One of my favorite authors wrote a blog post the other day that was the start of the inspiration for this post. She said she thinks about every word she puts on social media to make sure she doesn't come off a certain way, but that day, she felt like she needed to talk about the struggles she was having. She wanted her readers to know that her life is not rainbows and butterflies.
Like her, I watch every word I put out on the internet. I don't bash the world on Facebook whenever I am having a bad day, because I don't want to come off as immature. I don't post memes that could be in any way negative, even though they sometimes say exactly how I feel, because I don't want to come off as whining. I sometimes post stories about how different people treat me, but that's strictly for education and awareness purposes.
Like her, I feel like I need to be brutally honest with you today.
A lot of you have been asking me when my next book is coming out. Let me tell you. Whenever I get an email asking when it's coming out, it makes my day. Whenever I get an email about how my book changed somebody, it makes my day.
At this moment in my life, you, my beautiful readers, are keeping me going from day to day.
However. . .
Where do I start?
May.
I will start in May.
I sent my manuscript to my editor in May, and like usual, she sent me all the changes I needed to do. I did not have anything going on for the next two months, so I told her I would get it back to her in July to do the final proofread. I figured because I didn't have anything going on, this would not be a problem. Get it to her in July and have it out in August.
Well. . .
Somehow, and I'm not entirely sure how, I received eight presentation requests between the middle of May and June.
That's right.
Eight.
I am now going to tell you what I figured out within those four months.
I can only type about 600 words a day. I looked it up and most authors average about 1,000 to 2,000 words a day. I can do 600 and that's when I don't do anything else that day. That means no emails, no paying bills, not even having a conversation with anybody. I really can't stand to say this, but something so small as telling my assistant to do something different can take up a lot of my time and energy. Whenever I do 600 words in a day, I don't want to do anything else or else looking at my DynaVox screen makes me physically sick.
Physically sick as in tossing my cookies.
I am going to use yesterday as an example.
Yesterday morning, I started reading through my manuscript, which was me looking at my computer screen for over an hour. Yesterday afternoon, I went to a new doctor, which required me to do a lot of chatting, which required me to look at my DynaVox screen and type with my head. Last night, my friend came over. I tried as best as I could to have a normal conversation with him, but I broke. I asked him if we could move the conversation to my recliner, because I felt like if I was in my wheelchair one more minute, I was going to combust, and there were going to be blood and guts all over my living room.
This morning, I cried. I cried because I can't do what I used to. I cried because I couldn't talk to him like I did in college. I cried because I can't be in my wheelchair for more than four hours.
I'm not telling you this because I want pity. That is the last thing I want. I'm telling you this in hopes that you will understand what I am about to tell you.
I have no idea when my book is actually going to come out. I'm hoping for December, and so far, so good. That sucks, because I really want to have a deadline. I really want to be able to say my books come out in a certain month. I have so many ideas I want to get started on.
But I can't.
I'm not traditional, and never will be!
Like her, I watch every word I put out on the internet. I don't bash the world on Facebook whenever I am having a bad day, because I don't want to come off as immature. I don't post memes that could be in any way negative, even though they sometimes say exactly how I feel, because I don't want to come off as whining. I sometimes post stories about how different people treat me, but that's strictly for education and awareness purposes.
Like her, I feel like I need to be brutally honest with you today.
A lot of you have been asking me when my next book is coming out. Let me tell you. Whenever I get an email asking when it's coming out, it makes my day. Whenever I get an email about how my book changed somebody, it makes my day.
At this moment in my life, you, my beautiful readers, are keeping me going from day to day.
However. . .
Where do I start?
May.
I will start in May.
I sent my manuscript to my editor in May, and like usual, she sent me all the changes I needed to do. I did not have anything going on for the next two months, so I told her I would get it back to her in July to do the final proofread. I figured because I didn't have anything going on, this would not be a problem. Get it to her in July and have it out in August.
Well. . .
Somehow, and I'm not entirely sure how, I received eight presentation requests between the middle of May and June.
That's right.
Eight.
I am now going to tell you what I figured out within those four months.
I can only type about 600 words a day. I looked it up and most authors average about 1,000 to 2,000 words a day. I can do 600 and that's when I don't do anything else that day. That means no emails, no paying bills, not even having a conversation with anybody. I really can't stand to say this, but something so small as telling my assistant to do something different can take up a lot of my time and energy. Whenever I do 600 words in a day, I don't want to do anything else or else looking at my DynaVox screen makes me physically sick.
Physically sick as in tossing my cookies.
I am going to use yesterday as an example.
Yesterday morning, I started reading through my manuscript, which was me looking at my computer screen for over an hour. Yesterday afternoon, I went to a new doctor, which required me to do a lot of chatting, which required me to look at my DynaVox screen and type with my head. Last night, my friend came over. I tried as best as I could to have a normal conversation with him, but I broke. I asked him if we could move the conversation to my recliner, because I felt like if I was in my wheelchair one more minute, I was going to combust, and there were going to be blood and guts all over my living room.
This morning, I cried. I cried because I can't do what I used to. I cried because I couldn't talk to him like I did in college. I cried because I can't be in my wheelchair for more than four hours.
I'm not telling you this because I want pity. That is the last thing I want. I'm telling you this in hopes that you will understand what I am about to tell you.
I have no idea when my book is actually going to come out. I'm hoping for December, and so far, so good. That sucks, because I really want to have a deadline. I really want to be able to say my books come out in a certain month. I have so many ideas I want to get started on.
But I can't.
I'm not traditional, and never will be!
