What do you do when you come to the end of the geyser of enthusiasm for writing? Perhaps no one else out there has gotten to that point yet, but suddenly, I have.

I’m not out of ideas. It’s the realization that nothing out of the eight books I’ve spent so many hours on is fit to publish.

Now, I don’t think it’s the “I’m a talentless hack” syndrome. It’s more that I don’t see how these stories are marketable, not without heavy reworking. Some are too stereotyped, others too radical, some mix too many genres without really belonging to any.

Maybe seeing the flaws for what they are is a good sign. At the present it’s more than a little discouraging.

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