for some of you with whom i've exchanged PMs and emails with over the past few months, this will come as no surprise. i've barely slept for the past 72 hours as i've wrestled with the final act of this decision. but i have come to a decision, and it's the most frightening thing i've ever faced.
i've decided to stop writing.
to understand the seismic shift that this will have on my life, i should say that i've never wanted to be anything other than a writer, and i've written for more than three decades now. i've had some success, 10 years of fairly steady paychecks, a couple of published books (not novels, but rather books for gamers), and i've published a handful of poems and short stories sporadically over the years.
my notion of success has never been directly tied to commercial success, which is a good thing, since i've deliberately charted a course of writing things with little to no commerical appeal. i don't regret that, because had i gone for mainstream markets, i might have made it, and not reached the epiphany that i now have.
i've got, in my possession (in computer files and on yellowing pages), nearly my entire body of work of 30 years, and i will never again look at them. they are what they are, but they are part of the past and they will stay there.
writing has turned me into a creature that is both senseless and pathetic. when i can't write, i become a beast that no one should have to live with. i'm angry and hateful and i feel impotent and weak. this is no way to live.
and when i am writing well, i become as distant as another universe, locked into an obsessive ritual to wring out every ounce of creativity i can harness. while it offers me moments of satisfaction, sometimes even joy, it is, i have determined, an ugly and selfish habit.
i'm no longer comfortable in my own skin or at peace with my vision of my life. i am lost, and i became lost on the journey of writing.
if i'm lucky, i might can find some purpose in life that's not tied to the compulsive manipulation of language bent only on disrupting the worldview of others.
because that's exactly what i was doing.
every word i wrote was intended to change the reader insome way, to make them question life, to damage their view of life, to seduce them into subversive thought.
that, i know now, is wrong. a person's life is the most precious experience available to them. to attempt to impose on or alter that is, in my view now, an evil act.
i don't hold it against anyone here that they want to continue to write, whether to entertain, or to affect change, or to add beauty to the world. those things are, on their face, noble and worthy.
i just hope, in time, you see how wrong you are. i hope you don't live only inside yourself, or neglect the ones who love you, or miss the simple pleasures in life... all because you're a slave to the page.
i wish you all the best and thank you for all you've meant to me.
-william
i've decided to stop writing.
to understand the seismic shift that this will have on my life, i should say that i've never wanted to be anything other than a writer, and i've written for more than three decades now. i've had some success, 10 years of fairly steady paychecks, a couple of published books (not novels, but rather books for gamers), and i've published a handful of poems and short stories sporadically over the years.
my notion of success has never been directly tied to commercial success, which is a good thing, since i've deliberately charted a course of writing things with little to no commerical appeal. i don't regret that, because had i gone for mainstream markets, i might have made it, and not reached the epiphany that i now have.
i've got, in my possession (in computer files and on yellowing pages), nearly my entire body of work of 30 years, and i will never again look at them. they are what they are, but they are part of the past and they will stay there.
writing has turned me into a creature that is both senseless and pathetic. when i can't write, i become a beast that no one should have to live with. i'm angry and hateful and i feel impotent and weak. this is no way to live.
and when i am writing well, i become as distant as another universe, locked into an obsessive ritual to wring out every ounce of creativity i can harness. while it offers me moments of satisfaction, sometimes even joy, it is, i have determined, an ugly and selfish habit.
i'm no longer comfortable in my own skin or at peace with my vision of my life. i am lost, and i became lost on the journey of writing.
if i'm lucky, i might can find some purpose in life that's not tied to the compulsive manipulation of language bent only on disrupting the worldview of others.
because that's exactly what i was doing.
every word i wrote was intended to change the reader insome way, to make them question life, to damage their view of life, to seduce them into subversive thought.
that, i know now, is wrong. a person's life is the most precious experience available to them. to attempt to impose on or alter that is, in my view now, an evil act.
i don't hold it against anyone here that they want to continue to write, whether to entertain, or to affect change, or to add beauty to the world. those things are, on their face, noble and worthy.
i just hope, in time, you see how wrong you are. i hope you don't live only inside yourself, or neglect the ones who love you, or miss the simple pleasures in life... all because you're a slave to the page.
i wish you all the best and thank you for all you've meant to me.
-william
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