I've given in to the Inner Obsessive Compulsive
I seriously think I have a disorder revolving around tracking orders, packages, hits, purchases, comments, e-mails, or ANYTHING that can be monitored via electronic means. Why do I think is obsessive? I am doing it every 10 seconds that's why!
Case(s) in point:
But you can see it right? I am riddled with OCD. It is coming at me in forms I didn't even know were possible. And the worst part-- I am looking for more things to track. To waste time. Or avoid work. Or keep my overly anxious mind busy (that is an entirely new post right there... pondering why I have this nagging anxiousness that just won't go away. My guess is it has to do with the rewrites. And this marketing material for my friend's book--both of which ran late. Caused me to lose nights, upon nights of sleep... or maybe it is just too much caffeine).
And, no, I am not making fun of the behavior. Yes, I am making light of the situation, but really--I am becoming obsessive. I mean--if I can't get my fingers typing and tracking, and viewing ever hour (at the very least)--I begin to feel ill. Stomach twists and turns. Eyes darting to the nearest computer (in this house that is a whole arm's length away). I need help. I need a life.
p.s. I am still considering signing my life away this Labor Day Weekend. No one seems to want to join me on this ridiculous challenge. I wonder why? Maybe cause it is sealed with defeat--or self-loathing. Or maybe I just that hard-up to get published.
Case(s) in point:
- my friend's book-- I have access to her account since we helped her set up the book. I've tracked her latest royalties like a hawk since the book's official release (please, buy the book if you like science fiction. You will make her day!). I'm tracking my reviewers orders--since we have a few people still waiting to review the thing.
- I am tracking my husband's package (see? now I am tracking other people's things!) that is due to arrive today
- My e-mail is dead today. All of them (work, personal, and list only address). I believe me when I tell you I have checked them every five minutes.
- Progress on the marketing material I created for the same friend as above, for her book premiere today at Bubonicon 37. I've monitored that a good five times today. The poor FedExKinkos employees down the road from Wyndam Airport Hotel--I've called a good four times and then e-mail maybe a half-dozen messages.
- And then we have my queries. Those are a constant tracking item. How many days has the agent had it, how many months for big NY editor, how far from the contest winner announcements am I (yeah, the one that is left... I am waiting until October for any word).
- Then, there are the personal monitors-- how many words am I at for the current work-in-progress? How many days has it been since I talked with the insider that might get my first novel out of the slush pile (17! Man! Darn birthday, family travel, and parties. I have to get my ass moving... I've just reached the half-way mark on the additions of the subplots)?
- And of course, how could I forget you, dear blog and blog readers-- how many hits today? How many feeds? How many comments?
But you can see it right? I am riddled with OCD. It is coming at me in forms I didn't even know were possible. And the worst part-- I am looking for more things to track. To waste time. Or avoid work. Or keep my overly anxious mind busy (that is an entirely new post right there... pondering why I have this nagging anxiousness that just won't go away. My guess is it has to do with the rewrites. And this marketing material for my friend's book--both of which ran late. Caused me to lose nights, upon nights of sleep... or maybe it is just too much caffeine).
And, no, I am not making fun of the behavior. Yes, I am making light of the situation, but really--I am becoming obsessive. I mean--if I can't get my fingers typing and tracking, and viewing ever hour (at the very least)--I begin to feel ill. Stomach twists and turns. Eyes darting to the nearest computer (in this house that is a whole arm's length away). I need help. I need a life.
p.s. I am still considering signing my life away this Labor Day Weekend. No one seems to want to join me on this ridiculous challenge. I wonder why? Maybe cause it is sealed with defeat--or self-loathing. Or maybe I just that hard-up to get published.
