Stress Fracture.

I worked long hours for many days in a row. I don't know, I think it was eight days, maybe more, eleven hours each. By Friday, I had a migraine. Yes, I've had them diagnosed, but not really treated with anything. I can give myself an aura by changing the color of my text on the screen. Everything grows dark for a few seconds. Usually, that doesn't get any worse, occasionally, though . . .

Anyway, the way I can tell it's a migraine, it hurts like crazy and responds to absolutely nothing. I ended up knocking myself out with a somewhat reckless combination of Tramadol and Benadryl. That put me down for Friday night and most of Saturday.

Part of what frustrated me was the fact that I could prove to myself that I was working very hard all those hours, and switching between five projects, I only got one of them done: the final draft of the first chapter of Ginger Snaps: The Feral Bond (serious fan fiction, BTW). I didn't get that done until Sunday, after concentrating all my time on it.

I expected to have a lot more done. I can only hope I get more efficient, because if it continues like this, whatever small chance of turning this writing whimsy into a living is gone.

Anyway, so, now I the other projects. I have a deadline tomorrow, a personal one, that I'm not going to meet.

For Sunday afternoon and night, I helped my dad and brother, my dad being old and infirm, and my brother being completely disabled. Monday, I got to relax with a friend, at the cost of not having anything to read at the writers' group. They already heard the first chapter, the one I corrected and rewrote.

I'm reading through an anthology of horror stories, some of them seem to be barely horror stories. Except at least a few don't appear to be horror stories to me. The Other Grace by Holly Phillips, is about a girl losing her memory along with all emotional connection to her family and friends, who has to make a choice to either be who she was or be somebody new. It's a great story, that centers on what a person's identity really is, but I have to ask, is it really horror? I guess it is, and it does remind me of The Twilight Zone. Even so, the abruptness of the ending surprised me. I thought it was reaching for a lot more.

Of course, look at me. I complicate up whatever story I write. And a short story, Maternal Instincts, needs to be restructured because I was building it into a novel.

Financially, it doesn't make sense to write short stories. Except, a novel takes so damn long. If you don't write the occasional short story, I could easily see your publisher, your agent and readership might completely forget you exist. If your novels sell, you could always stick those short stories in a collection and sell that. Or get a gimmick that ties them together as Ray Bradbury did with The Martian Chronicles and The Illustrated Man.

Anyway, things are back to normal now. I'm scheduling myself every day, and basically sticking to it. A great improvement in my life. My psychiatrist thought so today when I talked to her. Finally there's a med that seems to improve things rather than just keep me from getting depressed about it.