Matthew S. Rotundo's Pixeltown

Tax guy has come and gone.  I was pretty well prepared this time around, though of course it was a mad scramble to get everything ready.  Still, I have to say that after doing this for <mumble> years, I have a pretty decent system for it.  Not perfect, by any means, but pretty decent.

Tax season is also the time when I appreciate anew the database I built lo these many years ago, which I use to track not only submissions, but also expenses and sales.  And damn, is it slick, able to retrieve the necessary data with just a few keystrokes, which can then be easily imported to Excel.

Not that tracking sales is normally a difficult task for me, you understand—especially last year.  But still . . . it’s a pretty slick database.  Y’all don’t mind if I pat myself on the back, do you?  Thanks.

Once I got taxes out of the way, I managed to bang out another thousand words of that new scene for From Earth I Have Arisen.  Again, my inability to multitask is apparent.  But hey, word count, is word count, so here’s Magic Meter:

It’s gonna be a bit longer than I had thought, looks like.  No surprise there.  And once I finish it, I have to figure out how to insert it into the body of the novella.  I might have to break it into a couple of pieces.

But those are concerns for later.  Taxes are done for another year, and I can get back to revising this thing, which I hope to have finished by the end of the month.

Write Club update:  Just over three months to a tier one reject from Night Terrors.

Nose, grindstone.  I believe you two are acquainted.

I kept waiting for that new scene I needed for From Earth I Have Arisen to write itself, but it stubbornly persisted in not doing so.  I mean, no matter how long I stared at the blank page and that blinking cursor, no words magically appeared.

So I suppose it falls to me to write it.  And just to punish this recalcitrant scene for making me work, here’s a new Magic Meter:

I’m guessing at the overall length, of course.  Should be pretty close, though.

Ye Olde Obligatory Snippet:

They had squeezed Kathleen into a cot in the corner of the basement, behind a set of washing machines.  An IV line attached to her arm kept her hydrated, but the hospital had no other medical equipment to spare.  Six other cots had been crammed into the basement, all occupied by patients in the throes of the Red Death.  Wayne thought the one nearest the door may have expired recently; the wasted body lay motionless on its cot, the skin gone gray where it hadn’t been mottled by the telltale rash.

The smell in the place was terrible—a sickening mixture of urine, feces, and rot.  The surgical mask he wore—provided for him when he’d brought Kathleen in two days previous—did nothing to screen it out.

Still, the corner behind the washing machines, though cramped, afforded them a modicum of privacy.  At least Kathleen wouldn’t have to see the other victims.  And the dim lighting made her own rashes seem somehow less severe.

This new bit will be pretty self-contained, so no major surgery should be needed to insert it.  Once I’m finished with that, I have a laundry list of other items to address, but most of those should be reasonably easy to handle.

Adding to the fun, the taxman cometh this weekend.  And I still don’t have my expenses organized.  Naturally.  Hey, I just wouldn’t be me if I didn’t put this stuff off until the last minute, would I?

Right.  I’ll figure it out.

No updates for Write Club.

Off to the word mines . . .

Made some notes on the From Earth I Have Arisen rewrite.  Looks like I’ll have to write a new scene or two.  Good thing I had cut so much out of this story in the previous draft.

Now I have to, you know, actually do the writing.

What’s that?  A writer’s supposed to write?  Jeez, it’s always something with this gig.

Well, whatever.  If that’s what it takes.  But don’t expect me to be happy about it.

Oh, and I also made an appointment with the tax guy.  I figured that, if nothing else, would motivate me to get my receipts in order.  And it will.  Eventually.

Write Club update:  A personalized rejection from Waylines.  Response time, three weeks.

Up next:  Productivity.  One hopes.

Later . . .