Man, I guess I’m going to get personal in this post. Don’t read if you can’t bear it.
The month of March was lame. I hated it. I’ve said to a friend or two, “I wish I could just hit the backspace button and erase all of March.”
Nothing awful happened. I don’t even have an excuse. If I did, I think that would make it easier. But, no. On the surface everything was hunky dory. My family was healthy. My community and church responsibilities went along as normal—a little stressful, but nothing I could point to and say was particularly difficult.
Nevertheless, depression slammed me. I couldn’t pull myself out of it. I ate. Everything. And wallowed. Ugh. And I had been so excited for March because it was going to be the first time in half a year where I’d have blocks of time to get a new novel cranked out. It would afford me the weeks I needed to create the draft and so I could have it edited and done to publish before summer and the weeks where my kids are home and I get to really focus on them instead of storytelling.
And then…this.
Do you have any idea how hard it is to write romantic comedy when you feel like a black cloud has encased your soul?
If I’d had some kind of depressing cancer drama in my TBW (to be written) lineup, I would have done better.
As it sits, I’ve got 9/10 of a little ought-to-be-frothy romance in my computer, and the characters are dull, lifeless, and coping with mountains of self-doubt. They don’t even have a semblance of witty banter. The helium balloon of a plot I handed them? They took it and sank it like the Hindenberg.
It’s a shame.
So, what do I do with this pile of words? I am not sure. And today, when I went to revisit it after a day off, I saw just how hollow all the characters’ lives are, and how little I like them, and how I’d feel bad asking readers to pay even ninety-nine cents to spend six or seven hours reading about their lives.
Lame.
Which made the whole “bummer” tone in my life resurface. And now I wonder whether I should start just planning a lot of cancer dramas and change my whole genre completely. Will the heavy cloak never lift?
Sigh. I guess it gives me a huge pile of compassion for those who have to deal with this on a more regular basis. But am I the only person for whom depression is actually a cause of guilt? I have no reason to feel down! I am, of all women, most blessed! Life has not handed me a lemon. My blessings are just countless: food on the table, nice shelter with AC, darling and healthy children, a kind and loving husband—the list goes on and on.
Then, how can I let myself feel this way? How ridiculous, how self-centered. I should be able to think or exercise or clean or garden or pray or serve myself out of this muddle.
Or not.
It’s probably something that will lift with time. Soon, right? Seriously? But meanwhile, if I pump out a novel that has less of a lighthearted tone than some of my other books, I fear my readers will abandon me. Because I write for them, and they come to me in times of struggle and expect an uplift. Or so I perceive.
So, now what? Do I just set this novel aside and pretend it never happened? Hit the veritable backspace on my life and pretend that the work I did on this book would’ve been much better spent doing genealogy or weeding the side yard? I don’t know. Or as a writer do I allow myself to show a different facet of myself to my readers?
It’s hard to know. And I don’t know if I publish it, then finally crawl out of this hole, whether I’ll realize how lame the story is and quickly have to unpublish it.
Again, with the backspace key.
Sigh.
Anyway, if there is someone out there who reads this and finds they struggle in similar ways, I hope you know you are not alone. Just like with the characters we write, opposition doesn’t all have to be external. Some has to come from inside. I don’t know why God created things this way, and I may never understand. But I trust He will help me through it–and you as well.
Ah my sweet friend. Yoku wakatte iru yo! Ganbatte, ne, matta, itsomo ai shite ire to oboette iru ne.
Ah, Peggy. Domo arigatou! Atashi mo, Peggy wo ai shite imasu, yo.
Jen this is exactly how I have felt while trying ro get through the third book in The Healer series and write my billionaire romance. I finally had to simply stop writing for about two weeks and only work on the billionaire story. After a month off I went back to The Healer and felt that oppressive weight lift. I think bouts of depression are normal whether your life is great or not. Give yourself some time to tackle a few weeds and when you get back to writing I think you’ll be ready to conquer any genre you choose.
I’m sorry you’ve felt stymied by book three! I’m glad you had this other thing to distract you. I figured out this morning that even *I* didn’t care whether these characters find love, and that’s pretty sad. Bleah. So, now that I know the story, in part, I’m going for a rewrite and see if I can’t find story people who deserve to find love! (Does that seem weird? Only writers would probably understand that.) Thanks for the pep talk. I finished the story, all lame-like, and I am going to go work on something fun instead, just as you suggest.