My writing career has stalled in some ways with self-published book covers needing revamping from the juvenile artwork of pen and colored pencils that probably turn off more people about wanting to ever read the stories therein. I also made the dreadful mistake of giving away copies of one book that needed serious corrections to some problems I missed in proofreading it before going to press, and a second book giveaway of a subject (superheroes) no one wants to read about except in comic books and graphic novels. I may have a horror novel coming out from Dark Moon Press next spring but am awaiting a final contract for signing and returning. At least its cover will look far better than the crap ones I designed myself (all four of which can be seen elsewhere on this site). I may seek out professional artistic help for Sister Helena of the Sword and get a new cover made by some third party while I can still afford it before releasing any Kindle version at Amazon.com. My short fiction output has dropped from 45 new tales last year to 2 so far this year (better than my 2009 record of 0 - the worst year since I started writing such works in 1999-2000).
Add to that my learning I might have a mental disorder that would explain so much I've noticed over the years wrong with my odd behavior patterns, social awkwardness and constant physical clumsiness, and this year has been the worst ever experienced for me so far. I also have another soul-crushing job in building cleaning once more - part time at the moment but soon to become full time (then I'll really want to scream). The life-long problem I've had with physical labor is lacking any great stamina under such a yoke, be it just mowing the grass as a teenager or young adult, doing any heavy lifting (with a spinal birth defect that makes that a bad idea and requiring occasional chiropractor visits over the years), and now even janitorial work for a few hours. I get exhausted too soon in such a routine and never get used to it. I don't know if Asperger's Syndrome (I've yet to be formally diagnosed with it and once that stigma is attached to my medical records every government tyrant can invade my privacy and use the diagnosis against me someday) is grounds for mental disability assistance since I seem somewhat able to function in everyday life, just not exactly like a normal person. I've come to realize all my past failures, especially with women, can be traced to this bizarre adult autism-like condition that was never caught by any examination during my formative years - but if it had the therapeutic culture probably would've forced me to take Ritalin or some other poison that turns young minds to wasted zombie-like conditions so they're no trouble to anyone ever again. Every time I lost a woman I wanted to date to some other man, I now realized I never had even a fair chance to win some female's heart being socially awkward and considered weird. In a world where asshole players always win in the dating game, I was a BORN LOSER right from the start. The only way I'll ever get a woman in my life is if she takes the initiative out of interest in me, and I'll probably have to be a successful writer before that ever happens. She will have to be someone I could get along with while suffering my disability and have enough in common with her for us to stay together a lifetime. I know, fat chance of that ever happening in whatever remains of my declining years where I'll be seen as an even bigger loser than now (ripe for exploitation by unscrupulous women).
That's right, I have so much going well for me right now, I just want to die.