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When The Writer’s Mind’s Up Shit Creek
It seems like I have trouble focusing on anything these days, and I’m not entirely sure why.
I’ve got a half-dozen unfinished posts stuck in my Medium drafts — including a post of “10 Surprising Facts!” — like I’m not a compulsive oversharer who posts his every thought and feeling on the internet in the vein hope that somebody will look.
I have managed, wonder of all wonders, to write a few essays for other outlets. One of them — my piece on YA books in need of musical adaptation for NewMusicalTheatre — is already up. I hope I can share the rest of them soon. It’s exciting that these other places want me to write for them, especially a theatre site.
Aside from that small smidge of productivity, though, my writing’s been a mess.
After my latest depressive cycle, I decided to put the novel that I was working on — an ostensibly depressing story about a character dealing with grief and depression following the death of his girlfriend — on hold. There’s something about the pacing, the weight of the story that seems to be dragging it down. For years now, I’ve wanted to write a novel about my own experiences with major depressive disorder, about the years I’ve lost to this mental illness.
The problem? My particular flavor of depression is boring as fuck. My mania and impulsiveness go…
