Well, I’m back. It has been a long hiatus, but it has allowed time for reflection.

I started a new technical writing job two months ago -bills must be paid – and it is structured such that I am completely exhausted by the end of the day. The job is sufficiently intense as to leave me bleary-eyed and nearly drained of creativity. When I power the computer down, the last thing I want to do is look at a computer screen and do more writing. There is no solace in writing for myself; I am electronically depleted.

I do not know how long this will last and if the old urges to write will resurface.

All that said, it has made me reevaluate writing…and publishing.

Writing in your spare time consumes your spare time. In fact, it can become your only life. If you have a family, it often means missing out on them; a fact I discovered after completing my book on Norse Mythology. It took sixteen years and nearly all my spare time. I missed time with my wife and our many dogs. When it was published, I looked back and saw all the time and events missed that could never be reclaimed. Many of our dogs passed away during this period and I found myself wishing I had spent more time with them. And I regretted not spending more personal time with my wife. She is supportive and understanding, and allowed me my head, but we would have had greater joy in each other’s company.

There is a vast difference between writing for yourself and writing to be published. The enjoyment of writing for yourself cannot be overstated. For me it brings a sense of creation and almost mediation watching the story unfold. Eventually – for me at least - the characters come alive and the magical point is when they begin telling the story.

But the moment publishing comes into the picture, joy drains away and personal anxiety creeps into its place. It becomes work and the pressure is on to produce; the writing is no longer just for yourself, but for some indefinable other. And once a manuscript is complete to your satisfaction, you must steel yourself to seemingly endless rounds of rejection by publishers and agents. A thick skin is needed here or the ability to grow one quickly.

And once it does get published, unless you are one of the top 10-20% of authors who get marketing backing from the publisher or if you choose to publish yourself, expect long hours chasing down any avenue for marketing the book, garnering reviews, and hopefully turning your efforts into sales. Let’s be real, if you have lots of money (and I mean many thousands) to pour into this endeavor, then you can wrangle some coverage, but it remains a question if the amount of resultant sales will cover your costs.

So, these are the issues that have plagued me since my last book was published. Right now, I wait for the inspiration to rekindle. There is hope. My mind has begun turning back to my last project and the characters are all there, tapping their toes, waiting for me to return.

In the meantime, I recall an introduction Kurt Vonnegut did for his novel, SlapStick. In it he recounted corresponding with his agent, Max Wikinson and telling him that he hated writing. The agent’s response was, “Dear Kurt - I never knew a blacksmith who was in love with his anvil.”