Seven years.

This past weekend I was having a conversation with someone and realized it has been seven years since I’ve written something that wasn’t a short story or coauthored. I guess I knew something like this would happen when I took over Grindhouse Press, but honestly, didn’t think it would happen to me.

I counted how many books I’d published since my last solo project. Sixty-eight. I’ve published sixty-eight books in seven years. There’s no time to focus on my own writing, and honestly, I don’t know if I want to anymore.

I’ve tried twice in the past few months to start a new book. But each time I open the Word document I feel exhausted just looking at the blank page. Reading through clinical files on a computer is my day job. And frankly, I’m exhausted at the end of the day. The thought of trying to construct a coherent story people will want to read is exhausting. And in seven years I don’t recall anyone being interested in what I’m writing, they only want to know when Grindhouse Press will be open for submissions.