My 40th book releases on August 1st.
That seems like too many books for one person. I know some folks have written more than that, but… maybe they shouldn’t have? Maybe it’s too many.
I haven’t calculated the total number of words in all those books, but I passed the 1 million mark years ago. Too many words! Too many fucking words for one person!
I’ve been thinking about the luxury of shutting the fuck up lately. What if I gave myself permission not to speak? To just sit there. Not to type, but to just sit and read and absorb and not contribute? It sounds lovely.
H. Claire Taylor has published 17 books.
Claire Feeney has published 3 books.
Nova Nelson is about to publish her 19th book.
Claire Taylor has published 1 book.
That’s not even counting all the short stories and novellas.
The words! The words! Too many words! Why do I ask this of myself?
Why can’t I stop?
I just ordered myself a new keyboard today because my hands and wrists are tired after so much typing, and I’m not as young as I used to be, so this Mac Magic Keyboard ain’t cutting it.
Do I have 40 more books in me? That seems so excessive. And yet, most of the 40 books have been written in the last eight years, so even if I slow down some, I could have 40 more books ten years from now. When I’m 45. Eighty books by 45? Save me. What would I do then? Keep writing? Retire? What the fuck does one do with the second half of one’s life while dragging around 80 books? What else could I do besides write? Nothing, nothing, nothing! I shall die with 150 books to my name! Despair!
I have 3 more books set to release this year and 5-8 that I want to write next year. I genuinely want to write them all. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I just shut up and enjoy the cool breeze on my skin?