Currently, I'm in a battle with myself. This is nothing new--it's been going on for 33 years this Wednesday--but the situation has taken a somewhat grave turn. My elbows are so arthritic they're damaging my nerves. It's being treated more slowly than I'd like, but it's being treated. Even now I'm waiting for a call from my pain specialist's office regarding the next step.
The upside of this, of course, is that I'm writing (or at least rewriting) like a mofo.
Because I can't really type for more than maybe up to an hour at a time right now, I'm looking through my backlog of short stories, fixing or finishing them, and sending them out for consideration. It's nice to get back into that; I'd stopped for a long time due to time limitations and health issues. I've gone through most of the shorter ones and sent them out to potential homes (hoping like hell here), gotten two rejections so far, hoping for a sale before too hideously much longer, and decided to cut a 48,000-word short novel down to a 25,000-word novella so I might submit it to more places. Because I'm crazy that way. I don't want to lengthen it into a real novel right now, so I'll hack it into pieces. Yay, the joys of being me.
My hands are hurting, so I'm going to give them some downtime. I think the length and breadth of this is a public announcement that, yes, I'm still writing. It's not as long or much as I'd like, but I'm doing it all the same. Hopefully, medical science will make it possible for me to start spending four hours at a keyboard again within the year. As things stand, I'll take being able to eat without dropping it all over myself. (There are reasons I don't wear white shirts.)