At this point, I’m finishing CALL FOR BLOOD on principle, but I’m not at all confident in it as the end of the Sanctuary trilogy. I might have to give up on that goal entirely, since I can’t imagine a different ending to their stories. It’s not awful, but I don’t feel it’s something I can put out there in good conscience.
I keep telling myself it’s not because my writing abilities have gone away. The first two Sanctuary novels were unique little things, with prominent bisexual characters and an established polyamorous mini-society. I also managed to churn out the still awesome Arcanium series, and I’m hoping the Meridian universe continues to yield just as good fruit.
Still, since mediocrity is all I’ve managed to write this year, I do wonder whether my time is over – burn bright, burn out. I wrote more books last year than most people write in a lifetime. Maybe I wrote the lifetime.
It’s hard to have any confidence in what I do, second- and third- and fourth-guessing my talents at every turn, sure that I’m doing so much wrong or so much worthless, or that it doesn’t matter anyway, because I’m just not going to be heard, even if I had value to hear.
To tell the truth, I’ve lost my light. It’s not the muse that’s gone – that’s still around, giving me ideas. It’s the light. Something – my job, my unchanging situation, my loneliness – something has sucked all the light and color and joy from everything I loved, leaving very little behind. And even that little is disappearing. If life is just living and no more, I have to wonder what the work is worth, whether I have to do it or not. I try to make my own joy, but it’s about as fleeting as creating new and unstable elements. Everything is dull, flat, not terribly bad, just… dun, and slightly unreal.
Writing used to be one of my havens, but without a spark – not of inspiration, but of drive, of life, of joy – it just isn’t the haven that it used to be. There’s only disappointment that my escapes are increasingly my world, but can never truly be the world. I’m disappointed that I need to escape so much at all, until the oases themselves lose their charm.
I want a change, but I’m notoriously bad at it, and there’s no certainty in that change – that I can have it or that the change will do me any good. I’ve lost what little optimism for the future I had.
I’ll continue trying, because I’m used to working without light. NaNoWriMo’s coming up, and that’s something I simply have to do. But I have little confidence that anything I manage to produce will be any better than what I’ve done this year.