It goes something like this. In August I wrote my first book ever. In September I wrote my second book ever. In October I started work on my third book. None of them are in the same genre, one fantasy, one pseudo biographical, and another erotic. In those months, and the months leading up to them, it’s all output, creative output, going out output, just everything flowing easily and there is always more to do and will be done as soon as possible. I love that time of year for the same reason anyone would, sleep less, do more, feel physically and mentally fabulous.
But each year I fall down and all the things that you might find easy become insurmountable. January and February it seems to be limited to now — before it stretched over half a year. And it is obvious from this blog that I have been essentially removed to the realms of TV sitcom repeats and once in a while noodling on a guitar with the amp turned down low so no one will hear me make a mistake or judge me for my lack of skill. Even with anonymity on the internet, I still would like to write well and not subject it to the scrutiny of others.
And then I had a nervous breakdown.
Each year, sans nervous breakdown.
Yet somehow I was able to drag myself to work in -17 degrees F with windchill down to -40.
I’ll probably write about what that was like, besides it being painful.
Still, I write this rather than a story because I don’t know how to make a story about it yet. All I can say is that it seems like I’m getting better. Maybe I am, maybe I’m not. I have to wait another month before I can clearly say whether I am or if this is just my brain fluttering in response to being stressed to its breaking point.
But this is my first step toward writing again. My posts might not be daily, I’ll try so I get in the rhythm, but it’s time to be creative again and put something out there.