To put it in even more militaristic terms, no balls, no air medals. (A phrase, which carries particular significance in our home this week given that Antone is having his, ahem, procedure.)
But back to the point: I've pretty much decided to limit my assignments. (Sounds definitive, “Pretty much decided...”?)
Let's try that again, shall we?
I'm going to take less work so as to finish my novel before I'm too old to look good on a book jacket. There. I said it.
Of course, I have many commitments to meet before this all occurs. And, though Mitch is always like, “do what you need to do“ when it comes to my business, I probably need to couch this with him in pretty bald terms. As in, “Dude, how'd you feel if I didn't make a cent for six months?“
I do intend to make some cents, but want to curtail the bigger gigs so as to focus on the book. This means the flakey “me” going to war with the practical “me,” and, of course, the scared, doubting “me” battling it out with diva “me.”
Wish “me” luck!