Lots of food for thought yesterday, and I can’t decide whether I want to talk about happiness or my epiphany, but I promised the epiphany, so here goes.
I’m a writer. I know that comes as a shock to everyone, but it’s more than a job. It really is who I am. Writers have told me they wouldn’t write if they weren’t paid for it, that they could turn their back on it. Writers retire. My BFF Sally spent hours trying to argue with me that being a writer is only a small part of who I am.
Nope. I am a writer, I come from a long line of writers (well, maybe not that long). I wrote “novels” in fifth grade on up.
All my life I wanted children, I wanted babies. And yet, when I was going through the unending pain of infertility, I never once offered God a bargain where he could take my writing if he’d just let me get pregnant. And trust me, you make a lot of bargains.
My sexual fantasies are in words, not pictures. Everything I do is in service to writing. I go to movies that will inspire me, or I go see something different so that the break will inspire me. I live and breathe story.
And it’s been eluding me. Enough that I feel like I won’t ever be able to write again. That I’ve finished with it, over, it’s lost, gone. I’ve been wondering whether it’s age, but realized that was crap. Some of my favorite writers are older than me and still writing wonderful stuff. I tell myself I just don’t have any new stories to tell.
That’s wrong too. Less than a year ago I was brimming with so many ideas I was desperate to write that I decided I couldn’t ever die — I just had too many stories to tell.
And suddenly, for the first time in my life, that’s gone.
It’s a combination of “that which shall not be discussed” which is career issues, and the depression, and being horribly late with a new publisher. I always had faith in who I was, knew who I was. A writer.
And now I don’t know any more.
It’s a combination of circumstance and depression. In the past, circumstance would at least remind me that my depressed thoughts were just thought.
Now circumstance is reinforcing those thoughts. Or at least not giving me any respite.
So the hopelessness of this current depression comes from losing everything I thought I was, I thought was true about me. I guess it’s like being a nun and finding out that god is that man behind the curtain, pulling levers, and not the great and beneficent Oz.
I don’t know if that helps, but at least I understand it a little better. So much of this is out of my control, and being depressed and having cosmic temper tantrums won’t change it. It feels like nothing will.
Okay, there’s time to talk a little about yesterday. Acting A Zif. Which is when you act “as if” something is true, sort of “fake it till you make it” kind of thing. I suppose my best bet is to try to summon up enough energy to shut out those voices and pretend. Because right now it doesn’t feel like the depression talking, it feels like the truth.
Anyway, the revisions are moving, and I’m enjoying some of the book. So back I go, armed and dangerous, ready to finish this. I wish I could sleep during the night and stay awake during the day. I wish I could feel better.
But one day at a time.