I am flicking so very very hard this morning. I have spent an egregious amount of time making my work schedule pretty. *laugh* I have spent time adding up the numbers of what I've got planned, to see what kind of wordcount I'm talking about, and dividing those great big numbers by numbers of reasonably-expected working days to see how many words a day I have to write to achieve those great big numbers. I have made nice tidy columns of schedules. Working Schedules, which are called Actual Schedules because I'm not even looking at the *actual* Actual Schedule (which is working very nicely. At this particular moment in time there are only two real duedates I'm positive of anymore. The rest of them I know aren't *actually* my working schedule, but since I have no clear idea of when they're really due, as far as I'm concerned the working schedule's the right one. Let's hear it for psyching yourself out!) Speculative Schedules, for things I'd like to fit in between the paying gigs. So-Far-Out-There-I-Can't-Legitimately-Speculate Schedules for stuff that's not even contracted for so why am I even bothering except gosh it's a good way to Not Write.
I keep flipping back to the schedule page and really really wanting to put "3 down. 7 to go" up at the top of the page, along with the date for turning in PHOENIX. This glorious achievement would arrive faster if I'd go write the 3K I have left on it, print it out, and do my edits. And yet here I am, flicking. :)
Ooh! I successfully found envelopes yesterday, so I will be shipping out books to people I owe 'em to tomorrow. Yay!
Ok. I'm going to ... go admire my attractively-arranged schedule some more. :)