As I have frequently commented, the narrative of cancer is a narrative of loss. I haven’t written a word of new fiction since last June. At this point, I don’t expect to ever write again in my life, unless something very good arises out of these NIH studies. So be it. My career continues — Tor is releasing Last Plane to Heaven next September, stories from last year are getting favorable mentions — but it’s definitely deep in the wind-down phase.
What I see right now on blogs and social media are my auctorial friends and colleagues posting year-end reviews of work published in 2013, summaries of work contracted and planned in 2014, travel and convention schedules, and the like. All the usual change-of-the-year stuff we talk about.
I’m not really part of that world any more. I have no more new work contracted, since I can’t produce it. I have no writing goals. I have no convention plans for 2014. Being sick is a full time job, and besides which I don’t have the energy or the money. I expect to pass away next summer anyway, unless that very good something arises. I’m watching the party move on without me.
It’s natural, it’s logical, and it has nothing to do with me except in my own mind. But it’s quite painful at times.
Like I miss so many other things, I miss that part of my life.