as serendipity would have it, six years ago yesterday, i decided i'd had enough of writing. i had eight published novels to my name at the time, by anyone's measure a worthy accomplishment. it was time, however, to acknowledge that i had not sold a book in three years, that i was having trouble putting together a proposal my agents were even willing to read, and that i had no idea what i was doing or what i was doing wrong.
i also had four children - two of them in college - a mountain of debt, and a despicable ex. my career in corporate communications was shaky, to say the least, but at least it paid the bills.
and writing didn't feel good. it was painful to drag myself to the computer every day, it was painful to read what i'd written. i didn't like my stories, i didn't like my characters. i didn't enjoy the art or the process.
i have never responded well to negative reinforcement. i generally avoid any kind of pain or discomfort - my idea of roughing it is motel six. i buy clothing not based necessarily on how it looks, but how it feels, and whether or not i can tolerate it against my skin. and so, i remember, on very bitter day at the end of february, 2002i decided i was no longer a writer.
if it was meant to be, i figured, let it come back. and i quit. just like that.
and furthermore, the war must end. blessed be.