This morning I received a note from a publisher comparing my steampunk book to Gail Carringer. All very nice, except the publisher wasn’t meaning it as a compliment exactly – she was explaining that it wasn’t her sort of thing. It so happened that I drew a line in the sand more than a year ago, and the line just got crossed – that was it: the end of any plausible hope for that book, or for any other book I’ve written.
Although it’s perfectly possible I’ll start over in five or ten years, the psychological harm of constant near-misses plus the expenditure of time in a pointless endeavour is now greater than the joy of writing. So, since I believe a writer is someone who writes. . . that’s it. I’m not a writer at this time, and may never be again. In terms of major life goals, I now have only one dimension left: stay at home mum. I like Louisette a lot (who doesn’t?) but a large chunk of my soul just got amputated and thrown away. This is the second time over a decade of my life’s work has been proven to be more harmful than helpful, and it’s right to feel sad before moving on.