The Writing Hand, Having Written, Moves On

I realized when I was in Barnes & Noble this morning that I'm not much interested in writing anymore.

I think I've known this for a long time. It's only in the last year or so that I've begun to accept it.

No. Not really much interested.

I blog to blog. It helps me feel connected to the world, however small a part of it that may be.

But I don't remember the last time I wrote a short story. Or started on a novel, much less finished one.

Going to B&N proves a point - this is not the way to become immortal. This is not the way to be remembered a hundred years hence, which I think was half my motivation since I knew I would never have children.

The other half of my motivation was to make money. Which is ridiculous. I must have lost over a quarter of a million dollars, all told, in my quest to make all of, oh, maybe five hundred bucks.

But really? Mostly? I'm just not interested any more. I used to get lost in the worlds I made. And then I would come back to...this. Writing fiction feels pointless and I don't have the energy to write non-fiction.

Let somebody else get infected with the fever that so badly infected my life. It doesn't matter that I think it did me a great deal of harm. I'm sure that would have come along, anyway.

I think I'm going back to bed.