Perhaps this will be a short post. Perhaps not. The point is to write something, anything. Because it’s been far too long since I have.
It’s such a cliche for writers to be afflicted with depression, and of all the things I am, of all of my unattractive qualities, this is the one I hate the most. The first thing to go when I’m down the rabbit hole (and, God, I’ve said that so many times, that term is becoming it’s own cliche, I need a new one) is my writing. Then my reading. Until I can barely find much satisfaction in even magazines. It’s a cruel, ironic state for a writer: cliche depression leads to cliched writer’s block which leads to writer not writing, leading the writer to become more depressed. All I have managed to write lately is a story about a girl (woman) who is depressed. At least I was able to use the darkness for a purpose, if only for the few hours it took me to write it.
I’ve had to force myself to read. I was back to my voracious self for quite a while before I got reader’s block. It didn’t help that the book I was reading was about depressed women writers. The fact that it was so well written, and that it was as if the author had crawled into my brain and set up camp from which to narrate, only drove me further down.
I’ve had to force myself to keep going, keep writing, even if it sucks (because, hey: words), to keep reading, keep moving my brain cells in some communicative way. So why am I sharing this? Partly, writing this post means I’m writing which is vital. Partly, because I believe good writing is painfully honest, it’s what invites the reader to empathize. Think about it: even sci-fi & fantasy is best when it is written so flawlessly that it could be true, right? (C’mon, if you ever find yourself in King’s Cross Station in London, aren’t you going to pay extra attention to the pillars between Platforms 9 & 10?)
I write this because I’m not the only one. Because being a cliche means there are enough people like you to make the cliche valid. Maybe if I let it out, I’ll perform my own exorcism, at least for this round. Maybe, I’ll inspire someone else to admit they’re feeling. The same way I am, and maybe they’ll write about it. Either way, the point is words. Words drive me and stop me, sometimes they drag me. I just want to be the one who knows how to read the map.