I fell down the rabbit hole of moribund-ness all of this and the last month. An unending sea of blankness, lost-ness, probably some depression. What I thought would be a blip, something that would last maybe a week, plunged me deep into the grey sea inside, where I nearly drowned…
I’m beginning to emerge from the miasma of blankness, embracing vulnerability, fallibility and my essential nature. And in the spirit of sharing all the highs and the lows of my creative journey, this is how it started–
That peculiar blankness had descended again. What was a Writer to do? There were no words, there were no feelings and there was no light to follow – to find a way out of the grey.
Then on Twitter, an author proclaiming their 4000 words written in one sitting, in the morning. What was a despairing writer to do? How does that sort of information affect others? Does it depress and discourage; heralding an unattainable-seeming achievement or does it encourage – showing that it could be done?
In the Writer’s current state, she didn’t even know what she felt about this.
It starts with a slowing down – of the mind and senses. Positive emotions bleed away, and all that ails you, even the smallest irk becomes unbearable. There is no resilience left, no cheer. All there is, is a somewhat functioning intellect. The alive space in the mind, essential for creativity, of even the most basic kind; is closed off. Sealed with brown packing tape an inch thick and then painted over with tar.
You struggle against it, force words out. But you might as well be as insect trapped in the remorseless hot tar for all the good it does. You feel like ashes inside and ashes are what are produced. Flaky, insubstantial sentences, dry and flyaway, with a hint of rot. No structure holds. Paragraphs and chapters turn into so much quicksand.
Yes, it was hormonal; yes, it strikes every month and sometimes it is so much worse. With raging fury or a loss of words or deep sadness and negativity, along with the utter loss of hope. This month it was merely a cloaking-chocking blankness. And yes, there was much reading being accomplished, but in this space of beginnings to be ground to a halt like this…
Well at least there nearly always is an eventual renewal, the flooding back of light and feeling to look forward to.
‘Never forget that,’ the Writer whispered.