Barely though. I have suspected glandular fever and a temperature that's flipping between 101 and 103 depending on how ill the evil germs decide to make me feel at any one time. I haven't eaten for six days (can't swallow anything other than liquid 'cos my glands are so swollen). Or spoken. Or smoked. Or drank alcohol. I'm barely me any more.
This made me smile though. As have the casual sex stories that have been flooding in for my book (thanks to Mil for posting the request to his mailing list of - and I mean this as a compliment because they have so many fab casual sex stories - utter sluts.)
On which note, back to bed. Bleurgh.
Things have gone ballistic recently, even by my standards. I thought that I was doing OK - I got a deal for my first book (A guide to casual sex - who'd have guessed it?) and was focussing on getting it written by the deadline of September 1st. Or rather, ahead of deadline because of the top secret project I've been working on - which, unlike my usual lairy self, I've managed to keep quiet. And now, I'm allowed to talk about. So I will.
Ever since I was about four, I've wanted to be a writer. And ever since I was about fourteen, I've wanted my own magazine. And now, I've got one. It launches in a few months and if you want to find out all the news first, visit the (very basic) website and sign up for info. But, as a rough guide, if you like Cliterati and/or any of the random stuff I witter about here, it'll probably be your kind of thing.
So, things were going to plan. I got the deal for the first book. It's 60,000 words long - which is quite a lot for me - but I got 53,000 words written, and could see the light at the end of the tunnel. I thought that I was going to be well ahead of schedule and be able to devote myself in a leisurely (eg, finishing work at 9pm) kind of way to the magazine.
When I got another call. From my agent (I'm still gobsmacked I have one) .
"Hi, Em. I've had a call from a publisher saying that she'd heard we represent you and could you write a book for their imprint?"
Now, maybe there are people out there who are blase about this kind of thing but, frankly, I was chuffed enough to get an agent. I didn't think that it would actually get me extra work. I thought that an agent was just the thing you needed as a key to get you in with publishers, rather than sending in manuscripts to get ignored. I didn't realise that anyone other than my agent and I would realise that she represented me and call to offer me work.
But obviously, I played it cool.
"What do they want? I'll do it."
My agent said "It's blah, and blah and blah." (well, obviously, she explained it in slightly greater detail but I'm still sorting the fine details so I can't go into it yet) and I said (still playing it cool) "Yep, I'll still do it."
End result is that, by March next year, I'm going to have a magazine and two books out.
Result right now is that I have two books to write and a magazine to launch. All with deadlines of September 1st.
And then I had a meeting with the Lovers' Guide who asked me to write another script for them. Deadline is - yep, you've guessed it - September 1st.
This means that my life right now consists of sleep, write, sleep, write, sleep, beer (well, come on, there is such a thing as priorities), sleep, write.
It's somewhat worrying that I'm writing so much about sex and haven't got enough time to even fit in a quickie. Hopefully, my memory will serve me well until I've got the deadlines out of the way and can remind myself of what sex is actually like.