On the outside, last year seemed like a pretty good year for me. I went to the
Clarion West writer's workshop, met some awesome, exciting writers, got praised by
Samuel R. Delany and
Patrick Nielsen Hayden (even though I was excoriated by
Nancy Kress and bored
Larissa Lai to tears), and had an amazing six weeks in lovely
Seattle. At work, I got two promotions in the space of a month, and now supervise a staff of fourteen who fear and respect me. I've been in a stable and loving and mostly happy relationship for seven years. My grandfather was diagnosed with cancer, but was in remission within five months.
But as much as I have many things to be grateful for, the last month or two has been pretty miserable. I've been pulling seventy-plus hour workweeks. My internal critic that was developed at Clarion West just won't shut up, and as a result writing has become molasses slow. No more four hour short stories. No more off-the-cuff humorous essays. My grandmother's alzheimer's disease is getting steadily worse. I had bronchitis for three weeks, and didn't get it treated until I nearly couldn't breathe because I was so busy.
I'm hanging on as well as I'm able to. I'm keeping optimistic, and I'm mindful of all the breaks I've gotten. But I'm just so tired.