No Chapter today

Good Thursday morning to all,

Today, I won’t be sharing a new chapter. In fact, there will be no teaser, no sneak peek. Instead, I want to share something real.

I’ve posted fifteen chapters and an introduction for The Nomadic Life, a work still very much in its infancy, a mere glimpse of something that might change shape a thousand times before it's ever finished. The name of the characters I have written are merely placeholders for now. Their descriptions may change over time and who they are and how they behave may change as well. Writing is a messy, fluid process. At least it is for me.

What you’ve read so far are unpolished and raw chapters. I posted those in hopes of letting you in. A behind-the-scenes look at what it's like to be a writer, and how a story begins before it’s even fully born.

I’ve posted a chapter a day, missing only one. And today, as I sit here, I know the next chapter is already swirling in my mind. But I’m paralyzed. Inspiration? It's gone, evaporated.

I’ve published one book, What Were The Chances?. It was my debut novel. My second, Beneath The Creole Stars, is at the editors, and I can’t wait to get it back. But none of this comes easily. These books are so different from each other, yet both are a part of me. The Nomadic Life can be considered the same genre as What Were The Chances?, historical fiction/family saga. “Beneath The Creole Stars,” however, is nothing like those stories. I am emotionally and mentally invested in what I am writing, but does what I am writing mean enough to anyone else?

Why am I telling you this?

Because today, I’m not here just as a writer. I’m here as a human being who feels… drained. Mentally, emotionally, and physically as well. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep going.

For years, I was a chameleon. From the moment I hit my teens until my late thirties, I adapted. I became whoever the world needed me to be. I lost myself while trying to fit into the fabric of society. I had no idea who I was because I spent all my energy pretending to be what others expected.

Back then, I drew. That was my escape. I could quickly sketch a portrait or carve faces into pumpkins and receive instant validation. Those things drew instant approval and made me feel special, if only for a fleeing moment. I needed to feel loved, seen, recognized. Without that, I felt… invisible.

My worth was tied to how others saw me. I would bend to the point of almost breaking, I’d do anything to be loved, even if it meant losing myself in the process.

Even today, at times I still feel that way. It’s hard to shake that voice in my head and heart that says, “For it is in your eyes alone that I exist. Should you turn and walk away, I cease to be.”

So why am I sharing this?

Because writing, this process I love so much, is so very different from drawing. Drawing, in all its simplicity, was immediate. People saw it, praised it, or criticized it, and I could move on. But writing? Writing takes time. It is a slow, lonely, and often thankless process. Hours spent in silence, typing, rewriting, editing, repeating, until you’re not sure if you’ll ever get it right. There’s no instant gratification. You cannot show someone a chapter and expect them to react the way you need them to. Instead, they have to be willing to commit hours of their own lives to what you’ve created. And many do not or cannot afford to give of their time.

And I get it. Your time is precious. So is mine.

So here we are. I thought offering a free book online would intrigue other readers. I wrote new chapters every day, hoping that someone, anyone, might connect with what I’m writing.

But the book I am posting, The Nomadic Life, may never be completed. In fact, I might never finish another book. I have two more novels in the works, a serial killer story and the fantasy epic I have been working on for over forty years. Who knows if they’ll ever see the light of day? They may sit abandoned on my hard drive, forever taking up space.

When you spend years pouring your heart and soul into a story you believe in so much just to have it ignored, can be devastating. I gave away more copies of What Were The Chances? than I ever sold, hoping it may fall into the “right hands” only to see other books garner success. Something like that can have a toll on you, mentally and emotionally.

It hurts more than I care to admit.

Writing, for me, feels like a lottery and a high school popularity contest. It’s all about luck, connections, and visibility. If no one notices you, does your work even matter? The answer often feels like no. And so, you get stuck in this cycle of self-doubt, and rejection, and it drags you deeper into the dark.

For so long, I told myself that if just one person connected with Sylvia Rose Turner’s story, then I was a success. It took five years to finish that book. Five years of rewriting, reworking, and doubting myself. I fell for scams which caused me to lose motivation, but I did not let those setbacks stop me. And when it finally came out, I was proud. I told myself it was worth it. Sylvia Rose’s story deserved to be read.

But then came Beneath The Creole Stars. That story just poured out of me in less than six months, a wild ride and rush of creativity. I still don’t understand where it came from, but it felt like it was meant to be. And now… Now I’m standing at the precipice, wondering if I’m willing to risk it all again. I am not sure I can take another round of rejection.

Am I ready to spend more money to promote a book that just collects dust? The copies of “What Were The Chances?” sitting around in boxes here in my house just remind me of all the money I spent in hopes that someone might care about Sylvia Rose’s journey.

It is heartbreaking.

As a “creative,” I’m also bipolar. Many artists, writers, and musicians walk the same line. It is more than a disorder. It’s an impulse, a need to express, to escape, to cope with the chaos in our heads. When I was younger, it was drawing. Now it’s writing. But today, I feel like I’ve hit a wall. And I’m not sure what to do next.

When Patch, my cat, woke me up this morning, I didn’t want to move. I didn’t want to face another day. And yet, here I am, sitting at the desk, trying to write. The blank page is unforgiving. It mocks me. I cannot write another word today. I cannot force myself to relive the past.

I feel defeated. Alone. Like I’ve wasted my time, my life.

That’s where I’m at right now. A hurdle is in front of me, so high, so impossible to clear. And even if I do manage to leap over it, there’s a wall beyond it, and I know I cannot face hitting that wall today.

I’m feeling sorry for myself. I know that.

Maybe I need Cher to come slap me across the face and tell me to “snap out of it.” But in this moment, I’m not sure how to overcome this depression.

Motivation has abandoned me, and in its place is this hollow, overwhelming sense of hopelessness. I feel like I am falling backwards, darkness swirling all around me. There is a light ahead, but it grows dimmer the further I fall.

I understand now why someone like Hemingway couldn’t go on.

I do not escape into a bottle to numb the pain anymore. My ability to cope with rejection and the rogue emotions that are overpowering me seems to be slowly slipping away.

How does a person go on when the world cannot, or simply refuses to see them?

I personally have no clue. When I do, I’ll share it with you.

But for today, I have no answers.

I do, however, want to thank those of you who have shown me love and support. You are why I haven’t given up and the reason Sylvia Rose lives on today.

For my family, who has been nothing but loving and supportive, just know that if not for you, neither I nor Sylvia Rose would be here. It is your love that has kept me going all these years. Without you, none of this would be possible.

There is love and hope in my heart. I just need to find it again.

Until then, I won’t be posting more chapters. I hope you understand.

With all my gratitude,

Trapper (Perry, Thorsten, or Albert, whichever name you know me by)