This is the situation. Life has given me some time on my hands. Not a lot, obviously, but more than I had the rest of the year. So, I could actually attempt to write a novel this summer. I was thinking doing National Novel Writing Month in June rather than November, realizing of course that NaNoWriMo actually took me over 2 months the last time so this would be a full summer project. I even have a kernel of an idea perking which is more than I had last week at this time.
So, what is keeping me on the fence about doing this? I'm questioning the purpose. Last time, I just wanted to see if I could do it. I discovered I could. That motivation is gone. I had hoped my story would be successful. I know success is what you make of it and I am extremely thankful to those who read my story and enjoyed it, but in 6 months, I sold 11 copies. Yes, that is not a misprint. It is entirely possible that I wrote one of the least-read books in history. Writing the story still had value for me as a life experience and I am glad that I got to share it with a few people, but it is hard to justify pouring one's heart and soul into a project for no reason, with no chance of success (and I am not foolish enough to believe that this one would do any better). It would just be for me and that seems incredibly selfish and stupid.
So, I have a basic story, and I have the time (although I could certainly spend that time engaged in other worthwhile pursuits). What I lack is a purpose. Is the struggle worth it? I haven't decided.