There was a time when I read and wrote voraciously. There was a time when I had dreams about getting my books published. There was a time… I started out on this writing journey more than ten years ago: young, hopeful, enthusiastic and determined. But mostly stupidly naïve, believing that anyone would be interested in anything I have to say. Nowadays my writing is like a series of tides that ebb away as quickly as they come. I don’t have a plan anymore. I don’t believe that my dream of having a writing career will ever come true. I have no faith in my own books or abilities. Don’t get me wrong: I love my stories and my characters and my worlds but hardly anyone else does and at some point another rejection becomes one too many to handle. I haven’t written anything new in almost two years and my editing process usually takes so long I eventually lose any determination or desire to publish the book I’m working on. My latest attempt was a complete fiasco. It was quite unfortunate that after several years of editing the first Regency-set novel I’ve ever written in order to re-publish it, it was bought and reviewed by someone who must have expected a Julia Quinn kind of romp and, having found it to be a very different kind of novel, gave it a one-star rating along with a review that pretty much destroyed its chances. No one bought another copy ever since. Unsurprisingly enough. For me it was like that final nail in the coffin that put me off writing just as I was gearing myself up for what I knew would be a challenging writing journey to begin with. So here I am drowning my writing-related depression by obsessively watching the same shows and movies over and over again, reading fanfics and drifting further and further away from my own characters and stories and not really caring anymore. Maybe I’ll get back on that writing horse again. Maybe not. I’ve had long writing slumps and many setbacks before and I always found my way back. But at this point in time I just don’t feel like it and that’s that.
