A Long, Quiet Week

Last weekend was 3 days, and I thought it’d be great for recovering and getting my feet back under me. Then the fire nation attacked.

Well, not that. Maybe that would have been preferable.

I spent most of Saturday in bed, not feeling great. Sunday, I got up and tried to work, but I still felt like garbage. I didn’t get much done. Monday, same thing. Tuesday, I was supposed to get back to work, but I could not get out of bed.

Was it Covid? Probably not. Flu? Some kind of virus? Maybe. I was exhausted. Throughout the week and even still, I struggle to get enough sleep. On top of that, I didn’t complete my sprint for work. Worse, some of the things I thought I accomplished caused problems in the production environment.

In a nutshell, things are rough at work, I’m not getting enough sleep, my depression hit another low, and there was nothing I could do to help with any of it.

Something had to give, so I excused myself from the daily blog posting for a week in order to try and get back on top of things.

Did it work? I don’t know. I don’t think so. I’m still not doing great, but I hung out with Michael Gallowglas and attended both of his shows yesterday. Today, I’m downtown with Mike Baltar. We’re at the Sunday Shut Up & Write, and we’ll probably hang out some more afterwards.

I’m trying to stay positive and productive and be my “normal” self, but I mostly feel old, tired, and pessimistic about the future.

What about the writing? Does that not still sustain me?

It’s complicated.

Part of the reason I let the blog posts go for a week is because every time I approach a story, I do so with fear and respect. Respect, in that I appreciate the story for what it is, and I appreciate my ability to compose it out of words and imagination. There is power in creation, and it is not hard to use that power irresponsibly and create something that is harmful to others.

The fear is just a manifestation of self-doubt. Do I have the skill necessary to tell the tale? Is it a story that I should write? Am I going to finish it, or will it be another project that goes onto my shelf, waiting for me to find the time and energy to bring it to life?

When I’m depressed, the bitter voice inside my head becomes more believable. The voice that suggests that no one likes me, that my writing isn’t as good as I think it is, and that I’m out of touch and can’t write something that will appeal to anyone other than myself.

When that voice reigns, I try and do things that drown out everything. This last week, I played a bunch of solitaire while listening to old episodes of Dimension 20. I finished all of Tiny Heist, and I’m now most of the way through A Crown of Candy.

There is another fear I have not mentioned yet. Writing a story publicly, demonstrating what I do and taking away all of the magic, leaves me feeling exposed. I’m still going to do it. I’m going to see the story through. But it doesn’t feel as good.

That’s all, for now. I’ll get back into the daily writing again. It’s a good thing this wasn’t a New Year’s Resolution, because otherwise this whole thing would be busted, right?