Depression doesn’t care that you have a new book coming out. It doesn’t care about the now-long list of publications you have or the plans you’ve got for 2022. It laughs when you say it’s time to get to work. Depression has its own goals.
I’ve written before how depression doesn’t create art. And it doesn’t. It squelches the creative process. Yes, some people can channel that into amazing art, but imagine what would happen if they weren’t hampered, if they didn’t have to battle just to get out of bed. I still stand by my statement. Depression doesn’t create art.
But it also keeps you from celebrating the art you’ve created. I have another novel coming out in less than two weeks! It’s book one in a four-book series! I should be excited! Ecstatic! Advertising how awesome it is!
I think I’ll just sit here and cry. Or maybe not. After all, I want to cry, but I think I’ve forgotten how. Let’s hear it for depression!
I’ve found that I’m an odd duck anyway. Maybe you’ve realized that, but there’s a specific way it manifests. When I get another story acceptance, when I hold a novel in my hands, my reaction is not to celebrate. My reaction is to get moving on the next project.
Some people would say that’s good. After all, it means I’m building on success. If that were my goal, it might indeed be laudable.
However, I’m not moving to build on success. Instead, I just don’t feel like celebrating. After all, that was a fluke. I mean, I conned someone into thinking I was a good writer, and now it’s selling, which means I’ve conned a few more people. I better get writing so hopefully I can be good enough that they don’t catch on.
That’s classic impostor syndrome, and I think every single writer has it. But when you layer depression on top of that, oh, it’s not a great look.
So, yeah. New novel. I’m told it’s really good. You should check it out yourself if you like steampunk and dragons and girl heroes.
But what am I going to do?
I’m going to write. I have more writing to do. The second book in the series is drafted. Books three and four are fully outlined. I have work to do.
I’m going to ignore what depression says. It tells me that this isn’t worthy of celebration. You know what? Screw depression. My second novel is coming out, and I say we party.
I’m going to speak truth to my depression’s lies. I have been gifted with talent. Is it as much talent as others when it comes to writing? Oh, hell no. But it’s enough. I can tell stories, and I’ll use the talent I’ve been given. And not only that, when I fail, I am loved and accepted anyway.
Depression won’t let me celebrate, but it’s not in charge. Rise up against depression.
It’s time to party.