I haven’t posted much since October. Really next to nothing. That’s somewhat purposeful, as I went through the loss of my grandpa. Senior year of high school hit me straight-on (very unrelenting). Various health issues over those months. Basically, it’s been an extremely busy, sometimes discouraging four months. I won’t go into more detail than that.
The point of this journal is to give you an update on how the writing’s going. Not in a “I’m done x many words this week” way, because I’m still keeping my W.I.P. under wraps. You’ll find out sometime. What I want, today, is to express just how difficult it is for us. Authors. Writers. The people who care for a dying monster: Literature.
The answer, for the most part, is not very well. Sales for 2018 were less than half of what I achieved in 2017. I only published one book. I actually un-published more than I created. So… that’s something.
You’ve already heard that being an author is difficult, and I always believed it as well. But it’s more than just the draining act of writing that makes it hard. There’s the emotional level when you look back on works from two years ago and think, “This isn’t worthy,” or you stare at the blank page in front of you and think “I’m not worthy.” All of us have other jobs. In my case, it’s school. All of us have other relationships, other commitments. Of all the people, everyone with a 24-hour-day, I don’t think it’s a stretch to say authors are some of the busiest.
Creating is both a relief and a weight on my head. I think the same can be said for everyone. I have a burning desire to write, and yet doing so requires giving up time for other things. There’s only so much time in a day and only so much energy in my body. Even right now, I’m writing this blog post to avoid working on a book. Heck, I just did two day’s worth of homework to keep away from it.
Like the book is a disease, I keep my distance. But I know I have to go back, at some point, and finish. Not for you. For me.
This isn’t a plea for you to buy more books, because not everybody likes them. This isn’t a cry for sympathy or help, because there’s not really any help to give. I’m not sure what the wall is in front of me. Maybe it’s writer’s block. Maybe it’s closure. Maybe it’s self-doubt.
The only way through it is to approach the toxic keyboard and make something worth reading. The more I look back, the larger my fear grows. Have I written something worth reading? Have I done something lasting? Have I been what I set out to be?
I don’t know the answer to that yet. I want nothing more than to take a week and find that answer, but… I don’t have the time. There are other tasks that need to be done.
Maybe all the authors I know already have it worked out. If you do, please let me know. I’d love to know how you cope with all the words you’ve deleted and wondered, “Why?” All the words you’ve published and wondered, “Why?”
At the moment, the easiest way is music. It offers some type of relief, a soothing sensation. Various bands, various genres.
Or perhaps it’s a passing phase. A new stage in writing. There’s always a mounting fear as your approach the end of high school, the beginning of… something. Lots of people ask the question: “What? What will you do?” “Who? Who will you be with?” “Where? Where will you live?” How? How will you survive?”
But the most important question is why.
Why?
David Kummer 