My writing is on indefinite hiatus.
I’ve been sort of reexamining myself and realizing that I don’t want to be a writer right now–it’s too demanding. Yes, I could say that I can just do it for a hobby or not worry about publishing, but that doesn’t work for me. When I write a novel, I have to keep at it. I have to write nearly every day or else I lose my train of thought and I don’t know what I’m writing anymore and the novel doesn’t work quite right. It takes a really long time to get a novel written, and then the first draft is so terrible that I want to make it better. And when I’ve made it better (which takes longer than writing it in the first place), I want to share–because I’ve spent hundreds of hours on that thing, after all, and I want that time to be worth something.
When it comes down to it, I want to keep my house clean more than I want to write. I don’t want to make the sacrifices necessary to be successful at writing and for me, it’s not worth the hundreds of hours I pour into it unless I can be successful.
I’m not saying I’ll never write again. But I feel more at peace with my life right now as a mother of small children just being a mother and not worrying about much else. I have enough things to do.
I’ve sort of always wanted to be “successful”–such as really good at something. I’ve had my goals: publish books, get more people to read my blog, do public speaking, get a doctorate degree–things like that. But I’ve stopped wanting that. I’ve stopped needing to be better than average. I’ve stopped wanting the honors of men, I guess. I just want a happy home life. And a quiet life is a good life.
So I know I have about four people who read my blog very regularly and some people who stop in on on occasion, and I’m good with that. I’m good with never publishing a book in my life. I’m good with never writing novels again. Because my little family makes me happy and the small things in life are most important.