After breaking my arm in January and then reinjuring it in April, I haven't felt like writing very much. One-handed typing sucks (my brain has grown too dependent on a digital medium for my stories and paper and pen translates them into a black hole of incoherent scribbles)! But more than physical impediments, I must confess that my mind has been blanketed in a heavy depression.
Or maybe just slapped with a reality check on naive ambition.
Since I graduated from college, I have written five novels. Two are self-published and another will be coming out in September. Two will never see the light of day because they were practice novels. And then I have another four novels totaling about 500 pages of half-finished work. I had a marvelous agent for about six years, but my work just never quite cut it on the traditional publishing market and we parted ways last October.
My bone is broken. So is my will. I'm tired. I want to quit writing. I've tried again and again. But the stories won't leave me alone, and truthfully--I don't want them to go. My soul grows blank and paper-thin without them.
So I will keep trying to learn from my mistakes, to revise, to read, to soak in the world, to ink something bright and dark and dreaming.
Life . . . dares.