Eagles Over the Kennebec

Today, I'm going to be talking about depression. Which counts as fair warning: Those who have no interest in this topic may wish to move on, now.

Long-time readers of this blog will recall that I do indeed "have" depression.  I also "have" hypothyroidism, another chronic illness.  I'm lucky in that these are the sum of my health afflictions, given All, and in balance neither really gives me. . .much problem.

Except, yanno, when they do.

The most recent depressive incident. . .which started to cloud in sometime, oh, around mid-2015. . . It wasn't too bad at first -- this is a chronic illness, which I've had for my entire life.  After you've lived with something for upwards of half-a-century, you develop coping strategies and rating systems, among other tools for getting through the day.

Anyway, the clouds started forming in mid-2015.  I did those things I knew to do -- made sure I was getting enough (but not too much) sleep, and exercise, and interacting with people in Real Life, persisting at doing things that would normally give me pleasure. . .and, as sometimes happens, nothing much worked.  The clouds got blacker, and thicker.  I got duller, and forgetful, and even more inarticulate than usual.

Everything hurt, by which I mean it hurt to think, it hurt to have to cope with anything; personal interactions felt like a series of paper cuts -- not stab wounds, because frankly I couldn't work up enough energy to feel stabbed.  Life was a burden, and thinking was exhausting.

I drew hard on the cats, but even such cats as ours can only do so much, and belatedly I realized that white-knuckles, and waiting it out wasn't getting me anything but duller, darker, and more exhausted.  My writing was suffering, and everything else, too.  So, I went to the doctor, reviewed the situation, and received a prescription for antidepressants.

I don't like to take antidepressants, personally, so the 'script was low-dose, just enough to take the edge of the pain, and make it possible to write, and more or less get through the day.

Things were still dreadful, naturally -- the Black Dog had not left the room, he was just curled up on the rug, watching. Everything was still too hard, there was no joy, no humor, every one of my accomplishments was a failure in my mind.

And, all that changed, about a month ago.

No, it wasn't the drugs; the drugs were only to help me continue coping.  And it wasn't an Awesome Change in my General Situation.  Mark this, now, because it is key -- nothing had changed.

Except that the Black Dog had left the building, and I was no longer depressed.

My accomplishments were once again victories; the fact that I'm old is a victory, because I really never expected to make it out of my thirties; I'm married to my best friend; I have energy; my vocabulary has leveled up; I can say what I mean to say -- and I want to say it.

Like flipping on a light -- trite, but true.

Since the last dark episode was so very long, I'm hoping to be Black Dog-free for quite some time.  I do so much enjoy being able to think clearly, and not have to fight for every concept -- I can't even tell you.  I enjoy being able to have ideas for stories*.  I enjoy -- well.  Everything.

So, that's all; no life-changing insights here.  Except that it always does amaze me -- the change from dark to light, when it happens.  And the worst thing that depression does, among a dark legion of bad things -- is withhold the hope of light.

________
*The moment I knew I had to do something other than Just Wait It Out was the moment when Steve and I were, supposedly, brainstorming a story, and I looked at him, said, "I don't know, and I don't care!" -- and burst into tears.

I've been working.  Monday was one of those fragmented days where I couldn't get my hours-together to focus, though I did some, um, deconstruction work on the third iteration of this novel, and realized that part of what was making things more difficult than they needed to be was the structure, and! for Extra Writer Bonus Points! if I restructured the third iteration, I could actually rescue words from the two iterations I had set aside.

Win!

So, yesterday morning, I pulled the chapter-by-chapter files for each of the three iterations (as I said on Facebook, thank ghod that the person who writes my books takes the time to keep a running chapter-by-chapter summary of each book-in-process.  They're a huge help in identifying which chapters/scenes can be rescued and where they are.

Having identified the words which could be folded into the WIP with good effect, I spent the afternoon unbraiding the (very lightly braided) narrative threads of the third book, and cut-n-pasting the rescued scenes into the (hopefully) correct order.  That was a little harrowing, and in the end, I couldn't rescue anywhere near 50,000 words.  I did, however, get 13,000 words in several nice, chewy scenes that will definitely improve the final story, so the work was worth doing.

This morning, I compiled the book in its Pretty New Structure, and printed it out.  Tomorrow, probably (since today is another chopped-up day), I'll sit down with the compiled manuscript and do a continuity edit.  I'm feeling good about the new structure; and while I'm doubtless up for some Serious Work in building bridges, and switching scenes/viewpoints around so characters don't know about certain events before they happen, that's just -- work.

Over on Facebook, someone commented that this novel had gotten very messy, which is certainly true.  There are a bunch of reasons for that.  Part of it's depression, as I mentioned.  It's hard to think when you're (when I'm) depressed; especially, it's hard to do the kind of free-flow, instinct-level thinking which is the Very Best Space from which to write a novel (IMHO).  Which means I've got to Figure Things Out by the Numbers, which is no fun, and I have to do it when I have the Stupids.

Another thing that played into this novel becoming quite so messy is --  given that there are a lot of choices open to us in terms of where to start, where to go, where to end, and who to include in the party, it stands to reason that no matter what we decide to do, someone(s) will be angry and disappointed, and therefore conclude that we can no longer write, and will feel compelled to tell us so, and. . .I really, really, really don't right now have the spoons to deal with that.  Odds are good that I will have the spoons to deal with it once the book is in a position for people to be disappointed in it, but right now, that future Angry Reader is kinda hanging over my head like a machete.  I'm trying to ignore him/her/it/they, and write the story that's true, which, some days, is easier said than done.

The result of all these choices and other situations is that we have three starts to this novel, two of which petered out at around 25,000 words (for a total of 50,000 words), including  about -- eh?  20,000 words? -- detailing the adventures of a group of characters who (among all the characters who do) Don't Actually Belong in this book.  It's not Bad Stuff, it just doesn't belong in *this* book, and is being preserved (as writers do) against the future book in which they do belong.

We've written messy books in the past (by which I mean, we wrote them messily.  I have. . .perhaps fond isn't the word I want. . .memories of laying all the chapters of Conflict of Honors out on the living room floor and literally cutting pages apart and Scotch-taping the scenes together, until we had a novel that Actually Made Sense), but this is the messiest I've been lead on in a long time.  Of course, I was off writing Carousel books for a little while there, which are, compared to the Liaden books, really pretty straightforward.

. . . and that's where we stand

For those playing along at home, we're +/- 46,000 words into a firm draft of a book that is obstinately remaining nameless, and construction is continuing, with deliberation.

In other news -- Tomorrow is the first day of Spring!  . . .and the weather predictions for us here in Central Maine is for one to three inches of snow tonight.

1.  Today's Baen Free Radio Hour features an interview with Dave Seeley, and! an audiocast of my short story "The Gift of Music."  Here's your link.

2.  This link takes you to a page featuring thumbnails of various pieces of art by Anne Lemanski. OPHIOPHOBES TAKE NOTE: There are snakes involved. They're quite attractive snakes, and they're made out of copper and paper, but snakes they are.  Here's your link.

3.  Waterville area folks -- Dragon Egg Hunt in preparation for the Waterville Opera House presentation of SHREK.  Here's that link.

4.  The Hugo Nomination Period ends on March 31.  If you were a member of last year's WorldCon, in San Antonio; if you're a member of this year's WorldCon, in London; if you're a member of next year's WorldCon, in Spokane, you are eligible to nominate for the Hugos.  Here's the link to the rules.  On the left hand side of that page, you'll find links to the 2014 nomination form and the Retro Hugo nomination form, and instructions for the whole batch.

4a.  Lee and Miller have several works eligible for nomination.  They are:
Novels:  Necessity's Child, Trade Secret
Novelettes:  Eleutherios, Moon's Honor
Short Story:  Out of True

5.  Between Wednesday and Thursday here in Central Maine, we had a Lot of Snow (oh, OK; somewhere between 10.5 and 15 inches, it says here.)  I can't find any official numbers, so we'll just leave it there.  Today is sunny and cold.  Tomorrow, we have an ice storm on the schedule.

Winter can get over itself Any Time Now.

Today's blog post title comes from "Steel River," by Chris Rea.  Here's a link.  Warning:  This is a song that always makes me cry, so possibly NSFW.