I have been grieving for my writing career.
I last posted on here over a year ago to announce the closure of my publisher. It had been a slow, expected death – my last royalty payent was in early 2019, right after the new owners took over. I thought I was just disappointed and that I would move on.
But I found that I couldn’t. I was just starting a new intense day job, so my writing time was limited. My old books languished on my hard drive, unavailable to buy – except for the paperbacks and audiobook, for which the money goes to the now-dissolved publisher.
I wrote the first draft of the first Amy Lane book in November 2011 and, after eight years and four sequels, I had nothing to show for it.
Then 2020 happened – and I was a pregnant doctor during a global pandemic. The two weeks of leave I had planned to spend with my new book turned into childcare. I felt more and more disconnected from myself as a writer.
All my friends who had started the publishing journey with me went from strength to strength. I did my best to cheer for them, to support their new books and awards – but it was easier to create distance rather than acknowledge my hurt and my jealousy.
In July 2020, I managed to edit and upload ebook versions of the first four books in The Amy Lane Mysteries. And I was paid for my writing for the first time in eighteen months.
Slowly – excruciatingly slowly – I began to write again. A TV pitch document, a few thousand words of my novel, and now a science fiction short story that has excited my muse for the first time in months.
It is a new year and a time for new beginnings. I hope to share something new with you all soon.