It's Not Really Funny

Yesterday I was offered a promotion at work, and one of my first thoughts was: would this cut into my writing time?  Yep, I have an embryonic fourth novel, too, that I haven't touched in months because I've been too busy revising Novel #3.  My novels, my novels ...  They're burning a hole in my pocket.  They're burning a hole in my heart.  How do I explain to the characters to whom I've given birth that I am the only person they may ever meet?  How can I justify having conjured them up if they never live to see the light of day? I think I'd really come to believe that this past year would be my year, and so this was a particularly bitter birthday for me.  I went apeshit on my husband over the presents he got me, although usually I can manage some degree of basic civility.  It wasn't the presents, it was the birthday.   Sometimes I lose sight of the fact that I am so fortunate in so many ways, and the two-year-old inside me bursts out and screams:  I DON'T CARE ABOUT ANY OF MY OTHER TOYS!   I WANT THAT TYRANNOSAURUS PUPPET, AND I WANT IT NOW!!!!   Yeah, but here's the thing.  Even if I hold my breath until I turn blue, I'll just be a remarkably colorful unpublished author.