It's nearly February...

Holy cow... I finally discovered how to get Blogger to let me comment on my own blog. Had to Google it to find out how. So if you're having the same problem, this is how to fix it. See that little shield up there next to the padlock on the https thing? You have to click on it and then grant permissions for a site so you can comment. I've had to undo it and redo it more than once. Maybe it's a Firefox thing, or maybe it's my Bitdefender security, but it's kind of annoying. This is probably old news to a lot of people, but I wasn't blogging much when this update happened, which is partly why I never really started posting again.

I just sent out a newsletter announcing the pre-orders for Out of Bounds. Got a few clicks, one pre-order and several unsubscribes. Those unsubscribes are the main reason I don't send newsletters very often. I know most of the unsubscribes come from people who signed up in order to qualify during a giveaway and really don't have any interest in what's happening with me or any books I might have written, but it's still depressing to think that the only response my newsletters get is to say that they're unwanted. The last newsletter I sent was for Maverick's release, which was in September of 2018--I didn't bother to send out a newsletter for Mystic's release--so no one can say I've been spamming them. Although the test emails I sent to myself wound up in my spam folder, which possibly means I've been spamming myself.

Maybe this writer thing is getting too be too much for an old woman. I'm 64 now, the thought of which makes the Beatles' "When I'm 64" start playing in my head. I don't mind that so much, because I've always liked that song, but it makes me think about the differences between what I enjoy now and what I've enjoyed in the past. Right now, I just want to make things, and it doesn't seem to matter whether they're things to eat, read, or use. I've been making soap for a while, but lately I've been making various skincare concoctions, most of which I wouldn't need if I wasn't 64. My skin has lost much of its elasticity, and I have a sneaking suspicion that I'm losing hair faster than I can regrow it. As a result, I've been spending more time scrolling through Pinterest looking for recipes and diy stuff than I do writing romance novels.

All of this adds up to a case of the wintertime blues, which is why I believe Valentine's Day was deemed necessary. By the time March rolls around, you know spring is getting close, but in February, the only sign of spring will be that my one remaining horse, Jadzia, (Kes died in December *sniff*) will start shedding. In fact, here in the final days of January, she's already started, just as I have started making Valentine's soap.

I guess there's hope for us yet.