Stretching is Hard

Learning to do a new thing ain’t easy.

My depression has been brutal lately. Leaving the house feels insanely daunting. Dealing with other people, even close friends, feels impossible. I want to stay in my room, on my laptop, and never do anything else.

My counselor reminds me that this is not the way to go. Stretching is hard, but it’s necessary. Muscles that aren’t used atrophy, and using them at first is painful. But the more they’re used, the better it’ll be. He’s encouraging me to force myself to go out, to be with people, just for a little bit, to stretch.

The same thing is true of writing.

The writer that doesn’t write regularly loses those creative muscles. They atrophy. They can be built up again, but it’s painful.

Right now I’m writing a kind of fiction I’ve never attempted before. It’s fictional non-fiction. As in, it’s a book that proports to be about a real subject, but I’m making the entire thing up. That forces me to research so that my fiction fits in with reality.

I’ve never had to research for the sake of my fiction before. As long as my worlds were internally consistent, I didn’t have to worry too much about what reality says. So this entire thing is new. It’s slowing me down much more. My words per hour is plummeting.

Worth it. Stretch the muscles. Build up strength.

Also, it gives me an excuse to stay in the house.

Checkmate, counselor!