Where do we go from here?

Greetings from sunny Scottsdale. Yes, I'm back in paradise, walking the dog, taking out the trash, and pretending I'm a friend of the family and not the hired help. Am I a guest who happens to get paid $25 a day to feed and walk the dog? Am I just here for dog love? It's a curious conundrum I don't spend much time contemplating. What's the point? It's great to have dog love, and did I mention there's a tub?

Meanwhile, I am getting some writing done. The third book of this trilogy is not obedient. The characters are determined to develop themselves, as if I have nothing to do with their goals and dreams. The plot stopped thickening about thirty pages in. Now it's so thin, it's running off in all directions like the coffee I keep knocking over in my car. Just like the drips of stale coffee, I keep finding loose ends, blind alleys, and pointless panoramas. Who cares if my hero steps in a bucket? Is that necessary? Or is it just a joke that means nothing to anyone but me? 

In the end, I have to write for me. If I don't find it funny and entertaining, then what's the point? I'm not writing to impress anyone. I'm sure not writing to earn money. I'm sad my one and only fan has been contending with the L.A. wildfires. She may not have a house anymore. It's unlikely she will be replacing the previous books she bought from me, let alone buying this new one, if I ever finish it. Still, it's heartwarming to know I once had a fan.

I have a mental map of my life. A gold star proclaims "you are here." The path behind me is unchangeable but blessedly hazy. I remember snapshots of humilations, regrets, and unfulfilled dreams but not much else, not without photos to prompt me. The path in front of me might be predictable, if past performance were actually a predictor of future results. However, if you have ever invested your IRA in small cap funds, you've seen the disclaimer. You may not have read it, assuming the market would always rise, but the warning label is there. Past performance is not a guarantee of future results. You could lose everything. Then again, you could win the lottery. Just because my past trajectory suggests disasters will compound in my future doesn't mean there aren't other possibilities. 

For example, my writing might get discovered by someone who has enough presence to influence others to buy my books. I know it's not likely, especially given that TikTok is on life support and possibly dead. I have a Ph.D. in marketing, after all. The first challenge for any new product, even before being findable, is to generate awareness of its existence. My books are findable, but nobody knows they exist. It stands to reason: Readers have to know about my books before they might consider buying my books. Sadly for me, I am a social media avoider. I'm also an extreme introvert. Therefore, my only hope is magic.

I am not retreating into magic for the next four years, in case you are wondering. I am keeping my options open. I might write postcards, I might submit exhortations to certain politicians to stop being assholes, I might drive my minivan to Washington and sit outside the Capitol Building with a sign. I'm not sure what the sign would say, but the internet will help me find an appropriate meme. With any luck, I'll make the national news, especially if I self-immolate. If I were young, attractive, and persistent, like Greta, no worries. However, I'm old, wrinkled, and tired. Nobody cares. It would take a seriously drastic action to make the front page of the New York Times. I'm not sure self-immolation would actually be newsworthy. Everyone would claim it's AI and Photoshop. Nothing is real anymore, not even self-sacrifice.

Plus, if I did something that final, I'd miss the show that is coming. Like a typical reader, I want to keep turning the pages to see what happens. The ending might be disappointing, maybe a bit bloody, but sometimes it's the plotlines and characters that keep me going.