This entire week has been a total waste of life.
Being sick has done nothing to help further my career. I've been meaning to do productive things, like join up with the WFNB (Writers' Federation of New Brunswick); instead, I've spent it curled up on the couch, either sleeping or drinking lots of tea whilst crying into my cough-suppressant- not a pretty picture, but I'm sure that every aspiring writer has done it.
Last night, I started rewriting my final draft. I just feel that there's so much of the story that hasn't been told; so many important details left out, due to the perspective/narrative style I'd chosen to use; and that some of my characters have so much more to offer than what I've given them time to say. Don't ask- they tell me what to do, rather than the other way around.
I haven't been checking my emails all that much, either- I think that a part of me has preemptively admitted defeat. That's the M. in me talking, though- my inner K. is kicking me in the ribs right now, pushing my buttons and telling me to quit being a whiny bitch; sorry, K.
Now, back to sobbing into my Nyquil.