If you’re still reading me after four plus years, you probably think I’m pretty funny. You’d be right, I am.
I’m also quite a good line editor.
And it is entirely possible I am a talented writer. Though I refuse to make a call on that one.
What I am not, is emotionally secure enough to survive the daily small rejections that come with writing for an audience.
I know that as an indie writer, little rejection is a way of life; it needs to roll off my back like a duck with water.
It doesn’t though.
It soaks in.
I’ve been miserable for a good 18 months now, a bad 18 months now?
Yes, down to the question would the world be better without me?
I chose therapy, you can stop dialing the cops for a welfare check.
But 8 months of therapy later what I have come to realize is this:
Writing no longer makes me happy.
It is a heavy weight that makes me sad even on my best days.
I cannot handle the rejection that comes with the job.
I’d rather be happy than be publishing.
You may have noticed on the cover for The Body in the Pool, my name in the pool. There was a little symbolism there. That was my last planned book.
I’ll still be here, reviewing books and doing what I can for other indie authors, spotlight interviews and good news. I hope you will be too. I may and I stress MAY come back to writing, when it no longer feels a burden and but a happy choice.