The past six months or so I’ve been bogged down in my own self-recriminating, self-hating, swamp mire because my dream of being a successful writer seemed a pipe dream. In the past few weeks I’ve discovered myself doing anything and everything to avoid even getting on my laptop and opening a MS and trying to write. Most days I feel like I’m riding a see-saw on acid, bouncing wildly up and down the emotional scale with the speed of the well know Road Runner of Looney Tunes fame. Of course the end result most days leaves me feeling like poor old Wile E. Coyote.
I’ve lost my way–of that I have no doubt–and am desperately trying to get my sorry ass out of the shadowy woods and back on that lovely road edged with bright lights. The journey has not turned out to be what I imagined and there are days that devil on my shoulder seems to be winning just like that damn Road Runner.
Self-pity never got anyone anywhere? As a matter of fact it buries a creative soul quicker than anything. There is no doubt in my mind at this point my friends are tired of the never ending pity concerto I’ve composed about my craptastic attempts to write. 😦
So, a week ago I decided I needed to recalibrate my priorities. I’ve known for a number of years I’ve suffered from depression. For a great deal of that time I tried to hide it from my friends and family; not that the attempt worked. Most of them saw right through the BS with an ease of mind that would put a psychiatrist to shame. Over the summer one particular friend encouraged me to get out of the apartment and enjoy life more than I had in years. I recently thanked her for the best summer ever on that front.
My next step was to have a classic old west showdown with my imagination. You see for years I’ve used my computer as a notebook of sorts. My HD clogged with numerous story tidbits and even half-finished stories. So with a deep breath I sat down and faced the
enemy, booted up the laptop, and tightened my grip on the good old DELETE button. For a moment I thought I would lose the showdown; mountain of files piled as high as the Himalayas. For those who think I jest–I swear I saw the Yeti peering from the screen at me from behind a cluster of files.
Fingering the delete button I eyeballed the plot bunny clutter of years, palms itching, and had that damned showdown. The Yeti was having none of it. He bounced from one file to another beady red eyes peering at me and tiny razor sharp teeth ready to take a chunk out of the first finger daring to poke at the delete button. I dared though and I have the teeth marks to prove it on my fingers.
Despite his best attempts I won the war on that one. Okay, maybe not the war, but at least a small battle and I’m arming myself for another one when I finish this damn post. I can hear the vicious lil’ furball right now sharping his teeth for round two.
The point of this ramble (yes I do have a point) is if I ever expect to get anywhere as a writer I cannot give in to the depression or let that evil lil’ Yeti chew my fingers off. I need to take control of my life or at least convince myself I’m in control. After all control is an illusion and my illusion vaporized as if it were a ghost being hit by a proton beam. *sighs*
Now I’m in the process of taking control of the proton pack and recalibrating it to be a weapon for me rather than against me. My illusion is back although it resembles heatwaves off a desert highway. I imagine if given more time and few more battles it will be in HD and clear as church bell ringing on Sunday. Maybe it won’t be a easy battle, but after all war is hell–right?