You are a meaningless fabrication. An illusion that there’s only so much of you and you’re running out fast. An unreliable measure.
You suffocate me and my creativity, timeline.
So I’m breaking up with you.
No more rushing to get to the end of writing a book. There is no end. No more calculating how many words in how many days to finish a first draft, a second draft, a polished MS, a query. No more lies about time running out.
No more false beliefs that the window is closing. The window will stay open until I find my way to it.
No more holding out for a book deal as savior. No more figuring out, “If I get an agent by x time and a publisher by x time, the book will come out in the year x and I should have another one ready by x.”
You have sucked the joy out of writing. And it was always supposed to be a joy. You almost took writing away from me altogether, you imaginary construct, you.
It might have taken me a long time, timeline, but I’ve finally come to see how you’ve abused me. There’s no room for you in my life any more.
I just don’t have the time.