Of short story cum novella:
Hello Kitty, D1, 70,113 words, 213 pages.
Not my longest, probably not my best, and who knows if it will ever see readership. I’d like for it to do so, but that’s a whole separate thing from the writing itself.
I’m particularly proud for completing this as my emotional health has been under quite a lot of strain and it seems like melancholy has loomed ever larger. Even though I love to write, I’d inexplicably push off writing in the morning, filled with doubt and depression.
This morning alone I got off to a late start, doing nothing really but being caught up in the stranglehold depression can have, unable to set myself down in front of the keyboard; unable to do much of anything at all except drink coffee.
Pangs of depression and doubt about where I’m going with the story, for sure, but more just ugly inertia preventing me from getting words on the page; preventing me from even starting.
And, as a consequence, I didn’t start till long after 8, after I’d imported the five CD’s I’d checked out from the library, read Gary’s blog, posted to Facebook, pulled in the Sunday paper from outside, had waffles, drank several cups of coffee… quite the procrastinator, all pushing me away from doing the very thing I love; inexplicably pushing me away.
I just start feeling so empty and melancholic it is sometimes hard to even do the things I love. Time and life has been so hard on us, with us selling so much of our once cherished belongings and the continual struggle for mere survival that it is hard to focus on things that are important to me like continual creation. Things that once were important have been taken away, time and time again.
But I managed to break through such depression, not all the way but enough to type, which I’m glad. Not sure if any of my words will be good enough to be up for consumption; I sure as hell hope so. But at least I’m getting it out there from my head and not letting depression fully consume me.
I’m especially proud of getting this story down as my depression has been worse of late and there have been many emotional upheavals and stressful things going on with our lives.
This is at least one bit of constant in a life that is racked with a seemingly never-ending supply of uncertainty.
Today I can say I did at least this much: put some words on a page, as I have done every day since I started work on the story, regardless of my state. And some of those words are actually pretty good; pretty good for me, that is, as pretty good to the outside world is a judgment that can only be rendered by the outside world.
An outside world to which writing, perhaps ironically, keeps me grounded.