Well . . . I'm back.
Back to writing a blog about writing, movies, and other 'stuff' that peeks my interest.
But I gotta tell ya, it's been a major, major, major struggle of late. The writing thing. From writing a novel or short story to even making a comment on Facebook. If you're an artist in any medium (and writing IS an artform) you'll understand immediately what's been going on in my head.
One word: Depression. Well . . . . maybe two words: Depression and Anger.
Nope. Not the kind that makes you give up on life and forces your to curl up in bed and snivel for the next three months in some crying jag called "Woe is Me!" melodrama. Not the kind that makes you lock all the doors and pull all the shades down and make yourself into a reclusive hermit. That kind of hermit which refuses to shave, wash his teeth, or change his clothes for the next four of five months. Not the kind that gets the neighbors worried some kind of environmental disaster has just occurred next to them.
Yeah, I know. I may be mental, but I haven't gone over the deep end. Not yet, at least.
And the source of my anger and depression, you ask? Of course! My writing.
Invariably a writer compares his artform to the artform of others. It's usually not planned. Many times you don't want to do it. Intellectually you realize that it's probably not healthy, mentally, to dip into those cold waters of delusion. But . . . eventually . . . you do. (by the way, I think this is true for any artist. Acting, painting, dancing . . . you name it. Any artform that is subjective in nature)
And when you fall into that trap . . . voila! Rabid fits of depression and anger.
You ask yourself; "Why is that guy getting published and I'm not!?" or, "How come THAT miserable hack found an agent and I've been sloughed off like a used newspaper?" better still, "Jesus H. O'Rielly! That hack job is the BEST you can do? And you're published?!"
And the worst remark of all. An agent says, "Yeah. I think you ought to be published."
And that's it. That's all you hear from the guy. A comment made with as much enthusiasm as a fish monger makes about a shriveled piece of of squid.
Well me bucko . . . as the rat faced home room teacher used to tell me . . . "Buck up, you whiny faced little wuss. It's time to move on!"
If you're gonna be an artist, you're gonna fall into this pit multiple times. So you might as well accept it, and at the same time, come up with ways to combat it. (Hint: the answer is People. You've got to be around people. Strangers . . . friends . . . enemies . . . it doesn't the hell matter. What matters is the interaction you must process with mentally when other people force themselves into your bubble of discontent. I guarantee you, you can't stay depressed indefinitely in a situation like this.)
Get over the depression and anger and something odd happens. The writing urge comes back. You may still be the untalented hack you always were . . . and afraid to consciously admit, by the way. But at least the urge is back. And you feel better with its return.
Trust me. I've fallen head first into that pit far too many times to count on my eight fingers and two thumbs.
Check out the two new editions available now. One is a steampunk--fantasy---high adventure blending for a story that might make you think of an ersatz Jason Bourne AND Harry Potter combo.
The other is the hard print version of a Turner Hahn and Frank Morales novel that's been out for some time in ebook format. If you like a good mystery, or a set of mysteries in one novel, I think you like this one.
Next week we'll bring fourth something different to talk about. And yes, Martha. I WILL be back next week.
