I heard someone call this year the longest year in history. Considering the Covid years, that may seem ludicrous, but, even with how awful those years were, (during which I got so sick I thought I might not make it), 2025 has indeed been the year that won’t die, thanks in great part to the election this patently absurd administration. Every day a whiplash and never knowing what is waiting around the corner, afraid to look away, terrified not to know what’s going on. But we’re finally almost there. These last few months I’ve been terribly sick again (thanks in part to the above mentioned destruction of civil and political norms), but we’re almost there, almost ready to add the year to the history books so that years from now we can look back and say, “Goddamn, we weren’t crazy, that was a bigger shitshow than this country has ever seen.” But that’s enough of that. Back to writing related things.

In a post on December 31, 2024, I made writing plans, stating in part, “My main 2025 goal, however, is to reprioritize the search for a literary agent. I have two completed novels, both of which I still have faith in, and believe that somewhere out there is an agent who will see value in them as well. Of course I can’t control that, but I can control the effort I put into it, and that concentrated effort is what I seek for the coming year.“

A worthwhile goal for sure, but as I sit here now I must confess that I did not submit either novel to an agent. Not a single one. I did submit many short stories to many publications, however. And, for the first time since I’ve started doing this in earnest, it looks like I will be ending the year without one acceptance. That fact, obviously, must lead to some reflection. Since I’ve been published a decent number of times over the last 10 years, I must ask, Did my writing get worse? Did the literary landscape change? Both?

I can’t objectively say I got worse. I genuinely believe I get better with every draft. The landscape, however, has 100% changed, and it all started back in those Covid years of reckoning, during which my publications first started to drop, and have continued to ever since. But beyond that, I know I have struggled more, in various ways, to get words on paper, and in many ways I think that’s because I did what I was supposed to do – get to know more and more about the publication industry. Prior to that I used to have endless ideas and write till my heart was content. The more I learned of the industry, the more I second guessed myself, the more doubt crept in, both about my own skills and what would be considered “acceptable.” Could this sentence be misread? The whole story misinterpreted to make me out to be a terrible person? (That happened with at least one rejection). Before getting into the inner workings of such things, I had never known writer’s block, believed it was only something that happened to people who weren’t “real writers,” but suddenly I became afraid to even try.

In the end, what I need is simply to return to writing for myself. I’m 43. It’s time to give up the dream of becoming a paid fiction writer. Of course, as long as I’m alive and trying it’s still possible, but less and less likely. And that’s okay. This morning I said, “If I give up writing, what the hell would I do with all the time I previously devoted to that?” While I’m interested in so many things in this world (and beyond), nothing can compare to what I feel when I’m working over an idea, translating that onto paper, shaping it, smoothing the rough edges over and over until being satisfied with what I’ve created. Writing remains the only time I truly lose track of time. It results in the greatest calm I’ve ever felt, as well as the greatest feelings of accomplishment and satisfaction. So industry be damned. Gatekeepers be damned. Literary muck that sells millions be damned. I’ll write till I’m dead, even if it’s for an audience of one. But I’ll no longer play any stupid games. No longer waste my time on things you’re “supposed” to do. Would any of the great writers of history, if they had lived now, spend hours on a social media plan or other similar nonsense? I sure hope not, but if they had their work surely would have suffered. Anyone can put words on paper, and with the internet anyone can publish those words. But I’ll never be convinced that that alone makes someone a writer.

Time to exorcise as many of the industry demons from my head so that I can get back to feeling like a writer, like I used to when I had no idea how much the cards were stacked against me, when I had never heard of Twitter, or social media, or agents. When I’d finish reading a great novel or short story and say, “Damn! I want to do that with words too!” Enthusiasm need not die with age, you just have to take it back.