After my rather sobering post last Friday, I have been writing like crazy. Okay, perhaps not like crazy compared to a lot of writers, but compared to me before that post. I'm determined to practice and get back to where I was. And then get better. The only thing that'll make that happen is writing, so writing is what I've been doing.
However, this sort of impetus is temporary at the best of times. Especially for me, since I suffer from something many others live with: A depression. I don't honestly know when I first developed it, only that it has been over 10 years, now. It still hasn't gone away. I've started to accept the thought that maybe it won't ever, after having tried therapy and tried pills.
I don't think it's an uncommon thing for writers to have their mental peculiarities, some worse than others. My particular issue has the unfortunate consequence of removing motivation to a varying degree. Often entirely. Even when I know I could start writing and write something good, I cannot just start putting words on the page on the bad days. It's all you can do to shower, eat and maybe go for a walk. I don't usually talk about those days, because anyone who has not experienced depression cannot understand what goes on in you that makes it hard to do more than just function.
But in writing... I find a way to turn even those bad days into something useful. I can put words to my feelings and use them in stories, if not on the bad days, then on the good. I can use the (Forgive the angst, a moment) depths of my sadness to describe the same in my characters. I can describe hopelessness, because I have experienced real hopelessness.
I guess this turned a bit more grim than I wanted it to. Honestly, I don't think I'd be able to write as I am if not for this stupid brain, so I'm grateful. I suppose time will just have to tell whether the rest of the world will appreciate a peek into said brain through whatever ebooks I end up releasing.