Frustration is the thing consuming at the moment. I write good books that no one reads. I write Medium Articles that no one claps for. Patreon is tumbleweeds. I write copious amounts of essays no one sees. I am a prolific and invisible author. When I suggest I might give up, people rush to tell me not to, but do they ever buy a bloody book? Not as far as I can see. It's like breathing for me this far into my life, but sometimes I wish I could cut off writing's life supply and just be silent -- just be dumb and silent and happy.
Writing brought me a lot, but this slow torture of creating work for no one, seems pointless. Ugh. Over 10 years of this. 10+ long distressing years. Ugh.