Meloncholia. This typically follows depression for me. Someday I’ll write a novel explaining where most of my meloncholia comes from. I have several versions of the first chapter. There’s nothing supernatural in it. Some of the themes are explored in Amara’s Prayer, but all mixed up in mythology and the supernatural elements of that story.
Or maybe I’ll never write the other book. People might recognize themselves. That might scare some of them. Not in the good way a story should, either.
Yeah, I’m feeling a little messed up today. Ain’t writers supposed to be that way most of the time? Some of it’s still a holdover from the van/money/job situation. Only the van issue is resolved. The new one sits in the driveway now, staring at me through the window, whispering about the first payment, mocking my almost-jobless ass. The dealership wouldn’t even take the old van as a trade. We’re going to donate it to charity for a tax deduction, I guess.
I’m having to reach way back on my desk to type. About 200 pages of the galley for Shara lays between me and my keyboard. Rather than read it, I reach over it to procrastinate and whine on my blog. I love my werewolves, but I’m tired of reading and editing this story. I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve read it and edited it, but it goes back to when I was using WordPerfect 5.1 on a 486DX computer, if that tells you anything.
And I know I said I’d put aside The Puppet King and work on Ulrik next, but … that’s not what I’m wanting to work on at the moment. There’s this other book, called The Fetch, that has been calling out to me since Horrorfind. I got new ideas for this book that currently exists as an extremely rough draft. The book suddenly has a new meaning for me and I’d love to dive into and explore what I can do with it.
Writing is self-therapy, you know. All those things you wanted to do in life — and things you didn’t know you wanted to do until it was too late — you can do them in fiction. People fuck you over in life? They’ll pay for it on your pages.
So much I want to do right now, but it seems my life is permanently on hold, waiting … waiting. How bad is it? I’ve actually been thinking about writing poetry today. You know, that dark, depressing crap kind that high school Goths write in their math textbooks. Fortunately, I lack the motivation for that, too.
The sun’s setting here. Another day gone. One more tasteless jelly bean out of the jar of life.
Aren’t you glad you’re not actually living with me?