Confessions of a Currently Failed Novelist

Confessions of a Currently Failed Novelist

By Sandra Hutchison

I haven’t written a word of fiction for over a year now, except for some half-hearted editing of a romantic comedy that ought to have been released a year ago and still hasn’t been. That’s because the ending needs a little work, in theory. In reality, I’M the one who needs work.

This is happening after a decade of steady production (and hundreds of thousands of words the decade before on fanfic that couldn’t make any money and was simply done for fun).

I can’t call this writer’s block, because that implies I want to write.

These days it feels like I prefer everything else to writing.

There’s a whole mess of shame and discomfort attached to this, and I see other writers struggling with this from time to time, which is why I’m writing about it here.

First, I offer the reasons that hopefully won’t apply to you: I’m literally having physical issues that get in the way of writing. Like a sore tail bone. More problematic: bad vision. It’s hard to read the screen. These days I typically read paperbacks by holding the print about three inches from my squinty nearsighted eyes. I’ve begun to gravitate to large print books and audiobooks. I’m drafting this in 18-point font so I can see it.

All of this worsened recently with double vision that finally stopped responding to medication for my (minor) Raynaud’s Syndrome. (Don’t ask me why the medication worked or why it stopped working – apparently, it was just a happy coincidence.)

I finally tracked down an optometrist who specializes in this kind of issue and after trying some exercises and light therapy he now has me in trial prism glasses. They’re hideous, but with them on, I no longer need to close one eye to distinguish which of those two identical cars heading in my direction is the one I really should avoid. 

Sadly, though, these trial glasses make computer screens harder to read than ever. 

And it’s not just the mechanical difficulties. Some of the time I should spend sleeping I now spend wondering why I have worsening double vision and how my doctor and even my ophthalmologist can be so deeply uninterested in something I find pretty alarming. 

This brooding apparently takes a lot of energy away from writing about made-up lives, unless those made-up lives offer a pleasant escape. Given my vision issues, that “pleasant” factor is seriously lacking.

Maybe special computer glasses will solve the problem. Other writers have sung their praises. Or maybe dictation will solve the problem, but that’s whole new learning curve and holds no natural appeal. I’ve just barely gotten used to audiobooks. I’m not one of those kids who ever played with my dolls out loud. 

I’m also teaching again, which gives me a set of weekly deadlines I must not miss, which I give priority over any others. But I didn’t have to say yes to teaching. I was hoping it would wake up my pandemic-enfeebled ability to get things done. And it has, arguably. Just not for writing.

I suspect there’s another issue at the root of all of it, and I suspect it’s this: What’s the point? 

Surely most writers who haven’t achieved lasting financial or critical success must eventually ask themselves this question.

Sadly, this group includes AN AWFUL LOT of us, including many of my friends and favorite authors. Some are traditionally published. Maybe they had an amazing break-out novel at some point. But they either can’t get published anymore or can’t make a profit from it when they do.

If writing is not paying off now, and the odds are against it ever paying off again, what’s the point?

These days, I also can’t help but watch the rise of Artificial Intelligence and wonder how it will affect this problem. As I draft this, Word is using it (or some not-very-intelligent version of it) to ask me annoying questions. It’s telling me my “Editor Score” is 66%, which makes me want to slap somebody.

I’m sure I can turn that off, but in a world powered by AI, will writing ever be more than a hobby for the well-to-do, or an industry for those who control the algorithms or are particularly savvy at surfing them? 

I face similar questions in teaching. I can only be thankful the first student – I know of – to try to hand me an AI-generated paper this semester didn’t read it carefully enough to notice it didn’t actually analyze the poem it was supposed to be about. 

Some people will insist the way you know someone’s really a writer is that they keep writing despite everything. They must write in order to function. Therefore, they’re writers.

Could be. Jane Austen was twelve chapters into Sanditon when her painful final illness finally took her away from her work. But I bet she felt she still had an audience she could reasonably hope to reach with that book if she managed to finish it.

That’s not true for all of us. 

There are just too many of us. 

I know, logically, that I still have my little group of fans and that I could overcome my current issues and get back to creating for them. I could also plow in some money and grow that audience – though chances are fairly high in my genre, with my level of output, that doing so wouldn’t actually be profitable. I could probably hope to break even at best. And I know I’m fortunate to have just enough cushion that doing so wouldn’t be a terrible financial gamble.

Maybe I’ll do it. 

Maybe I won’t. 

The thing I actually came here to say is that either choice is okay. 

Life without writing or publishing is still a very good thing.

These days I’m quite happy simply to be able to take a nice long walk outside in my ugly glasses and see just one of everything out there. 

I’m also enjoying reading or listening to other people’s books. Last year I read (meaning I actually finished and enjoyed) 150 of them.

And God knows we can all use more readers.

—

Sandra Hutchison is the author of THE AWFUL MESS and its sequels THE COMPLETE DISASTER and THE UTTER CATASTROPHE, as well as of THE RIBS AND THIGH BONES OF DESIRE, BARDWELL’S FOLLY, and DISORGANIZE ME. She is currently finishing work on a modern retelling of PRIDE & PREJUDICE that highlights the plight of adjunct professors.

THE UTTER CATASTROPHE

Can you have a happy ending to a love story that includes opioid addiction? (Spoiler: Yes, but it won’t be easy.)

It’s 2016, and young Megan Cantwell has returned from her college years in California to tiny Lawson, New Hampshire to find her parents neglecting their farm. After disaster strikes, she’s persuaded to take in her old high school crush, a recent widower, and his two young girls. She’s long over him, of course, and sure she can resist the appeal of a man who’s made so many bad choices.

For his part, Noah desperately needs to succeed at his latest effort at recovery. For if he fails now, what will happen to his girls?

Meanwhile, Megan’s older cousin Winslow Jennings is the new chief of police and facing a widespread opioid epidemic that is reaching into many local families and becoming much deadlier as fentanyl works its way into the mix. And that’s before his grasping brother inserts himself in family business, or his wife’s ex-husband reappears.

This warm, witty, and suspenseful family drama is a stand-alone sequel to THE AWFUL MESS and THE COMPLETE DISASTER.

BUY HERE

Learn more at SheerHubris.com.

Tags: featured, women writers

Category: On Writing