I’m not sure where I’ve been lately, but it hasn’t been in my writer-head. During my early-June vacation, I had (as always) hoped to write and get some stuff done. I wrote, and got stuff done, but not nearly what I’d hoped or planned. That is fine, and quite expected. I stated before that I wanted to finish two things (any two things) during my vacation, and I didn’t really come close. However, I did push myself after my vacation was over to focus on Sherlock and the Huntsman, a shorter piece that I was within sight of finishing. The next couple weeks saw two chapters posted for that story, but it meant The Lazarus Machine went without updates. I was okay with that.
And then. I was a bit stuck on Huntsman, knowing I only needed a chapter or two to finish. I’d overcome the plot hurdles and now just needed to write the climax and the happy ending. That’s still all I have left to write. And still, The Lazarus Machine languishes. I managed to skip over where I’d been a little stuck and write a good page or two towards my ending, but the last week and a half, I’ve been terrified out of my own head.
Depression, folks. Should have been an excellent week. Tuesday the 16th, some friends of mine and I were going down to Chicago to see Neil Gaiman, which is exciting. I was a bit stressed about it because money has been an extremely stressful thing for me lately, but arrangements had been made. It was a miserably hot day, but it was a fun drive down. And then I twisted my (already not-great) knee on the way to the signing. Sucked it up, hobbled along, because what else could I do? We were on the middle of a street in Chicago.
Came home the next day and after four hours in the car, could barely hobble ten feet. Went home. Called in sick for work the next two days. Cried in bed because if I can’t walk, I can’t work, can’t get paid, can’t afford to live or take care of myself or be in any way an adult. As it is, I can’t do that. Injured, I’ve no hope at all.
I won’t recount all the swirling shit in my head because I don’t really want to work myself up about it again, but it was definitely a final straw in the stresses I’ve been fighting off. The only recourse I had was to stay out of my own head. TV and books are generally the best at doing that, for me, so I refused to be left alone with my own thoughts. Which also means no writing, which is 95 percent in my head (so filled with landmines that I could pretty much only stand still and cry).
Thus, it’s been a good five or six weeks now since I’ve updated The Lazarus Machine, quite without meaning to let it go this long, and I don’t have a completed Huntsman to show for it. It would have made so much more sense to use my off-work recovery time to write, but it was like the only way to survive was to stuff cotton balls in my ears, cover them with my hands, and scream LA LA LA LA LA as loud as I could to drown out the bad thoughts.
As for the moment, my knee is improving, but since that was only one of several worries, it only eases the panic a little bit. The awful heat has relented for a day or two, which also helps, because I certainly don’t need the added misery. Everything else? I can only shrug.