For those of you who may have been wondering, no I’m not dead, maimed or seriously injured.
I am, however, living in a house in the middle of the forest that is over a hundred years old. And while we have cable television, we have no internet access. Yes, there are still places in America where WiFi does not travel, or in our case, even the cable lines. They tell us they are coming like the Stark’s long for winter, which could mean three months or three years from now.
I have used the last few months to re-evaluate a lot of the way I’ve done things in the past. I have read and read and read so many paper and hardback novels. Not just cheap Kindle novels (like mine, ahem) but proper English and American literature. And the experience has reminded me of why I wanted to write in the first place. Going back and re-reading all my old favorites as well as some new classics has reminded me what it’s “all about” you could say.
Being away from instant internet access, besides occasionally frustrating is equal parts refreshing. It has helped me to appreciate other things. I have spent more time playing piano in the last month than the last two years. I’ve been learning how to keep my flowers from dying, a continual and monumental task indeed. I have written very little but planned and brainstormed much. Above all I feel like I’ve lived more in the last few months than the last few years of my life.
I’m not saying online media is “the big bad” but it’s been healthy for me as a writer and a person to step away from it all. I do realize that as a modern independent author, and a “brand” as they say, this is counterproductive for my business. Because it is a business when you get down to the nuts and bolts. This little unintentional sabbatical may not have garnered more readers or media attention. But I believe it is making me a better writer.
Without constant tap into the online book world, I’ve had to re-discover why I write. Is it because I want more followers on my facebook page? Or more money in my bank account? Because without those concerns, when it all was stripped bare for me, I was left with nothing. It was depressing at first. I’m not sure where my initial idealism went in the last year but I feel as though all the ambition I once had was sucked out of me. Perhaps that was why I read so much. And somewhere in the midst of reading Stephen King’s “Under the Dome” I started to remember the feeling. I could remember why I wanted and needed to write. It wasn’t ever for attention or affirmation of some kind, but because I loved it. I love telling stories and I love connecting with other readers. That’s all. And that’s all it should be.
I won’t be able to update often on here, but I will update. I’m currently working on the sequel to Vynasha and seeking a way to see the re-written part one published again.
I live in an old farmhouse in the middle of the forest, miles from what most people would call civilization, and the wonderful thing is I’ve never been happier.