Ay caramba. I once said adios to fiction writing, but here it is, knocking at my door again. Too many things conspiring:
1. A feature on a self-published illustrator in our local paper.
2. Re-reading a novel I have on my hard drive and deciding, “Hey, not bad.”
3. Running into a friend at the post office. I explained that I now help people write memoirs, and I’d written mine. He said, “If you ever have it for sale, let me know, we’d be interested.” (So…that’s not exactly related to my fiction work, but the fact that someone said they’d read something I’ve written just because they read me in the paper made me feel hopeful.)
4. Meeting a friend for lunch today, and her saying, it’s okay for me to self-publish my novels.
Not that I’m asking anyone’s permission, mind you.
I wish I could grow out of this phase forever, because this going back and forth is messing up my head. Meanwhile, I have “cover” writerly jobs that I can refer to instead of “novelist aspiring to be published” when people ask me what it is I do.
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