Are you tired of me waffling about whether I’m going to write again? I am. For the last two years I’ve been in this frame of mind: will I? won’t I? Enough. About a month ago I decided that I won’t. But I didn’t want to post it here and have to take it back until I was sure. I’m sure. That doesn’t include Flash Fiction.
I’ve written my last novel. I can hardly believe it. I’ve been enjoying myself as a retired writer and I’ve told my partner and friends. Yesterday I wrote this in an email to another writer who isn’t really a friend but more than an acquaintance. Once I’d sent it off I began to feel strange. Sad. The sensation was with me all day. I finally realized I was grieving. Retiring from writing was now real. It was one thing to say it to my friends and partner and another to say it to this woman.
You can take it back, you say. No, I can’t. And I don’t want to. I’m doing what I want to do. But I went from the decision to retire to nothing, and that doesn’t compute. After fifty years of turning out plays, screenplays and novels, why would I think I’d have no feelings about this? It’s the way I do everything until something snaps me out of denial. Hey, only a month of denial isn’t bad for me.
I’ve been enjoying hanging out, following blogs, reading books, watching movies and sleeping late. And I will again. After my period of mourning is over. I hope you don’t think I’m being overly dramatic. My identity has always been as a writer and it’s hard to give that up.
I thought about closing this blog down, but now I think I’ll keep it and post about writing and books and movies, etc.
Thanks to all who’ve left me comments over these last three/four years.
Now say it, Sandra.
I’m done.
