I have a few spare minutes, so I felt compelled to write a
blog post, the first in a long while.
It
used to be a daily thing, and topics would be so plentiful that I had to pick
and choose which I would write first.
Now I have fallen out of the habit so badly.
It is rare that I have the time to tackle any
serious writing, and it leaves me wondering if I truly have given up.
It has been years since I wrote prolifically.
To be fair, I can no longer call this a
slump, but full blown abstinence.
Life
took me for a ride, and drove me out of the art of storytelling.
I am now left wondering if I will ever find
my way back.
Time is something I don't have anymore.
At least, not the quantity and quality that I
require to produce worthy material.
I'm not
in the right state of mind to craft stories.
Writing is something that should be enjoyable.
Yet, for me, it has become a source of
stress, a grim specter of my past.
What
was once a recreational exercise has devolved into a bitter reminder of failure
and disappointment.
I can't say my
divorce 4 years ago was the ultimate impetus, but it was certainly an
overbearing weight.
I wouldn't call it
the last nail in the coffin of my writing career, but possibly one of the
first.
The shock and heartbreak
accelerated and amplified my apathy toward writing, and the lack of time that
occurred as I suddenly had four children to raise without a wife assured that I
couldn't continue at that time, even if I'd wanted to.
Today, I'm in a much better place than I was in 2015.
I am happily remarried, my children are
growing up little by little, and I am hopeful that I may actually have more
free time again someday.
It is still
very difficult to write.
I have so much
work to do that isn't literary in nature, and I tend to wonder if I'll ever get
caught up.
My father started building
our house before I was born, and now that he has grown old I am taking on the
task of completing it.
It is no
exaggeration to say I have enough work ahead of me to keep five men busy for a
year, but there is only one of me and I have no money to spend on additional
laborers.
The winters that I used to
"have off" to write are now an endless line of home projects.
So, the question remains, have I given up writing?
Answer:
I'm not sure.
The stories that used to burn in my soul are still
there.
I think of all those tales that
remain unfinished, the characters and universes that want to be explored.
I think of Zachary McCain and John Rage, and
the half-written sequel to The Rogue Investigations.
I think of my West of the Warlock series, and
the unpublished fourth book in the series, and its incomplete fifth volume
conclusion.
I think of the unreleased
fourth volume in the Virtual Saga that explores Morgan Asher's life after the
catastrophic events in The Guns of Mars, and where I could take him beyond
that.
I think of new characters and new
series that I have not even penned yet!
Yes, I still think of it all the time, but with everything else going on
in my life, it seems less important.
Whenever I think of getting back into writing, I look at
everything I have going on, and I end up having to set it to the back
burner.
Priorities are a bitch, but
they're necessary.
I can't waste time
writing books that nobody wants to read when I have firewood to cut and split,
or my daughter needs a bedroom designed, or my son needs bookshelves, or my
wife and I need an expanded bedroom… not to mention when I have to make money
once the weather finally warms up again.
So while I can't say that I have definitively given up my
writing, life itself has imprisoned my writing muse, you might say.
I lack the necessary elements to create great
works of fiction.
Just a couple of
things could spur me back into the habit, but right now it's not
happening.
My dreams must sleep, while
reality keeps me in a depressing grip of personal responsibility.
I can't say it's a hard life; at least not as
hard as it could be.
I just thought one or two of you might actually like to read
about this… one or two…