There are innumerable ways to answer the question of “When is it time to stop writing?” It could be time to stop when the publishing contracts dry up. Or it could be when your book sales dwindle to a dribbling trickle. When the last thing you want to do is come up with one more idea. It could also be time to stop when you flat out don’t feel like writing any longer and you’re afraid that every sentence you write reveals that reluctance.
I wrote my first published mystery in 2009, and I recently turned in my eighteenth. The use of mathematics tells me that I’ve written an average of 1.125 books per year for the last fifteen years. Another burst of figuring tells me that I’ve had publishing contracts for nearly a quarter of my lifetime. (And if you use a teeny bit of math yourself, you’ll know how old I am, but we’re not going to dwell on that, are we?)
In my fifteen years of being published, the world around us has endured numerous upheavals and convulsions. A recession. A pandemic. Social and political instability. A housing crisis. Crushing inflation.
During that same fifteen years I’ve endured my own upheavals. The loss of a job and subsequent financial hardship. The death of my father. A complete career change. Serious illness. The death of my mother. The death of beloved pets. Add the inevitable aging thing (see above math problem) and it begins to dawn on me that there are valid reasons why it’s getting harder and harder for me to write while having a full time day job. It all takes a toll, and the last few months I’ve been wondering if it’s time to quit with the writing thing.
Don’t get me wrong. I love to write. There’s absolutely nothing that compares to the days when my fingers can’t keep up with my brain, when the words flow freely, when characters say funny things, when descriptions are apt, when things simply go click.
The last year or so, though…well, the writing has started to feel like work. Back in the day, I could hardly wait to get to the computer. Characters and dialogue and plot points were always jostling around in my tiny little head and spending a couple of hours at a keyboard after eight hours of sitting at a keyboard for the day job wasn’t a chore at all.
Lately? Not so much.
For the last two books, it’s entirely possible that I’ve spent as much time engaging in extreme avoidance behavior as I have in writing. And not in a productive way, either. Good avoidance behavior is cleaning bathrooms, washing floors, washing windows, doing laundry, weeding, or getting out the paint bucket to do that touch-up that’s been needed for five years.
Sadly, my recent avoidance behavior has been along the lines of watching episode after episode of Doc Martin, Heartland, and/or Grey’s Anatomy. Another type of avoidance behavior that I’ve picked up for the first time ever is reading Recency romances. Give me anything by Georgette Heyer and I’m toast for getting any of my own writing done. I’ve also discovered you can find all sorts of fun online things to exacerbate the avoidance habit. Mini-crossword puzzles. Mahjong. Solitaire games galore.
But I did finally get around to writing the words, and not so very long ago, I emailed a completed manuscript to my editor. After I hit the Send button, I stared at the screen and wondered if I’d just submitted the last book I’d ever write. I spent roughly three seconds considering the question, decided I was too tired to care one way or another, shut the computer down, and promptly slept for twelve straight hours.
That was about two months back. Since then, I’ve slept through Saturday mornings, washed floors and windows, cleaned bathrooms, done some scraping and painting, a lot of weeding, and rested. A lot.
Eventually, I’ve come to the fairly obvious conclusion that my avoidance behavior had its roots in one thing. I was tired. Tired of working both a full time day job and the writing job. Tired of not having enough time to myself. Tired of never having a day off, because with writing, much like with housework, there is always something you should be doing. Most of all? I was tired of being tired.
Two months of non-writing and as much rest as possible later, my brain is finally starting to wake up. Plot points are starting to pop into my head at the least provocation. Characters are starting to walk and talk in the edges of my thoughts. I drive past houses or buildings or views that make me think, “Hey, that just might show up in one of my books someday.”
Best of all? Somewhere deep down inside me are the stirrings of another book. Or two. Or eighteen. I can just feel pieces of plot and bits of characters swirling around, waiting for me to bring them to life, waiting for me to get the rest that, in retrospect, I’ve needed for years.
So. Is it time for me to stop writing?
Not a chance.
