The Dreaded D-Word and its Effect on Writing.

I haven't posted anything on this site for nearly three weeks just lately. And my posts in the two or three months before then were less regular too. I've also mentioned - oooh, maybe one or two (hundred) times - that draft two of Redemption has been going much slower than I'd like, with my daily wordcount grinding to a tortuous crawl. 

There were other things too. Having less and less energy over the last few months, to the point where the choice became having a twenty-minute nap during the day or actually falling asleep at the keyboard. Wanting to eat chocolate and junk food a lot more of the time - even when I really didn't (if that makes any sense.) And feeling like there was no hope for the world and we were all descending into the bowels of Hell every time I opened a newspaper or switched on the news to see yet another horrible item about how terrible human beings can be.

Looking at the above now, all the signs were there. But, as is usual for me, I didn't see them at the time. While I can pick up the very subtlest of signals in other people's emotions, when it comes to deciphering my own I have to be practically battered over the head with a blunt instrument. This is quite a common thing amongst those of us who suffer from these periodic bouts of sadness - we're generally the last to know that we're even having one.

...Have you noticed how very reluctant I am to use 'The D-Word?' You know the one I mean. That's also quite common, apparently, and there is a certain, albeit delusional, logic to it. Because when you call it The Blues, or a Periodic Bout of Sadness, or a Rough Patch or any of the other myriad of euphemisms that exist, it feels like a temporary, trivial thing. Like a little midsummer shower that'll be over soon and then the sun will come out and everything will be sunny and smiley again... nothing to worry about, just ignore it and time will fix it all by itself. 

However, the minute you utter the word 'Depression' you're officially upgrading the status to Problem - and one that won't just go away on its own if you ignore it for long enough. In fact, if you don't acknowledge it and sort it, it'll very likely get worse the longer you leave it. That's a pretty scary thought. So surely the best way to face up to the fact that what you have is a Problem is to... pretend even harder that you can't see it! Yeahhhh...

Mmmm, no. See, that's what I've been doing since... probably about August. And I was doing a blimmin' good job of it too, to everyone else and particularly myself. I came up with all sorts of creative excuses for all my collective quirks of lethargy and random over-emotion, and stuck to them like a crook to his alibi. This was definitely just a pesky ol' down period, that's all - and I was gonna get through it by harnessing the awesome power of denial! Yaaay, go me!

And then last week happened.

After weeks of growing more and more dissatisfied with my dwindling wordcount for Redemption, it was suddenly and unexpectedly slashed to zero when my computer died. As in, really died this time. It's 'died' twice before in the last couple of years, but on both of those occasions I was able to jump-start its corpse back to life again after some Frankenstein-esque skullduggery with its innards. The cheap and effective solution. But this time there was no saving it; when the motherboard (i.e. brain) of a twelve-year-old computer pegs out, you're pretty much looking at buying either an entire new computer off-the-shelf  or all the bits to build one. Which is of course an effective solution - but nowhere near as cheap. Luckily for me I was in a position to do that - but I wrestled with my conscience over it for an entire week. Spending all that money on something for me, instead of treats for the family? But I'm a writer and I need it, so I bought the thing, mentally slapping myself upside the head the whole time.  (And yeah, I'm still feeling the guilt big time, in case you were wondering...) 

And then I got some sort of virus that temporarily made my throat swell up and swapped my joints for those of an eighty-year-old. I spent two days unable to swallow anything solid and mostly asleep on whatever horizontal surface I happened to flop down on. After two days I'd recovered though, so all in all the whole Disaster Period only lasted about ten days.

So... why did I then spend the days after that feeling permanently like I wanted to just burst into tears and sob like a baby? But whenever I was alone and thought "Oh sod it, just do it then. Let it all out - no-one's around to see..." I couldn't. The tears were most definitely there, but I couldn't persuade them to fall, even though it constantly felt like I was losing the battle to hold them back. That's like having an itch you can't scratch - except even that makes more sense than feeling like you can't stop yourself from crying while simultaneously not being able to start either.

And let's be clear here. I had that virus for just two days. I had a new computer to replace my dead one in just one week. I didn't even lose any of the writing work on my old computer (the only stuff I really cared about) because I've always backed all of that up to the point of paranoia on a USB stick and the Cloud, so copying it and the writing programs I use to my new computer took twenty minutes, tops. If you're looking for definitions of First World Problems, they're right here. Getting that upset over such things is ridiculous. But I did anyway. For days. 

But now I realise that's because they were the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. The one piece of crap too many in the game of Buckaroo that is life. Which means, if I want to get back into my writing groove so that I don't have to keep beating myself up about lousy wordcounts and missing blog posts, I'm gonna have to Sort My Shizzle Out. Admit that, actually, if I'm truly honest with myself, I have... 

*screws up face, fights facial tics and takes a deep breath*

... depression at the moment. About something. Or maybe nothing. Maybe it's just one of those who-knows, sometimes-it-just-happens depressions. Either way, I need to sort it.

And that goes for anyone who suffers from depression, whether they're writers or not. As tempting as it is to not upgrade the status to Problem, you can't fix it - or anything else that's not working with your life - until you do. It's not 'selfish,' you're not 'weak' and you're certainly not 'attention-seeking.' You're being kind to yourself, and you deserve that. And if you're suffering, it's a fair bet your loved ones are too, watching you suffer and wishing they could help. Let them help. Apart from anything else, it's a great way of showing them you love them too.

Pieces of a Writer

Writers think differently. Not just differently, but on a deeper level, about pretty much everything.

That probably sounds very smug to non-writers, but it's the truth. How else do you think all that stuff that comes out of our collective heads gets in there in the first place? Of course it also has its downsides; writers tend to be more prone to depression too (probably because thinking on a deeper level about terrible stuff makes you feel a deeper level of terrible.)

Most writers know all this already, not least because they talk, write, blog and maybe even tweet about it. Tell a fellow writer you know the misery of depression, and the response will usually be sympathetic rather than the long sigh and eye-rolling of many who've never been In The Sad Club. All of which means that it's become okay - at least among writers - to talk about it openly. And we do.

But how many of us are willing to talk about the Crazy Stuff?

What 'crazy stuff?' Well, y'know that first sentence up there - "Writers think differently?" I mean that Crazy Stuff. The stuff that makes us write, the stuff that makes us judge everything we write (and, by association, ourselves) way more harshly than even Simon Cowell in a bad mood, and the stuff that makes us carry on writing anyway. What's going on under the bonnet, in that kooky engine-brain? Not many people talk about that.

Maybe we kid ourselves that 'all' writers have this crazy stuff going on in their heads, and because it's so universal there's 'no need' to actually come out and say it. Or maybe the opposite is true... maybe we're all so scared this stuff is genuine crazy that we're afraid to say it, in case what we get in response is a sea of uncomprehending looks and people backing away slowly with nervous laughs. Maybe more of us should 'fess up to our Inner Crazy...

Allow me to step forward as a guinea pig then. Not a real one obviously - I'm not quite that crazy - but I'm in the mood to start the ball rolling, so let's do this. Allow me to take you on a tour of... the Inside of My Head!

Okay, let's start with the biggie. From a writing point of view, I am not one person. I am three people - three very different people. Yes, you did read that right. I will now introduce you to them...

I'll start with Miss Narcissist. You probably won't like her very much - and that's okay, because she can be hard to like a lot of the time. The clue is in the name, as I'm sure you already guessed. Miss Narcissist doesn't do any of my writing - because in her head she's already been there, done that, got the Booker Prize. Miss Narcissist is me on some kind of fast-forwarded alternate-reality; as far as she's concerned she's already a world-famous and fantastic writer, admired and read by everyone. Oh sure, there's probably stuff she could still learn about writing... but most of it, she already knows. This novel she's currently writing might be the first she's even got to Draft Two stage, but it's an undiscovered bloody masterpiece that the whole world has been crying out for, and it's going to sell so many copies she'll be able to buy a tropical island and still have change for a private jet...

Miss Narcissist is a raving idiot, and an arrogant one at that. If I ever decided to wear her skin for my public persona, I'm pretty sure there'd soon be a long queue of people wanting to punch me in the face - which is precisely why I keep her on permanent house arrest inside my head. And also why I need someone to balance her out, so meet...

Grinch. If you thought Miss Narcissist was obnoxious, you aint seen nothing yet. Grinch is in a permanent bad mood, witheringly sarcastic and damn near impossible to impress because he hates everything about me (which, by definition, also includes him... well, I never said he was a genius, did I?) Grinch's favourite pastime is metaphorically grabbing Miss Narcissist by her knicker elastic and giving her the wedgie of her life at regular intervals - and after he's finished with her, he comes for me.

He places me in a different alternate reality - one that keeps looping like Groundhog Day. In that, I am the crappiest, suckiest writer on the planet, who's always going to be terrible and never going to get any better no matter how hard I try because I had no talent to start with, and I'm just deluding myself that I ever had any... He's like an abusive writer-parent who wishes his offspring came with a receipt, so he could take her back to the shop and exchange her for something better. Or at least get his money back.

And then there's me in the middle - the actual writer. Kind of like Boxer the horse in 'Animal Farm,' just keeping my head down and hoping that working harder is the solution to it all. Most of the time I let the other two duke it out on either side of my brain while I just carry on writing - but occasionally they get me down. Miss Narcissist never talks directly to me, but just hearing her prattle on is embarrassing enough. Grinch, on the other hand, likes nothing better than to tell me personally what's on his mind...

MISS NARCISSIST: Hmmm... I'll probably have to renew my passport ready for interviews on American TV when my book comes out...
GRINCH: Why are you even bothering? This sucks! A five-year-old could write better stuff than this!
ME: Well then I'm going to keep on writing it until I can make it better...
GRINCH: You'll never get better - some people got it and some people haven't. You haven't, you've never had it and you're never gonna get it!
MISS NARCISSIST: Yeah, they said that to J.K. Rowling too... and Tolkien...
ME: Miss Narcissist thinks I'm getting better...
GRINCH: She's an idiot! You're both idiots! And you both suck!

Yeah... a visit inside my brain can be like the worst dinner party in the history of forever sometimes.

But even though they both drive me mad... I also need them. Miss Narcissist's ridiculous fantasy life keeps me going when writing is a struggle and I lose the will to stick with a project, while Grinch stops me getting complacent and phoning it in when it's all flowing just a little too easily to be true. It'd be nice if they weren't such godawful people, of course... but like they say, you can choose your friends but you can't choose your family - and the demons in your head choose you.

Maybe you've read all of this and thought "Yeah, I get it - this is just how it is for me too!" In which case you now know you're not alone. That's got to be good, hasn't it? Alternatively, if all of this has left you baffled and thinking I'm a grade one nutcase... well, at least you can show it to your loved ones and say "There, see - you could be living with THAT instead! Never complain about me again!"

Which is also good - admittedly not so much for me, but hey - I don't mind spreading a little sunshine while I contemplate my fractured mental state...