

(Though that might be one of the kiddos, scared awake yet again in the wee hours by a nightmare and seeking comfort in the most inconvenient of places. I mean, their mom is right next to me! Bug her instead!)

In other words, conventional wisdom is useless.

Why do I say that?

Aside from the fact that being a parent and a full-time employee and having bills to pay doesn’t lend itself to such an exercise, it’s because I spent most of the last weekend in bed, sleeping.

And all it got me was a boat-load of dreams where I was so utterly spent I couldn’t keep my eyes open.

In. The. Dreams.

And not the pleasant, relaxing sort of dreams where you can keep your eyes closed and just lazily drift off, calm and content and filled with inner peace.

Nope.

I’m talking one-on-one meetings with my boss sorts of dreams.

Trying to cross busy streets sorts of dreams.

Biking on winding, downhill trails with no helmet sorts of dreams.

Driving on twisty roads with sheer drops to either side sorts of dreams.

Dreams where, even in the confused logic of the dream state, you know you really ought to have your eyes open.

Despite feeling like there’s wet cement pushing down on your eyelids.

So yeah, conventional wisdom’s approach to getting re-energized ain’t working for me.

I’m kinda at a loss what to do now. Clearly staying awake isn’t helping, and equally clearly, sleeping isn’t helping.

So what can I do?

It seems like I have two options, neither of which appeals all that much.

1) Double down on the coffee intake and damn the eventual withdrawal when I’m through this tough patch!

2) Keep pushing through until I have a physical collapse and then hope I get lots of happy, sleepy drugs while I’m in the hospital that will help me forget that the co-pay is really high and oh, there I go again, getting stressed about bills. Crap.

Come to think of it, those two options don’t sound all that different.

So coffee it is. I hope.

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Posted by on 25 March 2019 in Angst, Life

 

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Death of a traditional dream?

At what point do we give up?

At what point is it no longer healthy for us to pursue a path that isn’t leading to the desired destination?

I ask this question because of something that happened to me last night.

After a long and fruitless search, late last year I decided that I would give myself till the end of 2011 to find an agent and/or editor for my book Marlowe and the Spacewoman. If I didn’t find a route through traditional publishing, then come 2012, I was going to self publish.

I made a huge final push to find an agent or editor. There has been some interest, but nothing definitive yet. And now, halfway through the year, I’m pretty much resigned to the idea of self-publishing.

(I know, I know, the indie publishing scene is thriving and growing. The stigma of self publication is fading. But it’s hard to make the adjustment to the idea of the self-publishing model when for years your dream has been of the traditional publishing model.)

Last night I got together with one my critique groups for the first time in almost a year. And when I mentioned this plan to self publish, one of the members shook her head and said, in effect, your book has something to it and you should be able find an agent.

(There it is, the self-publishing stigma.)

And suddenly I doubted my plan. The stigma of self publication seems to be receding a little bit, but that could merely be the self-serving perspective of the indie authors I hang out with and follow on twitter.

There are arguments for and against self-publishing. There is one more than one treatise on why self publication is actually better for an author who has any business savvy. (And a pre-existing huge fan base, by the way.)

There is a sense of optimism amongst the indie authors I know that things are changing.

But there’s also that stigma. I’m not saying there are no quality self published books out there. There are.

Unfortunately, there’s also a lot of crap.

So what do I do? I’m getting tired of trying to find an agent. I’ve queried well over 100 well over – I know 100 itself is a small number). I’ve done the research route, you know, making sure you find the right agent to query. I’ve done the dance, I’ve jumped through the hoops, and I’m about as far as I can go without a positive response.

I’m not saying that self-publishing is giving up. My question here is: at what point should I give up on traditional publishing? At least for this book?

Yes, I had a moment of doubt last night, but right now I’m still sticking with the plan. I have one nibble at this point that hasn’t played out yet. All my other queries have you resulted in outright rejection or, even more frustrating, silence.

So I’m sticking with my plan despite my fellow critique partner’s reservations.

I just wish it didn’t feel like giving up.

 
 

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