Maybe it’s just the feeling I have right now, but from what I have been thinking about the last few nights is this. I think I will write a few more books, those that have to do with my current characters, and then probably call it quits. Why some might ask, or based on my sales maybe just a handful of people will ask. The answer is simple. There isn’t anything left to write about.
I’ve a strange and often tortured life and for more than 90% of my years, it seems as if I were living for someone else and not myself. I kept telling myself that once I was able to write I book that I would want to read and enjoy that life would somehow suddenly change; like it would take on a whole new meaning and I could finally live for myself and no do all the things I am simply expected to do. Yet, here I am. My book is out and available and while a few people have felt strongly enough about it to see fit to purchase it, I can’t help but feel like nothing has changed at all. Here I am, still doing all the things I don’t want to do and feeling as if I am only here to service the needs of others. Sure, it’s easy to see that writing a book, in a sense, is the same thing, but I beg to differ. I wrote the book not for fame and fortune. I wrote it because I felt I had something to say. I had a story that I thought was amazing and sad and beautiful and terrible and so utterly consuming that i felt the need to put it all down, so that’s exactly what i did. I worked so hard on it that while some dreams of making a real living off of it did seep into my mind, I stopped thinking about that all together and instead focused on writing the best book I could write.
That being said, the story is far from over as the characters will go through changes and, as in real life, both tragedy and wonderment will come into play. Unfortunately, after all that is said and done and the story is out there for all to read, I think, based on my current feelings, that I will be done. I will in no way lax in my style of writing simply to get all this over with. That has not and will never be my intention. Once I give my characters a respectable send off, I will be done and that will be that.
I don’t even care about school or a job or living for that matter as most things I have been a part of in my life, in the end, never really mattered. I don’t have friends and I don’t expect to gain any and I am too old to go out looking for them anymore. Those I knew when I was young have grown and moved on and that’s great. I am glad they were able to make a life for themselves. I look at them now and I think to myself where in the grand scheme of things do I fit? Either I have the absolute worst timing ever, or I simply don’t belong anywhere. I’ve left towns and tried to restart my life in different places, but i began to wonder why things never seemed to work. Now I know why.
Now I know why people never cared much for my company and that’s fine. I know I am difficult and hard to get along with and I know it’s at least partially my fault that people have faded from my life, and I am ok with that. I never expected anyone to want to put up with me for very long and based on that, I guess I have forgiven everyone and, without words, given them an out. I cannot think of a single person in my life who really gave to craps about what I thought or what I felt or cared enough to put things aside for my benefit. It may sound greedy and it probably is, but I can’t help but think to myself just how many times in my life I’ve taken the fall for others and how many times I was left hanging all because someone wanted something or someone else. I cannot get past it and I know it’s my problem and not yours and so I will so what i feel is the right thing and just bow out.
I have 2, maybe 3 more books in me and I am working on them at this moment; feverishly finding the words so that I can give my creations a proper send off. Then after that, I am done and no one will be asked to deal with my crap anymore. I’m just done. I am tired of chasing dreams I cannot catch and I am tired of waiting for anyone to listen. I sit in a room on a floor, typing on a keyboard without a desk and that’s by my own choice, but one would have to think that in all that time that someone would have at least tried to intervene.
Being that I have never felt close to anyone, not even my family, I guess this is probably the way it should be. Till I am through with all this, I will keep recording my butterflies and wondering if there really ever was an Emily Martin. My heart will keep rumbling even though I don’t want it to, and with each beat, I know I will always feel a little pain. No one is there waiting for me, because all my life as the minutes and hours and days and weeks and months and years rolled by, I never once saw anyone except myself staring back at me, and I’ve never liked what I saw. How presumptuous of me to think that anyone would see anything different.