A Bit of a Whinge
Good morning, Readers! 
I feel like this turtle is me. Image by Geraldine Dukes from Pixabay I’m feeling a little down about my writing life this week. That’s no great surprise. I haven’t been doing much with it. I’m still writing the final book of The Three Worlds War series. I’m behind again, largely because I received the final edits for The New Haven Incident (the first chapter is up now for my Ko-Fi subscribers) and also because I was struck with an idea to add value to my Ko-Fi subscription and have been working on that for a bit.
Because I’m not writing, I’m starting to feel down a bit. I hate being behind deadlines, but I just have so much on my plate right now, I feel like I’m going to go mad. I really want to just… not have to do quite so much, you know?
Not with my writing or with Ko-Fi. I’m actually enjoying that work. But with everything else. I want to just… vanish from the world for three months and return with a manuscript. I don’t want to have to go to work for 8.5 hours a day, 40 hours a week. I don’t want to work a second job on top of that so I can afford a bus pass. I just… I don’t want to be where I am right now.
I’m forty years old. I don’t have my own home, as I wanted. I don’t have any real career aspirations outside of my writing (I have zero interest in the corporate ladder), and I’m feeling a little resentful at the way tech bros are trying to take away the one thing that could one day earn me an income while also bringing me joy.
I’m just… done, you know? I don’t want to do this anymore. I’m tired. After more than a decade of trying to make something of my writing and having it go nowhere, I’m tired.
I wish I could say I’m done for real. Like, done done. Like, put up my keyboard and forget about my dreams kind of done. It would be less stressful. I’d probably be more relaxed, and happier. But these damned stories keep echoing around my last braincell, so I can’t stop writing.
I wish I didn’t care about writing and making something of myself as I do. I wish I could be content where I am in life. But I’m not. And it’s bothering me a lot today.
Don’t worry. I’ll get over it as I usually do. Just… if I seem grumpy, that’s why. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to sulk.
Slán go foill.
I feel like this turtle is me. Image by Geraldine Dukes from Pixabay I’m feeling a little down about my writing life this week. That’s no great surprise. I haven’t been doing much with it. I’m still writing the final book of The Three Worlds War series. I’m behind again, largely because I received the final edits for The New Haven Incident (the first chapter is up now for my Ko-Fi subscribers) and also because I was struck with an idea to add value to my Ko-Fi subscription and have been working on that for a bit.Because I’m not writing, I’m starting to feel down a bit. I hate being behind deadlines, but I just have so much on my plate right now, I feel like I’m going to go mad. I really want to just… not have to do quite so much, you know?
Not with my writing or with Ko-Fi. I’m actually enjoying that work. But with everything else. I want to just… vanish from the world for three months and return with a manuscript. I don’t want to have to go to work for 8.5 hours a day, 40 hours a week. I don’t want to work a second job on top of that so I can afford a bus pass. I just… I don’t want to be where I am right now.
I’m forty years old. I don’t have my own home, as I wanted. I don’t have any real career aspirations outside of my writing (I have zero interest in the corporate ladder), and I’m feeling a little resentful at the way tech bros are trying to take away the one thing that could one day earn me an income while also bringing me joy.
I’m just… done, you know? I don’t want to do this anymore. I’m tired. After more than a decade of trying to make something of my writing and having it go nowhere, I’m tired.
I wish I could say I’m done for real. Like, done done. Like, put up my keyboard and forget about my dreams kind of done. It would be less stressful. I’d probably be more relaxed, and happier. But these damned stories keep echoing around my last braincell, so I can’t stop writing.
I wish I didn’t care about writing and making something of myself as I do. I wish I could be content where I am in life. But I’m not. And it’s bothering me a lot today.
Don’t worry. I’ll get over it as I usually do. Just… if I seem grumpy, that’s why. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to sulk.
Slán go foill.
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