Brief update: Insurance approved my CT scan, so tomorrow I get to be injected with radioactive dye, then I have a hearing test. Bring on the fun!
My editor emailed me the other day about some marketing strategies to consider for the release of the next book in my urban fantasy series. And while I’m considering her suggestions, I can’t silence the nagging voice in the back of my head (or is it in my ear?) that whispers: “What’s the point? Should you really be concerned with selling books under the circumstances?”
I hate that voice. It’s the same voice that asks me why I would consider replacing my shoes that are falling apart with new ones when who knows how much more walking I’ll be doing anyway, and how I dare I be so stupid as to consider writing a new series when I might not be around long enough to finish it.
I hate that voice because I realize some of the things it tells me are just good sense.
But it’s also a terrible way to live.
Mostly, I’ve been trying to carry on as much like normal as possible. I can’t go around constantly imaging Betty’s swinging a pendulum over my head and that every day it’s getting closer. (Honestly, I have no idea if that Poe reference is appropriate here, but I blame my mother for letting me listen to Poe stories at a very young and impressionable age for why that’s the image that came to mind.)
It’s not as though the doctors have told me I have X amount of months left to live. No one has yet suggested I start reading up on estate planning. (I feel silly even typing that.) And yet, I feel the need to be realistic and practical. Actually, it’s not a need. It’s who I am, and I can’t change my personality.
So when does realistic interfere with normal? And when do those options collide with the opposite end of the spectrum? The voice that tells me: “Go on and eat another brownie, buy the damn shoes, live it up while you can!”
Every decision becomes a philosophical debate in my head.