Utter Pomposity and the Denial of the Literal.

NaNoWriMo is drawing to a close, and I’ve realized a few things along the way.
Writing is difficult.
It takes discipline.
It takes time.
It takes fortitude in the face of rejection.
I am not a machine of words.


I think it's time to simply hang up the hat and put fantastic notions to bed.

After several years, an average of 44,000 hits a year on a website (with no real sales or revenue), it's time to stop doing this writing thing.  I may put out unfinished works, or finish them off, but I don't expect anything.

All good things must come to an end.  And this wasn't the first attempt to become an actual paid writer, so the loss doesn't have quite the same sting.
I must accept that I am not as creative as I think I am.
I have other things to occupy my time and mind: a loving wife, several boys with one on the way, and a household to maintain.
There have been some positive moments, it wasn’t all bitter.  The rush of pleasure knowing that there exists some kind of physical evidence that I had a creative idea.  I only wish it encapsulated more of my mind than what was displayed.

I think I should stick to reading (if and when I get the chance), and watching lame movies, trying to get a workout in every once in awhile, focusing on my family.


Thank you all for the love and support, the well wishing, and the pats on the back.  While I may post from time to time, it’s best to look at this as some kind of pathetic hobby with no real qualitative application other than a passing fancy combined with mild distraction.

For those of you who read but never commented, take this opportunity.  It won’t kill you.

Goodbye.