The last few weeks I’ve been fumbling and thrashing with pretty much my entire life. In short, I’ve been flat-out dissatisfied with how most things are progressing, if they’re moving forward at all.
I would think that the warmer months would have put me in high gear, making leaps and bounds in whatever I’d pursue. Instead, I find myself wanting to dump much of what I’ve started into the nearest trash receptacle. The urge to delete line after line of whatever I write is almost irresistible. Going through my daily list of blog subscriptions in my email in-box, I have this compulsion to lightly skim over each post, exclaim to myself, “Oh, well, that was interesting.”, delete the notice, and go on to the next one on the agenda. I drag through the household chores, wishing I could have a robot to do all of them. I get through them though because I firmly believe I’ll feel better within cleaner surroundings. Astonishing, I usually do, if only marginally. Food is uneventful. I don’t taste it. I just chew and swallow. It’s as if I’m taking in air that somehow has substance.
I hear you whispering out there. “Clinical depression, the signs are there.” This could be, although I’m wondering if what is really going on is I’m getting ready to commence on a forty-five to one hundred thirty-five degree swivel of direction in my life journey. I can sense there’s something barely out of sight and, of course, out of reach as well that is mine for the taking if I can get to that point where I can put my fingers on it and grab whether I can see it or not.
Concededly, I did have a change in medication a couple of weeks ago. I would think I’d be balancing out by now, but maybe my pea-brain is taking its sweet time. Word to you who are able-bodied. Do all that you can to stay that way. Drugs are annoying to life in general. Take my word for this.
Yes, these barriers of my natural inclinations are affecting my attempts to write coherently. I feel a tug to go back to the pre-writing, designing the story’s world better, writing more notes about each main character in hopes of acquiring the sensation of walk in their shoes, and elaborate more on the details of the plot. Yet, at the same time, I want to keep on pounding on the keyboard, always moving forward on the project. True, to an extent I can wobble back and forth as I see the need for added development in a character or setting. I may be able to do it with the supplementary plot details too, although I’m hoping these elements will slide into place as I write. As my progress is right now though, I feel as if I’m in quicksand, afraid to reach too far for a branch of some sort, living with the possibility of sinking further under to the land of no return.
I have a second project going, and I am past the dreadful first draft. Howbeit, there’s too many holes in the writing. I try to envision what I need to plug up these holes. I even write what I think will do the job, but only to discover my writing ability is receded, hopefully only temporarily. How repulsive can this get? The concept of this venture is brilliant, yet my mind is resisting the beauty of its simplicity.
The summer is going to be long and stodgy. There’s no doubt in my mind about this. To ease the tediousness of it all, I’m purposefully making small adjustments in my routine. For most of you out there in the blogosphere who read my dribble on occasion, you won’t notice much difference, if any. Still, those of you who know me a little better may see a slight drop in online activity from me. No need to worry. I’m still here and only an email away.
Somehow I must wrap my head around deliberate thinking. Somehow I must get back to those intentions I deem imperative. Life without purpose is just existence.
Note: I didn’t write this to gain sympathy or advice. This is a psychological exercise designed to get my thoughts flowing and remove the mountains of the debris that’s in the way.
Desperation is the raw material of drastic change. Only those who can leave behind everything they have ever believed in can hope to escape. ~William S. Burroughs