Also demanding: the Aesir noir novel. I have already given up and agreed to work on this thing. Last night when the vertigo-induced nausea was making it hard to sleep, the brain obliged by writing a big chunk of [cue ominous pipe organ music here] the dreaded synopsis. It's not cuddly and sweet, but as demanding stuff goes, it really could be worse. I don't suppose there's a really good painting of Baldr post mortem for which someone could make me a LOLAesir reading, "Creepy ded god iz creepy." But this is set in the pre-Ragnarok, post-death of Baldr part of Norse mythology, and dead Baldr is creeping me out, and is likely to creep me out for the rest of the book. Hel? No problem. Dead Baldr? Umm. Anyway, you'd think it'd be strange to have a grown-up noir mystery set in the same universe as a YA series that's very clair. But the death of Baldr more or less takes care of that; it'd be like acting surprised that writing a book set in 1910 somehow didn't feel like writing one set in 1920. And I really like having both. I really like holding the contrast in my head.
Rounding out the demanding trifecta is, of course, the vertigo. Whee. But since there are other things with family members that could have been extremely and quite rightfully demanding of my attention and have been resolved into gentle worries instead, with the help of competent professionals, I am extremely grateful that this is where the demanding trifecta has settled for the day.