Closer to Believing

Where am I today?  That’s a good question.

I’m not in a cabin at Camp NaNo, that’s for certain.  I checked their site to see if I’ve been placed somewhere new after packing up my crap and abandoning the cabin where I’d been placed.  There is another twenty or so hours until they give another assignment, but I know I won’t get in with anyone I requested, so I have to assume I’ll spend Camp NaNo by myself, in a tent, listening to the crickets chirp while I work on my story.  Alone, in the night.

Yeah, seems to be the story of my life of late.

It’s probably obvious as hell that I’m going through a bought of severe depression.  In the past writing helped, but the last couple of months has done little to alleviate the feelings.  If anything, I believe the act of getting Her Demonic Majesty helped exasperate everything.  I’m touchy, I’m bitchy, and when I perceive myself as being less that perfect, I spin out and get down on myself far too hard, sometimes to the point where I just want to chuck it all and walk away into whatever sunset awaits.

It was sort of like that yesterday.  I had my new story all set up, I started laying out a time line for what certain characters in the story were doing . . . and then it hit me, that old feeling of, “You’re wasting your time on this shit, wouldn’t you rather do something self destructive?”  After that I spent the rest of the afternoon, and a large part of the evening, staring at my time line as if I expected it to jump off the screen and start tap dancing.

A funny thing happened, though.  After hours of sitting at the computer, listening to music and thinking about how I completely, totally suck as a writer and a person, I kept looking at my story and time line, neither of which I closed out during this whole process.  The longer I looked at what I’d prepared, what I’d created to that point, the more ideas started working their way into my mind.  As they ideas came, the depression faded, and with that fade came the notion that, yeah, I can do this, I do have something that’s wasn’t only worth while, but pretty damn good.

With that I spent about forty minutes plotting out my novella while speaking to a friend who is a very good person, and a hell of a creative person in her own right.  When I was finished with both, I saved my work, bid my friend a good evening, and went off to bed–

When I awoke this morning, I came across a couple of works–one a story, one a story idea–and was struck by the thought that while I might think myself kind of suck-o at times, I would never sink to the creative levels I saw this morning.  Just . . . damn.

It’s not fun being this way–but then, I’m in good company.  Find a truly creative person, and you’re going to find a tortured soul, someone who is, from time to time, beset by their demons and ready to jump into the lake of fire so they don’t have to listen to their bullshit any longer.

If nothing else, I can do my best to show my demons they don’t own me, that they are as fictional as my characters–and just like my characters, I control them.

Not the other way around.