If you keep up with my social media accounts, you know that my brother Lance, whom I always referred to as Big Brother, passed away on July 29th. My nephew and I went to ID him yesterday. It brought everything back. Not that it left. Soon, we will have a memorial. Big Brother wanted to be cremated, and his ashes poured into the Delaware or Christiana River because he loved fishing so much. So, we’re going to do so at Battery Park in Delaware City, one of his favorite places.
Big Brother was my biggest supporter and navigator when I went to author functions. When he first came to live with me, it was supposed to be for a month. His best friend–who I discovered passed away in 2023–was supposed to find a place and a job for him. Our relationship has always been rocky in the past, and when he first arrived, it was the same, but we both matured, and I was glad he came to my home. Many changes were made to accommodate us, especially after he lost mobility. I know it was difficult for him to accept what was happening. I was looking forward to caring for him. After working in the corporate world for decades, I was happy to have a work-from-home job and be doing something I loved.
That’s all over now. I mean, I’m still going to work as a caregiver when everything is settled with him. But I’ve come to a decision.
I’m retiring from writing. I’ve said how much my brother supported me and how proud he always was. He’d talk about me and my writing whenever he could. He even learned my sales pitch for The Riven Isles word for word. It made me very happy. Now, without him…
I’m reminded of the episode from Batman: TAS – The Man Who Killed Batman. After the Joker realized Batman may be dead and told Harley Quinn to put the stolen gems back, he said, “Without Batman, crime has no punchline.”
Without Big Brother, writing no longer has any meaning.
I will continue to promote Tales from the Riven Isles and fulfill my obligations, but I won’t be writing anything new. I’ll keep my site up, too, and remain on social media, but as for writing, I’m done. Apologies to anyone expecting more from me. I appreciate your support. Besides, I still haven’t found a new agent and, to be blunt, I’m tired of waiting for responses, only to be disappointed. I know, that’s how it is and agents are busy, but I no longer have the—I don’t know—drive?
Not to mention, it’s impossible to publish anything nowadays without someone accusing you of using AI for the most bizarre reasons. Although, as many of my fellow writers have noticed, the accusations are directed at writers of color.
Jerry Falade, Mia Ballard, and H.M. Wolfe are just three of the authors I’ve heard of. Publishers and agents are using so called, “AI detectors” which are woefully inaccurate. I know for a fact. I’ve researched myself. I’ve mentioned before how writers are deliberately making mistakes in their WIPs so people will know they wrote everything themselves. It’s ridiculous the lengths we must go through because, as the cliché goes, of a few rotten apples. Not to mention the lack of trust. I feel bad for them and what they are going through. I wish them luck.
I don’t know when I’ll be happy again. Probably never. I can’t even laugh now without feeling guilty. I didn’t garden at all, and since I’m thinking of selling my house, I’ll not again. I was saving recipes I wanted to try. My brother was a retired chef and a damn fine one. Now I don’t want to do that either. I rarely cook for myself. And I’m tired. Bone-tired of nothing ever working out just when it appears it will. A fleeting moment, and that’s it. Gut punched again.
I could really use some wine right now.
Peace~
Wendy
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