not that I ever should have left, but sometimes those repeated rejection letters and emails just get to me, and I take a break. Tonight I submitted three stories to three different magazines within one publishing group. I shall keep them nameless at present, but will venture to say that this publishing group has a hugely successful readership, and publishes for several age groups. Hence, three different magazines. (They publish more than three, but those were the only ones my work was appropriate for. At present, anyway.) Tomorrow I'll print another to send via snail mail (yes, some publishers do still accept hard copy. Amazing.) and in coming days will try to finish and subsequently polish a historical romance I've been working on for a couple years now so I can get that off into the ether as well. And for the record, I do not read romance, historical or otherwise. Anyone that knows me will tell you that not only do I not care for it, I LOATHE it, and think it is a waste of paper. So how did I come to write one? I have no idea. It began as a horror story. I kid you not. Yes, I know I'm twisted. No, I do not care. Truth be told, I rather enjoy it. Go figure.
Future writing plans include another submission to Wild Sister Magazine (I missed the May deadline, which was incredibly disappointing as the topic was healing.) as well as my usual seasonal observations for SageWoman. Sadly, in order to do so I will have to isolate myself from the goings-on of my family so I can get this work done. Previously that didn't bother me terribly much as there was always time to spend with them later. Now that I'm working away from home, I only have a certain amount of time to spend with my family, and am loathe to use it sitting at the computer. The writing won't get done any other way, however, and so I am trebly glad that my husband and older children understand and support my endeavors. It breaks my heart when my little one asks me to play with him and I have to tell him no, though. Usually I cut my writing time short, thus accomplishing little to none of my planned work. How did the literary domestics of the nineteenth century do it? How did Sarah Josepha Hale do it? How do I do it?
It's a difficulty I can't seem to satisfactorily puzzle my way out of.