…But then my dogs died and my publisher went belly-up and I went through some stuff, came out the other side and found that I wasn't a writer.

Yeah, that was tough.

I found myself without my usual identity. “What do you do?” “I’m a writer.” That did my head in.

So I did all the things. I tried to write every day. I gave myself a break and not write every day. I gave myself permission to slack off, clear my head.

I read books from authors that I dig (VanderMeer, King, Eco) and new authors I discovered (Becky Chambers).

I read Chuck Wendig's Terribleminds blog (this entry is terrific) just to kick myself up the arse (that would be the Australian version of "ass").

And it kinda worked. I started a novel. Hooray, right?

Hold the confetti, folks. At 30k words, I abandoned it due to crippling self-doubt.

I started another novel. It, too, got to 30k words and I abandoned it for overthinking. ("This has been done before. Wait, this is being done NOW. This is not what you are as a writer. This is exactly what you are as a writer - full of shit." And so on.)

Was thirty-thousand words my new limit? A psychosomatic death knell? Maybe it was. So I sat down in the chair, at the desk where my other books had been written and cracked my knuckles. (Metaphorically. I hate it when people crack their knuckles. The sound, the image in my brain... Just stop it, people. It's not good for you.)

"Okay, you 30k word-limit piece of shit", I said - again, metaphorically - "Let's do this."

I wrote a 25k novella about a detective and a murder of an animal in a future time when such things are deemed to be abhorrent.

It didn't pour out of me like I’d hoped; it dribbled out, it retched out. I forced it out over weeks. But I finished it (confetti!) and I hated its finished form.

I put it away for a few weeks, then came back to edit it. It wasn't so bad. I grew to like it. Small win/big win.

But the other stories (those I left for dead by the side of the road under the "You are now passing 30k..." sign) kept nagging at me.

So here I am. Three years later. Two adopted dogs (pics for attention!) later.

New mindset, new schedule, and writing on the train with a pen and notepad, old school.

I'm still hearing the self doubt and the overthinking. But I'm not writing to get published at the moment. I'm not thinking of markets and audience expectations and where this will "fit" and who will or won't help it fit. I'm writing for me.

That served me well for the first three books. Let's see what happens with this one.