the morning after

Yesterday I finished the final edit of my book before I send it off to a couple of poor innocents whom I've coerced into being my readers. The function of a reader is to bring fresh eyes and tell you where, exactly, the love-child you've created is a big stinking failure. 

I'm not all that worried about it - it is what it is, after all - but I am feeling a little bit of post-Olympics let-down. I hear that after Olympic athletes train and train and train their entire lives for the Olympics, after it's over and they've won (or not), they end up getting severely depressed and going all nut-bar, like old whatsis-name swimmer dude.

For the past five months I've focused a lot of myself on telling my story in internetual book form. When I wasn't writing it, I was generally on some level of consciousness mulling it over. That is the longest I have ever dedicated myself to any one creative project, ever, and now that I'm done I really don't know exactly what to do with myself.

I mean, obviously I start the next one, but emotionally I am a little discombuberated and it's definitely a bit difficult to focus on anything much at all. I'm currently learning the ukulele, trying to put together some submission letters for a couple of children's books I did with a friend, and developing a screenplay while reading books on screenplay writing. I also spend a lot of time taking care of my little human toddler-monkey, and on Monday I'll be going back to work as a teacher.

I suppose I just need some new hobby, like booze or heroin, that can help me forget that I ought to be doing something with my life. I haven't felt like writing, though, and the only cure for that particular ailment is to sit down and write. So that, dear friends of the electronic world, is what I am doing herein.