I may be moving away from writing. Or at least writing novels.
I just haven't felt it lately. The thrill of writing hasn't been there since I finished Whose Hearts are Mountains in December. I haven't started a novel since then; now I have struggled with proofreading/editing the last of my backlog of novels before developmental edit.
The fantasy of getting published has pretty much died. I don't know if the average of 250 readers per self-published novel is worth $500 in developmental edit fees and sixty to 100 extra hours of work per novel. I don't know if I could even get that many readers. I'm wary of the pitfalls the vulnerable writer can fall into: vanity presses and publishing mills, and will not consider those as choices.
The thing that really worries me is that, when I say "I could quit," I often don't feel a thing. No cheer, no relief, no regret, almost like I hadn't spent five years, countless hours, $2000 and an investment of identity into writing novels and trying to get published.
I don't feel bad about quitting until I write this out: I might quit my quest to be published. When I say that, I feel the death rattle of a dream, but at the same time I wonder if that dream of being published, being read is unreasonable, unworkable, pie-in-the-sky. I wonder if there are more reasonable things to dream about.
This is my struggle. Pray for me, or wish me luck, or whatever you feel moved to do.
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