The Manic/Depressive Side of Writing
The good, the bad, and the ugly do battle in my writer’s brain — often all at the same time.
IN THE BEGINNING, THERE WAS ME
I’ve been writing since I was old enough to form a complete sentence and get those words on paper. At the tender age of eight, I self-published a family newsletter that I passed out to my parents and siblings. As I recall, it met with lukewarm approval and a pat on the head. I have kept a journal for sanity’s sake throughout my life. In my twenties, I tried my hand at writing a romance novel. I shopped it to every publishing house I could find — and I have the rejection slips to prove it. I have written many (hundreds) articles — sold some, wished I had never written others, mulled over the surprising lack of enthusiasm that greeted still more of them. I’ve blogged, published eBooks, attempted to enter the romance novel industry, added my opinions to review sites and scribbled my thoughts into countless notebooks now buried in boxes or mercifully put out of my misery. I guess you could say I’ve been around the writing block. I am not famous — hell, I’m not even a footnote in anyone’s review of the good, better, best writers of obscurity. No one knows me.
MANIC ME On my best days, I approach writing with the enthusiasm of a kid at Christmas. I’m excited, full of fresh, new ideas, and pretty sure I have the winning formula for my writing that will capture the attention of the world. I have something to say and I foolishly expect the world to be eagerly anticipating the next brilliant words to spew out of my computer. I am so full of myself that I am willing to set aside every other responsibility and activity on my agenda. I am a writer — hear me roar! And then . . .
DEPRESSIVE ME My recent work has fallen on deaf ears. I receive a shrug as a sign of forced appreciation, if I’m even noticed at all. Let’s face it. I’m a hack. I know little about the craft and less about good marketing for my work. Why do I even bother to sit at my desk anymore? I’m an impersonator — a fraud. Poor, poor pitiful me. *** AND SO IT GOES The life of a writer, or even a writer wannabe, is not for the faint of heart. It takes a strong constitution to deal with rejection, criticism and the blank slate that is so often the content of my brain. It also takes a sound psychological profile.
Every craft or profession is a struggle to reach the point where you finally feel on par with the competition. Years of education, experience and effort go into making a successful doctor, lawyer or Indian chief. Competence is not handed out randomly. You have to work for it. Few writers truly reach such a level of success. Every day is a new day. Every idea a new idea. Every project a new opportunity to prove yourself either worthy of praise or dismally disappointing. Every day as a writer is like the first day you ever put a pen to paper or your fingers to a keyboard. You cannot rest on your laurels as a writer (with a few noteworthy exceptions). The ladder you have to climb is long and steep — sometimes missing a few rungs along the way. It’s all too easy to slip through the cracks and plunge into abysmal obscurity forever. Oh, wait — Was I starting to sound like poor, poor pitiful me again?
DO WE REALLY HAVE A CHOICE? Many writers, myself included, claim they write because they must. It is not a choice — it is our destiny. We didn’t choose writing. Writing chose us. It sounds dramatic but, hey, that’s the way we writers operate. This predestination, if that is truly what is happening, eliminates the option of choice. Sure, you can stop the physical act of writing and claim you were never meant to be a writer to begin with. But, I assure you, you will never fully remove the little writing gremlin from your brain. It will return — in a week, in a year, in a decade — to reclaim its rightful place in your life. When it does — the psychological battle begins again.
FACING THE FORK IN THE ROAD If you can’t side-step the driving desire to write and you can’t avoid falling prey to the crazy confusion that takes over your artistic brain from time to time when you do, what are you supposed to do? That, my friend, is a question for the ages. Creatives of all types have battled the demons of mania, depression and anxiety since the beginning of time. It is in our nature to think great thoughts and then to question our very sanity when it comes to pursuing those thoughts. It helps to be a part of a community of like-minded individuals who seek the same goals and battle the same uncertainties. Writers tend to be a solitary bunch and nothing breeds mental chaos faster than isolation. Share the glory. Share the pain. It also helps to cultivate a thick skin. Not everyone will love you or your work. But, at least take some conciliation in the fact that, in order to criticize you in the first place, somebody out there is actually reading your words! Keep putting those words out there and, eventually, you will strike a positive cord somewhere. You have to believe that in order to maintain your sanity. Accept the struggle. Will it be worth it? Only you can answer that question with any degree of certainty (or uncertainty). All I can say is this — It will not be worth it to give up. The demons will always be there — why not at least give them something to work with. Keep writing.
Check out some of my other manic/depressive thoughts on the highs and lows of entertaining our writing muse.