Disenchantment, and the End of a Long Road (The end of this blog)

My dad is dying. Parkinson’s and dementia. Last year we spent a week in the emergency room. He recovered, but a decline followed. He struggles to feed himself; today my mom and I hold the spoon for him to eat. We don’t know how long we have left, and there is no cure.

I’m grieving a man who still lives. My dad is still himself: every day I read to him from a book about fly fishing, his favorite hobby. But there is a wall of dementia between us, and every day that wall grows a little higher. He doesn’t talk anymore. It’s clear he is also frustrated with how his body and mind fail him. I wish there was more I could do to help him, but there isn’t.

That isn’t the only inevitable decline I’m grieving. This is an elegy for my hobby of blogging and trying to go pro as an author.

I think I became disenchanted years ago. They say that writers and editors struggle to read for fun; whenever I open up a book, I notice passive voice or clunky dialogue. This is true no matter the author, nor the awards the book’s won. Good stories aren’t as magical as they used to be. Over the last two years I read about a hundred books and loved only five of them. (I liked most of what I read, but rarely loved.)

It’s hard to keep going on pure passion. And what happens when you run out of passion?

In the beginning of this blog, I tried to keep my reviews optimistic, ending every review with the words “Stay sunny!” These days I enter every book with a critical eye, examining at that author’s techniques on a craft level. And when you enter a book in a critical mind frame, you’re bound to see the worst in it. I regret losing my optimism. I don’t think I ever outright badmouthed any books undeservedly, but I could have been kinder at many points.

I lost the plot at some point. Looking back, I think I stopped having fun blogging and writing around the same time my dad’s stay in the emergency room; when the sky is cloudy, everything grows dark.

I recently got some harsh feedback from one of my negative reviews. I’m humble enough to know that sometimes I’m wrong and the dissenters are correct. Sometimes you need to be slapped in the face to realize you’re on the wrong track in life. I feel myself stagnating.

Because I’m stagnating, I’m making changes.

This book blog is going on indefinite hiatus; eight years is long enough. I might post something occasionally, but not weekly, and not always about books.

I’m exploring new career options. Maybe physical therapy or nursing. Right now I’m looking at nearby community colleges so I can stay near my aging parents while I learn.

I’ll read and write for fun later in life; I might still get published. I love my art, deeply and profoundly. But I can’t continue right now. I’m grieving.