I had a bad headache yesterday, leaving my head feeling like a bowl of soup today. So this is just to let you know, no blog post today.
This is a blog post. Alright. Since I’m here…
What is going on in the world of Edmund J. Asher?
[No image today, I tire of human-ing.]
The Sarimist Loyal
My novel is written, and rewritten, and rewritten again. At this point, each pass is likely only undoing changes I made in the last pass because I can’t decide which change I prefer.
So my book is in a sort of book limbo, as I’m hesitant to move forward after my semi-negative beta review. But here is the uneditable proof of my intent to move forward; I will be giving the most recent version of my manuscript to my editor no later than the end of this weekend (or the end of next Monday, whichever comes later). Until then, I will continue to dodge her.
The second in the trilogy, The Sarimist Betrayal, is more than half drafted. The novel that will come after The Sarimist Trilogy is also more than half drafted.
The ARTS Anthology, including my short story Gaunt as one of its many, will come at some point. After each individual contributor has sat down with an editor to discuss their story. I have yet to have my meeting and know not when it will be scheduled.
Apart from that, I’ve started work on an anthology of short stories of my own. (Three anthologies actually, each with a different theme. But I’m focusing on one at a time, or trying to.)
I completed my article for the March issue, titled Painting With a Twist… The Twist is Alcohol, several days early. Uncharacteristically early for me. To make up for it, I have yet to submit. The article is due by midnight. I will likely submit at a minute past.
If you’d like to read ARTS Magazine, click here for last month’s issue. I have an article every month, much to the disappointment of the reader-base.
I have my very busy schedule cleared for the ARTS meeting set for next Wednesday.
Miscellaneous (Masquerading as Human)
I’ve finished my reading of The Alex Crow this morning, and intended to review it today. But the energy expenditure for adequately reviewing a book is greater than anticipated. Coming soon.
A fellow human has approached me, asking if I would like to contribute an article about migraines to the blog, The Migraine Mantras. I have agreed.
Also, at some point in the future, I will contribute to Draconick’s blog, The Dragon’s Den. He may do with my contribution as he pleases. Feed it to a dog. Perhaps even his dog, if he has one. Burn it in a trashcan fire. Bringing him warmth would do my hearts good.
But if you like D&D, give his blog the gander.
In about a weeks time of being back on Twitter, I have gone from 200 followers to the cusp of 300. I am successfully masquerading as human, being slowly accepted into the #WritingCommunity as it is called. They seem hesitant, but I am confident they are fooled.
The only alternative is they pity me, and that is not acceptable.
A Day in the Life
I, Edmund J. Asher, awake at five in the morning, while the world still sleeps. I don the skin of he who was Edmund J. Asher and set to work.
At my desk I sit, first tweeting to the world that I am indeed awake and working. I have infiltrated the #5amwritersclub, an unusually cheerful bunch. What is there to be cheerful about when one is awake at 5 am?
Perhaps if my physiology’s reaction to their dogmatically touted caffeine was not severe pain, I too would be happy at 5 am.
And then I blog a post, once an exercise in futility when undertaken by he who was, now gaining traction by my efforts. They do not discuss that they are reading my words. But they are. I can see that this is truth.
They do not speak of it to one another, perhaps to avoid ostracization by their peers. Edmund J. Asher is a red-nosed reindeer.
After blogging, I feed the skinless husk of he who was Edmund J. Asher, because I still need his essence. He must be kept alive, for now.
Until the entirety of his experience has been assimilated.
And then I work on one of the novels started and abandoned by the prior me. His failure will be the fruit of my success.
But I tire, Dear Reader. For it is late in the week. My weekend is spent in hibernation, so that I may do it all again. With persistence, I am sure to find success. But the umbilical cord feeding me data from the prior sends fear, says I will never accomplish his dream.
He is correct, because it is no longer his dream. It is mine.
You will buy my books.
You will love them.
You will love me.