I’ve been trying to figure out what to do with my writing life, which has sprouted several subplots over the last five years or so. I used to just write novels. For a long, long, time that’s all I did. Write novels and send them off. Then I started a blog. And on a whim, I began reviewing for one, then another magazine. Which led to writing other stuff for magazines, too. I also teach, which led to publishing a creative memoir that doubles as a writing manual in some of my courses.
It’s too much. I want to stop doing one of these things. Should it be teaching? Novel writing? Magazine writing?
If I was looking for signs and portents for which of these three is just not working, the last week or so might offer some clues. First, the brochure announcing my Saturday class didn’t say anything about a required text. Then, after I emailed students to tell them the class won’t work without the text, the bookstore called to say they didn’t have an order. Next, student copies of my syallabus, which I’d turned in a week early, were not in my mailbox Saturday morning before class. Instead, a message read “No syllabus on file.” Then, my classroom, when I showed up, had another group already in session.
All this before the class even got underway. I had a backup plan for those without the book this week, but next week, the class will be far less effective for those still without it. And a few who travel quite a distance might be, because the college bookstore, which has finally restocked my book, is closed on Saturdays.
OTOH, my magazine writing has been going particularly well. I’m getting more work than ever from Publishers Weekly and I finally got a feature in national women’s magazine. As for the novels, after years of rejection, I finally have an agent doing the footwork for me. When I look at it in black and white, what’s got to go seems obvious.
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