I'm trying to keep a space open for a daily hour of exercise (Dance Dance Revolution is proving popular in this household, though we had to replace the dance mat), but other than that, it's pretty much work all the time. Thank goodness for takeout, since there's certainly no time to cook. Thai food for the last few days, stuffed pizza last night, and today I'm taking the last of my mother's food out of the freezer. At times like this, it's incredibly comforting to have your mother's curries waiting for you. I'm generally sleeping like normal again, at least, so while I'm tired, I'm no longer utterly exhausted and weepy. A definite improvement.
I'll note that Justine Larbalestier's post about mid-career writers sums up how I feel right now, even though by some definitions, I'm still a novice. (HarperCollins keeps publicizing my "debut" -- it is to laugh.) That WisCon discussion was incredibly useful to me, and it just wasn't a conversation we could have had with a lot of beginners and neo-pros in the room. It would have felt tacky. Sort of like fretting about whether your son's going to pull up his grades enough to keep from flunking out of high school, while your best friend is forty-two and desperately trying to get pregnant. Two valid sets of concerns, that just don't mix so well.
One of the things I realized was that my stress is not just a matter of being overbooked right now (though I am) -- it has a lot more to do with feeling like the stakes have been raised incredibly high (in a variety of fashions -- writerly, politically, etc.) I was content with the incremental little progressions to my career over the last ten years. Now I feel like I'm on a swing and someone just keeps shoving me higher and higher and higher and while I admit to being something of an adrenaline junkie, there also comes a point where the terror of abrupt descent outweighs the thrill of ascent.
Can we please slow this thing down?