In the last month, I've spent an inordinate amount of time "networking", trying to link up with other writers to learn more about the whole process and, truthfully, to find some good reading material. I did this by following author pages on social media. I've "met" some funny, nice, and intelligent people. I've read some good books. Tim Miller and Joseph Wozniak are names you should look up.
In that process, some writers kept saying that it was a waste of time to seek a bunch of authors as followers, that what you need is readers. Well, yeah. But I don't just write stuff. I read stuff. This last year I read 46 books for fun. Someone else wrote those. Most were really good. Some I bought. Some I got free. Some I borrowed. I tried to leave a review on every one of them and if not a review, at least a star rating.
Anyway, back to my original thought. I've spent several weeks, maybe a couple of months, thinking about . . . well, throwing in the towel. There is so much to learn and do. Manage social media, network, marketing, publicity, blogging about all of it. All I can say is "Ain't nobody got time for that." Not and write a book, too.
I'm old, people. No, really. Time is contracting. I never thought I'd get here. Heck, I never thought I'd think that. Now, after all of it, I'm considering not doing it anymore. At all. I've really thought hard this week. A part of me feels relieved at the thought. Another part of me is frightened by it. Really frightened.
You see, I'm so tired of the fibro fog and the RA limp. I'm frustrated with the burning hand and the never-ending fatigue. Some days it is nearly impossible to think, let alone construct a three-act story that will keep people on the edge of their seat. Forget developing complex characters and twisted plots. I have trouble figuring out how to use my pen in a way that won't send shock waves up my arm. In 2017, holding my hairbrush was a challenge equal to the Olympics. My life is a stinking merry-go-round of pills and pains and potential problems. Lots of excuses. Valid ones, yes, but excuses still.
Who the blankity blank do I think I am? And what was I thinking to think I could write novels? Well, I did write six 50,000-word novels for NaNoWriMo. And seven that were less than 50K. That could have been why. Could have been all those stories I wrote and hid in a file box. Could have been the nights I'd sit up and write until the wee hours of the morning. That was before the kids, of course.
Oh, who am I kidding? I am a writer. That's me. I write stuff. All kinds of stuff. Because I must. And if I must learn this new stuff, well, I'll do the best I can. I'll keep writing. I now know a bunch of authors that might answer questions, if I ask nicely.
Soon.
Yeah, soon.
Maybe tomorrow.
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