I had tried luring myself with the idea of a hoped-for next book tour. I know writers complain about them, but my parents went with me for the Northern California dates, and we had more fun than you'd believe. We might go back with no book at all!
What was the hang-up? There was the existential problem of what is the point, exactly, to writing novels? Beyond the fact that they are not a critical item in human existence. No, really, they're not. Not like food and water and football. Then there is the fact that in a few billion years the Sun will swell up, consume the Earth, and even the best novel will have only the quality of flammability.
And then something odd happened. I've mentioned before that I rail against a number of vanity-press-in-disguise companies, most singularly PublishAmerica. Want to see pain? Hear from a writer who has just figured out that they have sold their book to a phony publisher for one dollar. And I've had occasion to speak to such writers on many occasions.
That is what happened. A writer got in touch who had discovered the PA scam too late. This person hurt. A lot. They also, and forgive me, but it is the truth, had very poor English usage. In every respect. When asked, no, they don't read much.
That's when it came to me: why I need to keep going. Craft. Because I do read, and do try to use language well, and it means something to me. Because I can do it well.
And so I shall.