After It's Over

What does one do with a literary career after it's over? I've been mulling that. It's unlikely I'll be writing any more, though that remains a possibility. Some people consider it an indicator of my decline; if I am no longer writing, it must mean my mind is slipping away. Maybe they are right.

I look back upon nearly four decades as a novelist, wondering what counts. There were plenty of fine reviews, some starred, and some good sales, but nothing approaching the sales of best-selling friends. So, yes, public commendation is a part of what made my life good.

But at heart, what I am proudest of, is simply surviving as a professional novelist all that time, making my entire living from it for all those years. It was my means, my support, and when the bank account ran low, my inspiration to produce, to do better, to be more aggressive about getting my titles sold to publishers, and eventually the public.

I have no pension. An independent novelist is not connected to some corporation that will send him a monthly check the rest of his life. Instead, I have what I saved and invested, some in an IRA, plus social security, and now my career as a novelist is supporting me in that fashion, and I am okay.

I am content with it. My name is scarcely known among readers of fiction, and yet I survived decade after decade, getting small contracts, writing small books, somehow going on and on and on. Examine any blog or journal devoted to popular fiction, mysteries, historical fiction, westerns, and you probably will not find me or my novels reviewed or noted or discussed or rated for popularity. And now, when I am pretty much house-bound, I have something good to remember and be proud of. They were published; they got me a living.