Goodbye
This has been kicking its heels at the back of my head for a while now, and I still don't know what to say.
This is the last Boob Pencil post.
If I were really cool, that's all I'd say. But I've never been economical with words and sentences and writing stuff down and saying big things with few words rather than small things with millions of words and really I'm a bit of a chatterbox, in case you hadn't noticed.
There are loads of reasons for getting out the gaffer tape, closing the lid and packing this blog away in an attic cupboard. Some of them are practical, some not so much.
I was quite unhappy for a while. Nothing seemed to be working out, and I couldn't find a place for myself in the world after Baby Number Two. Theoretically I was a full-time writer, but depression was making me indecisive and unself-confident. The word FAILURE kept stamping its feet on my brain, and no matter how I tried to rationalise myself away from it, it wouldn't go away. It's still there to be honest, but I have at least managed to wrap it up in an old carpet. Its voice is muffled, but its feet are still wriggling.
No, I don't know what I'm talking about either.
My second novel was published recently, but translated into German. Which was hard, because an English version looked unlikely. And then various things went wrong, which I shouldn't talk about (I'd love to, but I'm being sensible for once), but which made the book (almost certainly) permanently inaccessible. Unless you can speak German. If you can, or know anybody who can, email me and I'll direct you to it.
It's hard to describe how that feels. Maybe if I hadn't been depressed anyway, I'd feel positive: Being published is better than being dangled above a bucket of donkey poo, after all. But when you put all that work into a novel, and when you're a Mrs-Boob-Pencil-shaped person... you want feedback. Acknowledgement. Maybe the occasional adoring horde or two. At the very least you want someone you know to read it and say, "Yes. I enjoyed that. Well done." But that ain't gonna happen, so tough titties to me.
I could go on for a while with the list of small-but-depressing things that I use for general wallowing, but enough. Life wasn't filling me with glee. And I didn't like myself much, so I didn't like my blog, which was of course an extension of me, much either, and then the perfect excuse arrived for me to sack the whole thing off.
I'm starting a new career. It's exciting, slightly insane, terrifyingly demanding and will fill my life to the top, leaving no time for blogging or writing or any of the stuff that formerly occupied my days. It's also the kind of thing where you get sacked for keeping non-anonymous and not-very-discreet blogs.
It gives me the perfect excuse for flouncing off in a puff of nobody-cares smoke and leaving the writing life behind, for a few years at any rate. My third novel is between drafts and will be mothballed indefinitely, and I can pretend I never enjoyed that stupid authoring lark anyway.
On the plus side, it's something I've always wanted to do, and now that I'm doing it I'm not sure why it's taken me so long. It'll be stressful and knackering, but I've not felt as positive about any other job I've done. Also, and crucially, it'll earn me some money - which isn't a bad idea in these recession-ridden times.
Some of you have already found it, but I've started another blog. It's anonymous, which feels weird. I'm not very good at anonymous. There's a strong chance that once the new job starts, it'll sink fast into a quagmire of good intentions... but if you'd like to be one of my new readers (I have hardly any, which is surprisingly refreshing) then email me - I'll give you the url.
Well, um... so. Right. That's it really.
Goodbye.
This is the last Boob Pencil post.
If I were really cool, that's all I'd say. But I've never been economical with words and sentences and writing stuff down and saying big things with few words rather than small things with millions of words and really I'm a bit of a chatterbox, in case you hadn't noticed.
There are loads of reasons for getting out the gaffer tape, closing the lid and packing this blog away in an attic cupboard. Some of them are practical, some not so much.
I was quite unhappy for a while. Nothing seemed to be working out, and I couldn't find a place for myself in the world after Baby Number Two. Theoretically I was a full-time writer, but depression was making me indecisive and unself-confident. The word FAILURE kept stamping its feet on my brain, and no matter how I tried to rationalise myself away from it, it wouldn't go away. It's still there to be honest, but I have at least managed to wrap it up in an old carpet. Its voice is muffled, but its feet are still wriggling.
No, I don't know what I'm talking about either.
My second novel was published recently, but translated into German. Which was hard, because an English version looked unlikely. And then various things went wrong, which I shouldn't talk about (I'd love to, but I'm being sensible for once), but which made the book (almost certainly) permanently inaccessible. Unless you can speak German. If you can, or know anybody who can, email me and I'll direct you to it.
It's hard to describe how that feels. Maybe if I hadn't been depressed anyway, I'd feel positive: Being published is better than being dangled above a bucket of donkey poo, after all. But when you put all that work into a novel, and when you're a Mrs-Boob-Pencil-shaped person... you want feedback. Acknowledgement. Maybe the occasional adoring horde or two. At the very least you want someone you know to read it and say, "Yes. I enjoyed that. Well done." But that ain't gonna happen, so tough titties to me.
I could go on for a while with the list of small-but-depressing things that I use for general wallowing, but enough. Life wasn't filling me with glee. And I didn't like myself much, so I didn't like my blog, which was of course an extension of me, much either, and then the perfect excuse arrived for me to sack the whole thing off.
I'm starting a new career. It's exciting, slightly insane, terrifyingly demanding and will fill my life to the top, leaving no time for blogging or writing or any of the stuff that formerly occupied my days. It's also the kind of thing where you get sacked for keeping non-anonymous and not-very-discreet blogs.
It gives me the perfect excuse for flouncing off in a puff of nobody-cares smoke and leaving the writing life behind, for a few years at any rate. My third novel is between drafts and will be mothballed indefinitely, and I can pretend I never enjoyed that stupid authoring lark anyway.
On the plus side, it's something I've always wanted to do, and now that I'm doing it I'm not sure why it's taken me so long. It'll be stressful and knackering, but I've not felt as positive about any other job I've done. Also, and crucially, it'll earn me some money - which isn't a bad idea in these recession-ridden times.
Some of you have already found it, but I've started another blog. It's anonymous, which feels weird. I'm not very good at anonymous. There's a strong chance that once the new job starts, it'll sink fast into a quagmire of good intentions... but if you'd like to be one of my new readers (I have hardly any, which is surprisingly refreshing) then email me - I'll give you the url.
Well, um... so. Right. That's it really.
Goodbye.
