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Feeling sorry for myself

It’s been a slow week at work. In fact, a slow month and a half. It’s beginning to look as though the next five or six months will be pretty tight financially.

I realize how stupid that is as soon as I write it. I’m sitting here, writing on a laptop computer and transmitting my words around the world via wireless LAN while sitting on my couch in the living room and listening to classical music being piped into our home via digital cable. A new car sits in the drive, we’ve got food in the fridge and the pantry, and we’ve got health insurance to boot. Reality has been checked, and the whining has ended.

Isn’t it amazing how we can focus on one area of life and allow it to bring us down into the depths of depression? Okay, I may not have folding money to drop at Barnes & Noble every time I feel like it, but when I look at the things God has blessed me with, I am ashamed at my ingratitude. Sorry, Lord–I keep forgetting.

The novel is up to 13,800 words, three times longer than any story I’ve completed before. And it has a long way to go. I realize now that I need to take the “frontier detective” concept I was working on and turn it into a novel; I was up to about 7,000 words, and I can see that I never finished it because there was more story than would fit into a 3,000-5,000 word format.

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