Oblivion

Last year was my most prolific year ever with writing.

What a contrast to this year, when I hardly write at all.

Spyscribbler recently posted about what can be hard about writing. I missed the post when she first wrote it. Been very lazy about visiting other people lately. Actually, for some time. Been feeling sorry for myself. That can become as addicting as alcohol, cigarettes, drugs - or even sex.

Not as fun as sex. haha

I commented something to effect that what makes writing hard for me is realizing nobody but me is ever going to read it. As this reality presses down upon me I find myself wondering - what's the point? Okay. I wrote a detective story about a woman who is mistaken for a high-priced call girl at an all women's retreat. I like the story, but I haven't even bothered to edit the first draft. It sits in a file on my computer. Unread.

Same with my story about the guy who discovers reality is not what he thinks it is when multiple realities become threatened. Including his own.

I have a story about two women trying to make a homestead in the mountains, under the threat of a ghostly phantom.

Fire Red has been read by one other person. Apprentice has been ready by two or three, and then rejected by an online magazine.

White Wolves and Wizard Girl were never finished.

All of these stories have been written since September 1 of last year. In fact, with the exception of Fire Red, they were written last fall.

But none of them will ever be read by anyone but me. I don't write well enough for others to read. And you know what?

I never will.