A Farewell to Harms.
In an earlier post some time ago I asked the question; is there any point in continuing? Is writing (in my case literary historical erotica) worth the effort?
I have decided it is not. I have quit. Called it a day. Called it a night. Whatever phrase you prefer.
And it has proved to be a weight off my mind. The clamor (clamour in English English) of the marketeers, the people telling me how brilliant their next must-read novel is, the people telling me how easily they can splurge my name/my books across Twitter and the internet, is all gone. It has suddenly gone quiet.
I am not going to spend another six months, year, two years, three, investing effort into a manuscript, creating, writing, editing, re-editing a work which, on publication, will be worth less to the average reader than the price of a Starbucks or a piece of cheap, made-in-China tourist tat.
Nor will I ever wait anxiously in case the next review is written -as was one of my very first – by a loser who thought she had a score to settle, or by someone who struggles if there is more than one comma in a sentence.
Nor will I worry that any success I might achieve will be undermined by plagiarism or naked piracy.
To rest, now. Very soon I will change my tags on here, and considerably more, and all you are likely to find here will be photographs, predominantly of birds and squirrels, the odd observation on life, and small scale representations of the art work I plan to focus myself upon. I can draw, I can paint – kind of, and other things, and none of them require the effort or the time that is required by writing.
Yet how many folks, I wonder, will offer me – for a watercolour, an oil or a drawing – less than the price of a commercial coffee?
Take care now.