on November 9, 2019
Last year at this time, I was crying. A lot. I was trying to get my first self-published full-length novel finished and out, and I ended up having to push the release date back a month. I then spent all of the Christmas holiday holed up in a hotel room writing like a crazy woman. If you read Wishing On A Star, I apologize that it is not the quality of work you deserve from me. The only thing I can say is that book almost broke me. In return, I may have broken it.
Up until this year, my books were released through a publisher. For a relatively short career, mine has been a successful one. At least in my eyes. I didn’t know a year ago that my publisher would end our connection. (Meaning this burnout is not they’re doing. I was simply so far in the weeds that I couldn’t think about anything beyond the mess I was in.
No, this brain fog has been coming on for some time. Maybe even a couple of years. I’ve spent a good deal of time ruminating on the situation (since I’m doing absolutely nothing else—including writing) and have determined a collection of factors that all boil down to me. Yes, I brought this on myself.
I got cocky. Over confident. I took things for granted, and started coasting. In my own defense, I also got smacked with menopause. I don’t mean love tapped or gently eased into it. I mean freaking menopause swung around a blind curve and ran me the hell over. I’m pretty sure that around the summer of 2017, my brain left on an extended vacation without telling me. She saw the writing on the wall (impending hot flashes, night sweats, mood swings) and said, “See ya on the other side.”
At least I hope she’s coming back.
All this to say… well… I have no idea what I’m trying to say. I’m not complaining. Shit happens. Aging happens. Hormones—or the lack thereof—happen. It sucks, but this isn’t the suckiest thing to happen to me BY FAR. I have a nice house, a nice car, my college-student daughter still at home, and enough four-legged freeloaders to keep me busy. And, at least for now, I still make a living as an author. (I’m as shocked by this as you are, believe me.)
There are pros and cons to living in your head, and I realize that maybe I’ve lived in mine a little too much in the last few years. I rarely leave the house, and when I do I can’t wait to get back home. I also have this blog I’ve been neglecting for far too long so why not turn this into my own personal journal that just happens to be out there for the world to read?
I’m not making a plan or promising regular updates, but getting the crap out of my head might not be a bad idea. So, here I go. Airing out my brain. Excuse the mess as renovations continue.