Suspension of Activity

Let's start with the bare basics.

---

I'm suspending work on Myrk Mire, One Hærfest Day, and all associated properties.

I do not know when I'll be able to pick it up again, and when I do, I don't know how much time I'll be able to put into it.

I will be closing all but the lowest tier of the Patreon. I don't yet know how this will affect folks in those tiers.

I may still from time to time post things up to Tumblr, Itch.io, and Patreon.

---

If you have supported me at any point, thank you from the bottom of my heart.

I wish you all the very best in your life's endeavours, and hope the world is kind and welcoming to you.

Now, for folks who want the why, let's get into what's been happening these last few years.

I am 34 years old, I have been writing full-time without an alternate source of income for four years, and part-time for two before that.

In the four years I've been doing this full-time, my monthly earnings have fluctuated between £131.52 a month, to £21.76 a month.

I have been incredibly fortunate to live with my father, who has whole heartily supported me the entire time.

Last year my dad had a health scare, he was given a provisional diagnosis of testicular cancer.

In the moments after I was told, my mind sped through so many possibilities. Supporting him was paramount, but after that came thoughts about the worst case scenario.

If my dad was found to have cancer, and if it should take his life, I would lose our house. I cannot pay electricity bills, water bills, mortgage payments, council tax, let alone food or personal bills on my earnings through writing.

I would have to give up our cat, strip the contents of the house to sell, sell the house and split the money with my siblings as stipulated by my dad's will. I would lose my home.

My life has been a series of reaching for jobs, only to be rejected, despite others telling me I have 'talent'. After twenty years of disappointing others by not being able to utilise that talent, of answering the question "What are you doing here?" when working minimum wage jobs behind tills or sweeping floors, especially when those questions come with the best of intentions, it wears you down.

In the days after the health scare, while my dad and I were suspended in dread waiting for the results of further tests, my mind drifted to suicide. I thought about walking into the sea and letting my body be carried away, because the thought of living on as the embarrassment of the family, as a burden to my siblings, disappointing everyone because I hadn't been able to live up to what they thought of me, was more than I could bear.

I was already receiving mental health support from Mind, a branch of mental health support working through the NHS (National Health Service), and I spoke to my therapists about my situation and the thoughts running through my head.

I beg anyone experiencing those thoughts to reach out and accept the support. As one of my wonderful ladies said to me at the time:

"A frightened, traumatised mind cannot come up with every solution."

A fortnight after the initial results, my dad was given the all clear. A mistake on the original test gave a false positive for cancer.

While obviously relieved by the news, part of my certainty, the bubble I had been living in these last four years was irrevocably damaged. I couldn't ignore the lingering certainty of one day losing my dad, and with him not only the unwavering support to pursue my writing, but my home, my stability, and the risk of waking up and finding very little to keep me moving forwards.

While I haven't had further suicidal thoughts to the extent I experienced last year, I haven't been able to banish them either, spurred on always by the fear of being a failure.

"Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;"

― W.B.Yates, The Second Coming

That personal crisis I spoke about last month was another wobble of panic, spurred on by nothing in particular but a slow build up of fear and doubt.

I am so tired. Ground into dust of 'someday this will all be worth it'.

I spoke to my dad. He suggested I find a small project. Write something and get it out there. A one-off, no sequel, no complex world or dizzying depth of research supporting it. That and finding something, anything to financially prop myself up with, something to address the gnawing fear and dread.

Monday, yesterday to those reading this the day it was posted, I worked for two and a half hours gardening for a lovely lady who checked if I was alright every half an hour, brought me cake and lime cordial, and whose dog gave me big wet kisses while I was trying to weed around roses.

I earned more yesterday in one afternoon than I have earned in a month since April of this year.

I love writing, just as I have loved readers' affection and interaction with my stories.

I spoke to a friend over the weekend, one who has supported me through thick and thin for well over a decade now. She said to me, no matter how much people love your stories, it isn't worth destroying yourself to do it.

“I feel thin, sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread.”

― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

There's little more to say that isn't just re-thrashing the points already made.

I hope this has given you context for my decision.

Please have patience while I sort out things on Patreon with labels and such.

If this is where we part ways, I wish you all the best, I hope you find a place for yourself in the world that treats you kindly, I hope you find happiness in what you do, and I hope you find the people who will pick you up and set you back on your feet when you stumble.

Catherine