Although I never said so, my last blog post was the direct result of completing my portion of the work to file my federal income tax. It’s in my accountant’s hands now, and we’ll have to see what kind of magic he can work.

By my calculations, my attempts at a viable writing “career” put me thousands of dollars in the hole. Four thousand, seven hundred, fifty-five dollars, to be exact. So the logical questions are: “Why bother?” and “What’s the point?”

If I had done nothing but twiddle my thumbs in 2014, I’d have had nearly $5,000 more to spend enjoying life. But instead, my pitiful efforts left me feeling defeated and demoralized and totally worthless.

Last year I wrote and published a book about my 252-pound weight-loss journey in response to literally hundreds of people who told me they couldn’t wait to read it. In hindsight, I should have taken names and/or advance payment.

I optimistically printed 500 copies, but sold only a measly 75 copies. And that included the books I begged people to buy at seven holiday bazaars that took up the entirety of seven consecutive fall weekends.

I haven’t placed my book in bookstores or gift shops because then I’d have to give them 40% of the cover price right off the top! “Industry standard” they tell me. And after paying for the printing, that doesn’t leave enough “profit” to compensate for the time or transportation to supply the stores with my books.

So I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place. Meanwhile, I have several thousand books stacked in boxes in my guest room and a very few markets in which to attempt to sell them. I’ve got two mysteries darn close to publication, but that takes a quantity of money up front. Money I thought I’d have through the sales of the previous books.

So right about now, I’m wondering if I should just stop writing.