I’ve been inundated with emails from concerned individuals. Too many to answer. Because all of these distraught souls have become so upset after reading my post, Ruminating On: What Matters, I felt I would post again to clarify a few things.
I will condense all the emails I received into three questions. Here we go.
Did you have a falling out with so and so? Did I do something to upset you? Did you block me?
The answer to every single one of these questions is a resounding NO. There it is, in bold and all caps, because… clarity. When I said I was tired of all the inane babble on Facebook, I meant the site as a whole, and not one person. If I have been rude, standoffish, or unresponsive, it’s not because anyone has upset me, nor is it because I’m holding a grudge or vendetta. If I have not responded to your email, it’s because I’m busy. I will try to explain, succinctly, why I chose to dip-out without any warning.
I’m suffering from a creative surge. This happens to me at least once a year, but this is the third time this year that it has happened. I have a list of twenty-five stories that all want to be novel-length. This is not counting the short stories I write just for the fuck of it. I cannot write fast enough. I know, I know. There are children in Africa who wish they could write half as much as I do, and all that other crap. Listen, being buried under a mountain of ideas is just as bad as not having a single idea rattling around in your head. Writing, editing, proofreading, cover design, and publication all takes time. Having a fuck-ton of manuscripts writing around only means I have to pick and choose what readers see and when, or if they should see it at all. I try to write faster, but the characters become even more vocal. I want to cut the story short so that I can work on the next project but I can’t because E. has a reputation to consider. I want to please everyone, but, sometimes, everyone is a greedy asshole who only cares for number one. Including me. I no longer have time to offer advice to struggling authors, or to read their unpublished stories. This is a shame because I once prided myself on watching a writer grow under my tutelage. Call me elitist, call me a jerk, call me an egomaniac, call me a pickle-brained troglodyte who’s ruining his career by alienating people. Say whatever you will. It’s your right. I’ve been sleeping in a house built by friends. It’s time I constructed my own house, and whether I succeed or fail, I’m going to sleep in it.
Growing pains are a bitch.