It's been a rough week so far. Last week I had trouble sleeping because of the new job and all the other commitments I had on my plate. This week, for whatever reason, the pets have decided night time is their time. Now, for the cat, that makes sense. Night time really is her time, but more often than not, I never hear her. I'm fine with that, until she decides to me-yell at something outside the window. And then there's the dog. I have no idea what his freaking problem is.
Since I'm so exhausted, my mind drifts in various directions, sometimes to places that aren't always bright and cheery. I was feeling a little guilty last night for not getting as much writing done this week as I wanted to. Instead, I've been plopping myself in front of the TV and playing Bubble Pop (that game is so addicting!). Then, it occurred to me that I shouldn't feel bad at all.
I mean, I just had a nonfiction book come out, and it's still hot off the press. Death to the Undead should be coming out some time this year. I have a dragon story that's under consideration with a publisher, and after that's accepted, I have a middle grade book I need to shop around. I've started a novella, and I've been working on some other things. Really, if I want to be lazy, who's going to stop me?
After thinking about all the stuff I have out and the things scheduled for publication, I started thinking about where I am in my writing career (this is where my thoughts became dark). I'm proud of my accomplishments, very proud, and I'm probably not going to stop writing any time soon, but I questioned why it is I can't find an agent. Is my stuff not that good? Yes, I write a lot, but is it subpar? Is it unrefined and amateur? Maybe it's the genre I write in.
After that, I mentally slapped myself and my inner voice told me to get a grip. I came to the conclusion a few weeks ago that writing wasn't going to be my career. Unfortunately, I don't earn enough money to make that possible. I have to have a real job to pay the bills, and that's where most of my attention/energy needs to be focused. At best, writing is a hobby (a very expensive, time consuming hobby). I told myself that if I'm not having fun doing said hobby, why would I continue to do it?
So I may never make the New York Times bestseller list. Big deal. A lot of people don't. The few of you wonderful and fantastic fans that read my work make it all worth it, and that makes everything all right! Especially since writing is just a fun past time.