There's a reason why my fanbot is one good sneeze away from falling apart. It's because I feel that way far too often for my own comfort and security.
For instance: This morning, I woke up with a grinched hip.
My right hip can move in all the ways it's supposed to, it's just that it's firkin uncomfortable to do so. Which means that, once again, I will not be going for my daily walk.
I need to get back into good habits. Else I shall fall apart even worse.
I am being a virtuous little 'Nutter and taking all my supplements and medications. And doing the little things like brushing my teeth and maintaining hygiene. I can remember to take my two cups of water before breakfast, at least. I'm having trouble with the other meals though.
And I'm doing vegemite soup every day to make sure the bities won't get me.
I just gotta get myself walking every morning. And remember my water before every meal.
And at least this morning, I have severe Dunwannas.
I can finish off all the stuff I'm doing. I mean, hell. I got a lot of stuff done this week that I was loath to do because skeered. Like finally publishing 2015's Year of Instants about three months late. Sorry about that.
I finally got Free Baby out there. Huzzah. Check it out here.
Yours to own on the electronic device of your choice for a mere $0.99US. Buy it now.
But now that it's out, I'm illogically afraid for myself. I don't even know why I'm scared. This thing is going to linger in obscurity and be one of the things that elitist douchebros one-up each other on whilst gatekeeping. Assuming I even get the obnoxious type of fans who even do that.
I want to go on the record now and say that I am 100% in favour of sharing the things you love. You get more people to rant about it with, that way. I really don't understand the people who want to keep others out of their fandom. Why would they want the thing they love to be less popular? It blows my fuzzy little mind.
I have the post-I-did-a-thing jitters and a hip that wants to quit. And zero sales. And life to get on with. And an extreme reluctance to do anything harder than lurking on the couch, watching faff, and eating popcorn. I want to spend the rest of today hiding in a nice, warm, soft, and comfy little nest with Beloved until the trepidation goes away.
How the hell am I going to cope on book tours? Maybe I'll get over it by then. I don't know. What I do know is that I'll be paid to do them so I'd better bloody put up with it. And I already know the first forays out into the public eye will have like three people who want to see me. Or three people waiting for me to go away so they can get on with the thing they're waiting for. I must not be demoralised by a slow start.
And I have no reason to be terrified of the world just after I've done a thing. But it happens. Go figure.