I’ve done very little during the last week or so except read and think. I suppose I could think of this period as something of a midlife crisis — a writer’s midlife crisis. I’m not sure what’s going on. I go over the titles of work in progress and I don’t see much that I think is worth continuing. I look at the completed works and they strike me as superficial and amateurish. If I’m going to continue writing, I need to find a more meaningful direction, and I have only the faintest glimmering of what that might be.
Maybe it would help if I look at the last three years as a time of learning to write fiction, and give up the idea that I’ve produced anything of value. Now I have to learn how to produce fiction that might, just possibly, have some value.