Right now I feel no desire at all to finish Gingerbread Wolves.
I want to be very clear on what I am saying, here. This isn’t an angst-filled self-pitying post that is fishing for comments on how wonderful I am. I’m not at all unhappy. I feel pretty good, in fact.
I just don’t want to write. I wanted to, and I did, and now I feel like I’ve done it. I feel good about the books that I wrote. I feel good about what I’ve accomplished and what I’ve learned while doing it.
I’ve learned that I’m a good writer, but not a successful writer. I can live with that. I won’t go so far as to say that writing was a phase that I was going through–I have always written for my own enjoyment and probably always will–but I do think that trying to be a professional novelist was a phase I was going through.
Right now I am working on a group world-building exercise in a Facebook group that I’m having a lot of fun with, but I don’t particularly want to turn that into a book and go through the whole editing/publishing/promotion circus with that. I’m just having fun.
I am committed to attending a science fiction convention in the fall and running a sales table for a group of indie published books, including mine. I am still going to be doing that.
I have spent several years spending nearly all of the time not taken by my day job on my novels–either working on them or trying to sell them. I’m tired of it. I’d rather do other things with my time.
The thing is, it’s okay to stop doing something that I don’t want to do. It’s my time, I don’t have to do anything other than what I want to do with it.