Yesterday I got a call from a writer friend who told me she was very depressed. Why? She’s about my age, has published 13 books and cannot find an agent. She has a book she finished and is ready to go. But none of the agents she wrote to wrote her back. This is someone in the crime field who has had two series and a stand alone. This isn’t an unknown. No agent even had the decency to say they weren’t interested.
So now she’s going to try writing to editors she’s met, but doesn’t know. Her hopes are not up. And she said to me, “I feel like I’m starting all over again.” Didn’t I just write that very sentence in a post?
It’s not as though we’re baseball players and can’t cut it anymore. And she has an actual finished novel. Unlike me. So you’d think someone would take a look at her novel, wouldn’t you? We’ll see.
Meanwhile I’m in the pits. A blank brain. Nothing to write after I bought an new expensive chair for my office. It’s not here yet, so maybe by the time it comes….nah. Unlikely.
I feel terrible I have nothing to write and I also don’t want to write. So what if I don’t publish twenty novels. Who’s counting except for me? The thing is, I feel I must write, I should write, I have to write. WTF.