Not the whore you’re looking for

Before I get into the NaNo update, can I just take a minute to say–I am in a constant state of awe over the behavior of other people. Just when I think we’ve reached the bottom floor of the Crazy-vator, another level appears. People, there are sub-sub-sub-basements to humanity, and this year has been some tour.

Moving on.

I’m thinking the job has fallen through, but the good news is that Kent may be just about ready to let me have financial aid. You know how the Universe just sometimes tests to see how badly you want something? I think I’ve proven a thousand times over that I really want to get this degree. Now I’m being asked to show my Social Security card and my birth certificate to make sure they match. Well, they don’t, so, have fun there. I’ve already given a copy of the court order explaining why, but, you know. Whatever. Also, my birth certificate isn’t in English, so rock out with that one, too, folks.

This hoop-jumping spectacular has severely hampered my ability to write the last few days, and I’m, once again, behind. I need to write over 2000 words a day to make the finish line, and I’m not feeling so warm and fuzzy about that.

The process of plotting out my 2019 is coming along nicely, though. I am, yet again, feeling like I should be more active on Facebook, but I swear that place makes me want to kick puppies. Unfortunately, the second half of becoming a published novelist (after, you know, actually writing the novel) is getting yourself situated as a brand. I’ve gone on before about how gross I feel thinking about myself as a brand, but the reality is that being a published author is a bit of an entrepreneurial endeavor, and I need to stuff my introversion and my anti-authoritarianism into a box and just get it done. I don’t do anything if I can’t do it my way, though, so part of the struggle is going to be taking the advice I’m given and making it mine. I’m thinking a newsletter is on the horizon, but what in the world am I supposed to put in a newsletter? What do other aspiring novelists put in their newsletters? Not much worth reading. It’s checking a box, really. Just doing the thing we’re “supposed” to do.

I feel slimy at Facebook, like the entire place has this sinister veneer that rubs off on me just from association. The knowledge that I’m there for glorified prostitution doesn’t sit well, either, but I recognize I just need to play the game.

And I think that sums up my week. I’m just biding my time, playing the games others set up for me, and rolling my eyes through it all. Life does not have to be nearly as difficult as people seem hell-bent on making it. Especially me.

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