Churchill’s Black Dog arrived today in full force. It’s not that it hasn’t come to visit before. It has. After major changes in my life which also included dumping most of my family from my life, its visits are rare. Usually I can pinpoint and cure the problem in no time.
Depression is anger turned inward. This winter’s depression was the cold, the snow and the endless crap that comes with it. Considering the condition of the East Coast this winter? Misery loves company. If everyone is depressed and evil about the weather, one tends not to be as depressed because your feelings are validated.
This is different. It took me about 10 minutes to pinpoint the cause. Fixing it is going to take a lot longer. I’m about to chuck Standing Stone in the garbage. I’m not happy with it. It’s horrible. The writing sucks. I’m not even sure why I thought I could write. This isn’t my normal “Wednesday Writer’s Neurotics”. This is the full-blown hate this, not happy at all, it sucks deal as in “it’s a total failure and a piece of shit” feeling.
Perhaps if I stuck it in a drawer and came back to it, I would feel better but I doubt it. I really don’t like it at this point and the damn thing is boring to me. It’s lacking my spark and my voice. The editing I did needed to be done. It seriously needed to be done. However, it changed something and I lost a lot of what made it interesting.
I am a straight forward writer. I see more of Ed McBain and Elmore Leonard in my writing style than James Lee Burke. Some of it is my reading taste flowing over into my writing. I like direct, fast-moving writing. I do not like descriptive shit when it really doesn’t move the plot along and you would be surprised how many writers indulge in that and swear it moves the plot along. [Not when my bloody eyes cross and I flip 10 pages on to get past your wonderful picturesque description, darling.]
This is not a bad thing in itself. The editing isn’t a bad thing. It’s just something went wrong and I bloody don’t like what I’ve written.
And I’m depressed. I’m angry and the anger is turned inward because I failed at writing. I failed at conveying what I wanted to convey in the way I wanted to convey it. In other words? It sucks. I want done with this damn book. And I am about to throw it out. I’m really not joking about staring at a maple tree on Facebook. I’m serious.
I googled it and what did I find? Lots of articles about how writing aka journaling helps depression. Oh horse shit. It’s freaking writing that is causing this. And journals will not help in this case but only make me more depressed [aka pissed off at myself.]
None of the articles discuss being depressed about your writing or how to fix it. Useless sods. I don’t suffer from clinical depression. There was a turning point where to quote a therapist I know I went from Suicidal to Homicidal which is good progress because you start to put the blame where it belongs. Not everything is your fault. In depression, everything is your fault. Sometimes it is someone else who needs a good punch in the nose or thrown out of your life. Today I kick ass, don’t take names and accept what really belongs to me but allow you to accept what is your problem not mine.
Except the damn writing and the fact I can’t write. And I am depressed and really think I should delete the damn book. I’m tired of it. Very tired. And hitting that delete key might make me feel a lot better. But then it would prove the bitch who said I wasn’t really writing a book right and that would make me feel worse.
So I’ll just sit here and pet my damn black dog a bit more and wish for a drink and a good cigar plus a hot bath.