Last night, an old friend who had followed four of my books in a row left me a comment on a review, making their disappointment plain for all to see.
It jolted me awake to the fact that I'd sunk to this level.
No—maybe I'd never risen at all. I'd just been standing still, living in an illusion.
"Getting worse with every book" probably describes me to a tee.
Maybe everyone once had the wrong idea about me, but from now on, please don't expect anything from me. Really.
I'm just a washed-up writer who's been writing for four years and still hasn't managed to reach a thousand subscriptions.
I've also been reported more than once, and there was a time when my mental state really fell apart.
A perfect adaptation, making up for regrets, stirring up emotions—none of that is here.
So it's not worth expecting those things from me, and the expectations would weigh heavily on me and make me anxious.
My old friends know about my mental health. In 2020, I took medication for more than half the year. For now, I'm relatively stable.
I don't have any grand ambitions. I write simple wish-fulfillment stories, with the usual showing off and humiliating the smug, just to make a living. That's all I'm after.
Of course, as you can see, I haven't even figured that out. I'm simply not very good at my craft.
I'm no good at writing, and I'm not very tactful either. I'm easy to dislike, and I'm always causing trouble for the people around me.
I'll do my best to finish this book, so don't worry about me dropping it. It'll probably wrap up at around 1.2 million words.
Lastly, last night's plot really did have some problems. I made a few more revisions