Death of a Salesman

Over the past few months, upon completion of my fantasy, it bit-by-bit hit me, hour over hour, that existential crisis. It crept up on me, like an intimate shadowy stalking figure.

I've been writing, first lyrics then poems then a novella then novels, since 1990 - the better part of my lifetime. Over the last year-and-a-half, I've met such strong and infinitely talented authors. You. And we have shared in the amazing and wonderful experience of being writers together. And I cherish it. I will love you, my dearest and sweetest and kindest friends, for the rest of my whole life.

My ADD has grown worse. Far worse than it has ever been. I am finding it increasingly and unbearably difficult to even formulate an outline of my what-to-write-next. Though, I promise you, I will write it. And I might lean on you a little as I do.

Coupled with my ADD, is my increasing frustration with "the market" - flooded by sex sex sex stuff. The influx into and saturation of the market by persistent hawkers of smut, very non-literature stuff, drowns out us and all the worthwhile books by the schemers and other false authors. Maybe New Adult hosts an overwhelming magnitude of this parasite due to the perception of solely being edgier sexier Young Adult.

ONCE MORE INTO THE BREACH, DEAR FRIENDS!

The Red Pen Society will be my last novel. I'm going to pour everything I have into it. I hope to create something powerful and something remarkable. But once I set it free into the universe, I'm going to move on.

I've recently read some very fine contemporary poetry. In turn, I've re-read my own poetry. And during this existential crisis, I found my beacon of light. I've found my love again. I'm going to create new poetry, as it practically suits my malady better, and it also feels more like the art I've been craving and less like industry.

I'd love to go to battle with you, my comrades, my army of Goonies. But I've been quite beaten up, and have, truthfully, done some of the flogging myself. I've grown battle-weary. Perhaps it is something of a writerly PTSD.

The world of poetry offers a few specific benefits that I need:

• a poet can give away a poem or two or three as freebies, without sacrificing sales of the entirety of the work

• a single poem can be submitted to all sorts of contests and publications

• I can write a poem each night and not kill myself trying to make a wordcount or world-build or advance a plot line

(This is not to say it's easy to create great poetry. It's just easier for me.)

• I can explore themes as sporadically and deeply as I'd like, without being confined to the restrictions of novelling

(A poem can have a character called I who lives for a page or two, who experiences something or shares that experience, and then it is off to a different I.)

• I can delve into other mediums, like audio & public readings (once I'm over that fear enough to try it.)

• I can collect 50-100 poems, and in relatively short time, create covers & art, and publish more prolifically - to better suit my self-gratification

And please understand, I respect your novelling very much. I have been so incredibly fortunate to read and enjoy your stories. You all do it so well. You will each find success with it.

Once I have a few chapters of RPS down, I'd love to get your thoughts and advice on it. I, of course, am always here to support you and love you - like I have, like I do. And that will never change.

Just because we will someday be going in different directions, doesn't mean we're not still together.

Much love.
Xs & Os