I think I might be too busy.

Oh, don’t get all judgy on me, I’m not trying to impress you. It’s not like I’m living some glamorous Kardashian-inspired (a phrase I never thought I would utter) life where the excitement is nonstop.

It’s not like I need a break from invitations to yachts on the French Riviera and ryads in Marrakech. (But if any of you have a plus one, I’m available.)

I think I’m just working too much. And here’s how I know:

In the last month, I’ve gone to the airport and forgotten my phone.


I mean, the thing is virtually glued to my thigh like a tumor, so this is not normal behavior. The second time it happened, Sandy sighed and said, “I guess we’d better start saving for the Home.”

Other warning signs:

  • My friends have just about given up inviting me to things, because either: a) I’m working; or b) I’m out of town. (There is a possible “c” which involves my inability to stop bitching about being so busy, but really, I’m sure it’s a or b.)
  • I’m starting to forget what my husband looks like. We’re used to only seeing each other about 200-250 days a year because he travels for work, but this year we’ve been in different cities so often that I’m beginning to wonder if he was ever real or just a big brown mirage. (Yes, he’s Hispanic. Don’t write me letters. I get a pass.)
  • I cannot function, day to day, without a list. Part of this is totally legitimate – I have many jobs going simultaneously – but when I find myself writing things down like, “Trim fingernails” (the reminder is, pardon the expression, right at my fingertips) or “Do the elliptical”, which sits in a corner of my office and which I glance at perhaps 20 times a day, maybe it’s time for a vacation.

It is somewhat reassuring to know that some people are even worse. My friend Jason is similarly frantic all the time, and he got out of his car at a parking lot at Burbank airport (on his way to Vegas for a weekend) and LEFT HIS CAR RUNNING. He returned to find it still running – albeit with 15 less gallons of gas – two and a half days later.

But still.

Here’s the problem: like most authors, I’m not making a living at books alone. I still do my advertising and marketing work (which is a good 50 hours a week). AND I write future books. AND I promote the new book that’s out (with things like interviews, articles for magazines, this blog, social media, blah blah).

I think the answer is some sympathetic reader with more money than sense bequeathing me a few million dollars.

Or maybe I can get Sarah McLachlan to do one of those ASPCA-type ads for me, with an 800 number to call to donate.

Oooh! Or maybe some caring friend could do a GoFundMe campaign on my behalf.

I mean, sure, I wasn’t run over by a hit and run driver. I didn’t save ten strangers from a burning building.

But it would save YOU from having to read posts like this.

Consider it a public service.