Between vertigo and breaking a molar in half, I’ve hit a few roadblocks in working on yon novel. It’s interesting, though, when pain helps and when it hinders.
See, I suffer from depression. It paralyzes me when it hits. I can’t get out of bed. I can’t deal with people. Any kind of social interaction drains me. My hollow heart swallows any emotion; only desperation claws its way out of that shaft.
Yet, when I’m feeling down, that’s when I often do some of my best writing. I spill that desperation onto the page. Black feelings become dark jottings become anxiety-ridden fictions.
Look, depression sucks. I don’t recommend you look into renting space in the depression apartments. But at least for me, I’ve been able to harness those dark times, even while combating them through self-care and medication.
But for about the last week, I’ve been able to do little-to-no writing. Why? Oh, vertigo. Continue reading “A Writer Without Words”