ON WRITING, OR THE NOT THEREOF, OR FINDING YOUR FEET IN THE DARK WITH YOUR EYES POKED OUT.

It’s been a terrible couple of years. For a variety of reasons — workplace bullying, depression, and family tragedies being amongst those you know about — my writing output since Magrit saw publication in 2016 has dropped to zero, and that only because it’s impossible to write negative numbers of words. I haven’t sold anything in something like two years, haven’t seen myself in print since I don’t know when, and earlier this year decided that I was no longer going to consider myself a writer. That course had run itself. I was toasted.

Continue reading “ON WRITING, OR THE NOT THEREOF, OR FINDING YOUR FEET IN THE DARK WITH YOUR EYES POKED OUT.”