15 millions books in print and nothing to read.

Started watching a documentary about Internet Cats last night.

It was exhausting. Everyone doing everything they can to get their 15 minutes of fame.

What's obvious is that the real successes came early and by accident--by luck, pretty much. The people who came along later and tried to cash in on the craze mostly failed. But even if they succeeded, the pursuit of the venal was just too dispiriting to watch.

I turned to Linda about 10 minutes in and said, "Had enough?"

"More than enough."

I think the thing that was most exhausting was the knowledge that the same thing is happening with indie writers. There were those who came early and caught on, and then there's everyone else. The occasional lucky or skilled media manipulator and the even more occasional genius--and everyone else.

I perhaps have a more jaundiced view than most because I also own a bookstore. I check the book liquidation lists every day. Hundreds and thousands of Young Adult series that look good on the surface but have gone nowhere. Hundreds and thousands of literary novels. Hundreds and thousands of genre books. Most of them being presented as if they are the "next" Harry Potter or Hunger Games or whatever the latest success has been.

"Where the Crawdads Sing" is going to spawn a million copycats.

15 million books in print--and not a drop to drink.

Drinking and writing.

There's a lot of literature on the subject, but I can only tell you my own experiences.

Way back in the mid-70s, when I was struggling to write my first books, I was drinking fairly often. I used alcohol to get me going. I seemed to need it to loosen my creative juices and to still my doubts. I'd spend time in a drunken haze thinking up wild ideas. I used the promise of a few glasses of wine or beer to sit my butt in a chair and write.

It seemed to help. It seemed to me that I had insights and clarity, in vino veritas. I suspect those first books wouldn't have been written without alcohol.

In hindsight I can see the drawbacks. I can see that many of the dysfunctional habits I developed can be traced to being soused. The biggest problems I had were the constant changing of narrative in mid-stream, the incessant starting over, and the obsessive rewriting.

Then I married a teetotaler, bought a bookstore, had two stepkids. I needed to stay sharp during the day, I found myself losing my temper more often after I drank (strangely, not so much while I was drinking. I'm mostly a happy drunk.)

I didn't stop drinking overnight. I never felt that I had huge problems with drinking, it's just that the benefit/cost ratio changed. The benefit of feeling loose wasn't enough to overcome cost of sleep disruption, stomach upset, and psychological dislocation.

I never made a decision to stop drinking. I still haven't. I'll probably drink some night in the future and won't feel guilty about it. But the habit just sort of petered to a stop.

So after a 25 year hiatus, I came back to writing with a vengeance. I figured that drinking would be part of the process, but something different happened. The benefit/cost ratio proved to be way out of whack. I didn't seem to have many insights, it didn't seem to help me concentrate, and the damage done to my body and mind seemed excessive.

So then I thought I'd save alcohol for moments when I was stuck or undecided.

That didn't seem to work either.

Meanwhile, I wrote a bunch of books stone-cold sober. I proved that I could do it, and there didn't seem to be any drawback.

I still harbor a hope that one night I'll have an epiphany while soused that will elevate whatever I'm writing--but so far, that hasn't come close to happening, so I'm not going there.  

The dilettante's approach to writing.

I read over a few months worth of blog posts yesterday (which shows I have time on my hands.) I noticed that I had 3 or 4 either starts or outlines of viable story lines. A couple of which I'd already forgotten.

This is the way much of the 25 year hiatus went. I'd get an idea, jot it down or write a page or two, and then forget about it. Sometimes I'd get as far as a few chapters.

It took me five years of writing and rewriting to get my first book written. When Star Axe was accepted by Tower Books way back in 1979, my Dad challenged me to replicate the achievement and he'd buy me a new typewriter--one of the new-fangled Smith-Corona daisy wheels. Top of the market back then. I'd already started Snowcastles by then and it was quickly accepted.

Anyway, I've never lacked ideas. Whether they're good ideas is a whole 'nother question. There's the old saying that everyone has one good book in them. (Maybe...but not everyone can write it.)

I'm sort of proud of the diversity of my efforts. I haven't followed the same formula, that's for sure. Maybe to the detriment of my so-called "career."

I actually feel kind of sorry for authors like Lee Child or Robert Crais, who have to write the same book 30 times. (I'm sure they're crying all the way to the bank.)

Coming up with ideas and letting them hang there is a dilettante's approach to writing. Dare I say that is what happens to most people who "want" to be a writer? Ultimately, it's very frustrating and unfulfilling.

The last story I tried to write, "Ruby Red and the Robots," wasn't finished. Followed by all these ideas that have gone nowhere.

I seem to have settled into the No Man's Land of the dilettante-ism all of a sudden. It seems to be part of a cycle. Even as I was writing heavily for the last six years, I knew that the time would come.

Interestingly, the difference between this fallow period and others is that I'm not drinking. I think I used to try to substitute discipline for alcohol. Not that that worked very well.

So I'm trying to figure out the path forward. Like I said, I'm not sure that just writing another book under the same regime will do me any good. Something has to change, I'm just not sure what.

Spending time with siblings can be a bit of a reality check.

Betsy and Susie were home for a few days and we spent a couple of evenings together. It's always interesting to check my memory of our childhood with theirs. My memory more or less sucks. I don't remember much. There are also the shifting experiences that each sibling had. Susie, the youngest, undoubtedly had a completely different experience than Mike, the oldest.

Linda and I have been watching "Evil" on TV. The family has four little girls who all talk at the same time. It's a maddening cacophony.

"That's not how it works," I told Linda, who was much younger than her siblings, almost an only child. We have that somewhat in common in that I was a middle child, in-between a couple of close couples of siblings as well as there being a 4 year gap between me and my sister Tina.

"What happens is that things shake out, that there is a priority of attention. When Mike and Tina were home, I couldn't get a word in edgewise. When they were gone, Betsy probably became the most vocal. I was probably quieter, and I think, so was Susie."

Anyway, much of the dysfunction in our family came earlier, and probably became less severe as time went on.

I've also always maintained that each of us McGeary kids married spouses who had much less fucked up notions about money. I think we also married people who had much more even tempers (which was probably just about anyone.)

Now what I may say about the "temper" issue may sound bad, but I've come to the conclusion that there was a positive side to it.

Basically, we all had volcanic tempers that could erupt and become a full-blown firefight.

But here's the thing. It was usually over fast, and no one ever held a grudge. It was just accepted that it was blowing off steam. It was so accepted that I don't think we thought it abnormal. There would be a huge fight in the morning, and by afternoon everyone would have forgotten about it.

Venture into the work-a-day world, and we find out that venting steam doesn't work too well. People tend to take it personally, and they don't tend to forget it. I also think each of our spouses had to make accommodations to us McGeary fireballs.

But here's the thing. We McGeary kids have never had any kinds of estrangements. We simply don't hold grudges. I'm not sure that letting out our grievances in one eruption and then forgetting it is the worst way to do things. At least, among us--who are accustomed to such behavior and understand it.

But I know one thing--it doesn't work when you're a boss, and it took me a long, long time to learn to adjust my behavior. I didn't always succeed, though I hope and believe that over the years I've gotten better with each new wave of employees.

It also doesn't work with spouses and friends who tend to see such temper tantrums as the end of the world.

Like I said, I think because of my middle of the family position, I became much more of a loner than the rest of my siblings, so I often missed out on what was going on. So talking to Bets and Sue is always revealing, mostly in a reassuring way.

It's been exactly a year since my heart attack. It affected me in ways I wouldn't have predicted. I feel less motivated to accomplish anything than I did before. I'm actually exercising less. I managed to lose 20 pounds, but most of that happened before the event.

I've gone back to working at the store 3 days a week and I'm enjoying that.

But it is obviously affecting my writing. Driving to the store yesterday, I had an entire scene come to me, but I was busy driving. Some of the scene is still in my head, but I'm not feeling motivated enough to write it down.

I'd have thought I'd be more inspired to go traveling, see a little of the world. Instead, I just feel like staying home. There is a bit of existential angst there--like, what's the point of anything? Why does it matter?

I'm not depressed, I don't think. I remember what that felt like, and this isn't it. I'm more zen than upset, but everything has a tinge of the temporary. Nothing lasts, nothing will be remembered.

On the other hand, I'm probably more relaxed. I'm falling back into old habits. I'm reading more. I'm listening to music more. I'm contemplating the quiet more.

I was aware intellectually of my mortality, but I don't think I felt it. Still, I'll always remember the helicopter trip to St. Charles and how at peace I was with everything. I wasn't scared. It was what it was. (Sure, I was hopped up on morphine, but I prefer to believe that I was accepting of my fate.)

I've been very lucky. There was a time in my mid-twenties when I felt everything was hopeless. I had no prospects, no friends; I was a bit of a charity case for my family. So having come out of that feels like a huge accomplishment. Marrying Linda, knowing Todd and Toby, running a business for 40 years, writing 30 books. I'm grateful for it all.

I've never understood ambition. I just don't have that drive. I just want a little peace and quiet, and hopefully some security. A best friend and wife, and friends/acquaintances through the store and writing. I'm going to try to "enjoy every sandwich."

Inspiration writes a page or two.

Since I've taken a break from writing, I've been feeling the creative wellspring refilling. It manifests itself in images and words and dreams and ideas.

That, in itself, is not enough to get anything accomplished. In a sense, my creative energy was being charged during my 25 year hiatus, and when I finally let loose, it came out in a torrent that lasted for five or six years.

I once again find myself having small ideas, which I sit down to write. I've had the title, "An Unknown Gnome," in my head for many years. Just liked the sound of it. So yesterday I got an idea of what that title meant and wrote a page.

That's basically what inspiration does. Inspiration alone writes a page or two. To develop that idea requires more effort.

As a writer, I run into people all the time who talk about wanting to write a book. I think I have the answer to that: writing a book is like any other kind of project. You have to put in the time and work. Simple as that.

Most of us have to work at something. So take that something and apply it to writing, and that's what it takes. But for most of us, that "work" is our day job, what we do to survive. Personally, I wasn't able to do my day job and also spend the same amount of time and energy on writing a book. I know there are people who can do that, but not me.

When I came back to writing, I just wanted to finish one book. It was a struggle and that book still isn't finished to my satisfaction. I sat down and wrote a second book, and again, it came up short. But toward the end of that second book, I sort of recaptured the feeling I had writing Snowcastles and Icetowers, and wrote Freedy Filkins in a hurry.

After that, there was no stopping me.

But I did have to bear down on each story, with an inner commandment--Thou shalt finish every story you start, good, bad, or indifferent.

In other words, it takes a commitment to be diligent and to follow through. I look inside myself and I seem to be lacking that discipline right now. Everything else is still there--the desire and the ideas. But the thought of writing a book is enough to tire me before I start.

I have a number of completed books that just require polishing, so I'm going to diligently work at that. It's at least a valuable an activity as writing another book from scratch--maybe more so. I'm still indulging my creative urges, just in a more haphazard, random way.

Which probably means I'll have a bunch of one or two page beginnings for a while yet.

Enjoying the store.

Sabrina called in sick yesterday, so I worked a day I don't ordinarily work. It was fun. I got to see some of the Wednesday crowd--comics are put out on Wednesday, so the most involved comic readers tend to come in on that day.

For one thing, I'm surprised that I seem to know as many people as I do. I mean, I was working almost every day for 30 years, so I met a whole lot of people, but I'd forgotten how many of them had become friends, or at least friendly acquaintances.

It helps that we aren't in deep debt, so there is less stress than there used to be. Honestly, the stress didn't bring out the best in me. Now I can be somewhat relaxed. So I enjoyed yesterday, sort of puttered around the store, having done most of my chores on my usual Sunday and Monday shifts.

The store is fully stocked--which almost never happens this time of year. We managed to pay down the debt to a manageable level over Christmas without stripping the store. Usually we spend the first few months of the year either trying to get by on existing inventory or going into debt to get back up to speed. This year we managed to keep the store stocked without going into debt. There isn't any category in the store where I don't feel like we're fully stocked.

It's something to be proud of. This was the store I always envisioned. Like I say, it only took 30 years to get here.

I'm also enjoying the talking to people about books, which is my first love. I can talk about books all day long, plus I'm talking to interesting people. It's also fun to sell one of my books almost every day I work.

So coming back to work has been an unexpected pleasure.

I guess the five year break was just what I needed to appreciate what I had.