All my outside obligations are over. So now I have time to write. Do I want to? Maybe.
When I go to bed I tell myself that tomorrow I’ll start something. And when I wake up I don’t do it.
Knowing that whatever I write probably won’t sell makes it hard. I’ve never had to worry about that since I started publishing in the early seventies.
I’m lucky, you say. Yes, I know. I was writing at a great period in publishing history. Now it’s not so hot. And I’m not on the wanted list. I’m not at an age where some editor will feel he/she can mold my career. So what to do?
Should I stay in the crime field? Or should I write whatever comes into my head? I have a better chance if I stay in my genre, but only a tiny one.
I don’t have a book in me that I’ve been dying to write for years and years. I’ve already written that book.
I can only hope that more will be revealed.