A Rain of Dreams – Part 4

She has been busting so much butt it’s insane.  She not only teaches in a new school, one which has been vastly over-hyped and is in reality a pit, but she also tutors at way-too-early o’clock.  She deals with a lot of stress and strain since I’ve been fired, and to be quite frank I haven’t made more than few bucks with all the writing I’ve done.  I know she wants me to be happy, but I worry that I’m slowly grinding her down with my ambitions.  I’m going to redouble the job search efforts and streaming / podcast work.  I don’t want something that has given me so much joy to be the reason my wife is in tears each night.  

In other news, I continue to enjoy seeing actual writing numbers on my production days.  In two days (Friday and Saturday), I cranked 2500 words of really tricky and technical writing.  It gives me great hope for my career to have those days.  They aren’t the largest days.  They aren’t 5000 word binges that other authors find so routine.  If I can produce at 1000 words a day, six days a week, I’m going to have a long and highly successful career.  

In an ideal universe, this is the release schedule I’d like to adhere to:  Two serial / one shot short stories a month (~5k words each), a novella every three months (~16k words), and a novel once a year (~56k words).  I think a schedule like that will allow me to generate enough to content to not only have fresh items each time I head out to a convention, but also lets me have some time to improve my writing.

Once conventions are a thing (next season), I will need to attend writing conventions / fairs / library events.  I have got to continue studying and making my writing better.  It’s incredibly important that I never consider myself ‘good enough’.  There is always room for improvement, and no piece of writing will ever be perfect.  It’s a lot like the isometric video games I enjoy so much: There’s never a point where a character is done.  Improvement is endlessly available.  

With further grinding…

“No!” The shout chased my recently severed thumb across the weapons yard.  I drew in a breath, holding back the screaming tirade I wanted to send after them both.  

The bright blue and silver blade wielded by the Archangel Michael returned to his blood as he let go of it.  He glared at me with his remaining eye, and walked over to the thumb he had so recently deprived me of.  Without dignity or regard, he slammed the thumb back into place, eliciting another yowl from me as Morningsong made quick work of reattaching it.  

“You are reacting without thinking, you ignorant monkey.  Reflex is only as good as the mind which guides it.  You don’t rely on Morningsong’s direction, and by fighting her your swings are too slow and easily predictable.” He made a rough gesture towards the hundreds of other Academy students which had stopped to watch Michael dismantle me.  “All of you apes need to remember this as well.  Your blades have hundreds of lifetimes more experience than you.  No matter what you think, you do not know more than they!” He yelled this last bit for emphasis, his glare turning on as many of the students as he could reach with it.

All of us seethed silently back at him.  It was easy for him to say things like that.  All the Archangels had wielded their weapons since the dawn of creation.  All of us had been welded to our blades with no warning less than a week ago. Having a sentient voice in your head, helping you control your reactions and attempting to use your hands for you, was more than a little creepy.  Not all of us had been able to handle it, and a few dozen who had gone insane when they bonded were executed on the spot.  Heaven had made it clear that the weapons were far more important in this struggle than the people who wielded them.  As Michael was so frequent to remind us, they could always find another monkey to train.