I wrote a post tonight that was very whiny. In it, I bemoaned the differences between writing to share the stories in my head, and the fact there isn’t really anyone I’m sharing them with (ie, my readers are near nill). I didn’t post that blog entry, by the way.
The heart of the matter is the debate on whether to
- keep writing the sequel to Chrysalis
- work on something different (like, say, the alpha draft of a fantasy novel you have sitting on your hard drive, waiting for edits and readers)
- give up, throw in the towel, pursue other fine things in life, like cheese tasting
I do like a bit of fromage, so that last one is pretty alluring. I feel compelled by a promise to finish the sequel, which is in mixed shape. There are about 50k words written, a clear outline, and a direction. It’s getting there that’s been the problem. At the same time, I’m not sure who I’m writing it for. Me? You? Is there a You? Then again, the same would be said for anything else I worked on.
It’s this kind of road that leads to a cyclical spiral into self torment. And it did.
If you are one of my handful of readers – thank you. I really do appreciate you, despite my self-pitying blog post tonight. If you could leave a review on amazon, that would be grand. I also officially accept bribes for coffee to fuel my writing (see the blog, right side column in a desktop browser).
All right, it’s slipped into the next day, so I should head to bed. It was both liberating and odd feeling being able to write a blog entry again. I should try doing this more often or something.