I'm throwing in the towel.

I might change my mind, but I doubt it. I just don't feel like it. The novel has taken a turn that can only end in a predictable way. If it's predictable anyway, there's no point in finishing it.

Anyway, I think the first couple of weeks served their purpose. I had several days of inspired creativity that reminded me that I can be creative and inspired if I wake up at 4 a.m. Also, I've come to that yearly recognition of the fact that if I have to choose between being a published author or sleeping until 5 a.m., I'll take the extra hour of sleep.

Seriously, I struggle with this guilt over not being an artist of some sort, having spent so many years of my early childhood drawing or writing or taking piano lessons. I don't, in my heart, believe that there is a more rewarding path; however, it's just not a realistic path for me. Not in the traditional sense. But it has made me appreciate other arts, though I'm still fighting my inner snob.

I keep thinking of Alice Walker's "In Search of Our Mother's Garden." Gardens, quilts, cozy living rooms, cupcakes, etc. were the only available art forms or expressions for many mothers for many generations. Women, especially those who had families, were not considered to be capable of creative expression, but they were. There expressions just weren't recognized as serious.

And then I was thinking about being a teacher - one of the least desirable and least affirmed career paths that a person can choose in the U.S. LOW PAY. NO RECOGNITION. ETC. It certainly requires a lot of creativity and inspiration as well as love and a multitude of other skills and virtues. Nonetheless, teachers remain the objects of ridicule and disrespect, put upon by governments officials who dictate mandates that they don't want to provide funds to support.

It occured to me, despite my learned and inherited prejudices for unadulterated art and against common creativity, that, even if I don't wake up at 4 a.m. and write a publishable novel, I'm still a pretty damned fine artist. Look at the beautiful, intelligent, sweet kid I've created out of the minimum of raw materials! Look at the kids who've written poems this year because I forced them to read Whitman and Hughes! Maybe the world just doesn't recognize common creativity because women are better at it than men. Probably.