The Last Thing I Ever Wrote
Let me be clear: I have since tried to write things of substance but fall short. I don’t know if it’s my brain disease or the myriad of medications for it that have burnt me out, but the last successful piece of fiction writing (a short story, of all things), was written for a college class while I was experimenting with going back to school for the arts. One class was Creative Writing, and I was both thrilled and worried. After all, my creative spark had begun to wane more than was acceptable. I had no trouble with the classwork of writing exercises, but the final loomed. Short stories are not my forte, and I think I have a hard time bringing to life a good story without a lot of extra pages of dialog and exposition.
It was Thanksgiving Eve, and my project was due the following Sunday. I was set to be the workhorse of the kitchen that day, my first real foray into making a turkey, as well as plenty of sides. I stayed up all night worrying myself and trying to console that worry with a lot of rum and eggnog. I have the dreadfully inarticulate notes for my project from that night, but after not sleeping and doing so much extra work in the kitchen, my appetite was gone. Thanksgiving is a treasured holiday for me, so when gathering around the table with our mess of food and being unable to eat a bite, it was heartbreaking. Disappointing. I won’t forget that night, thinking I’d never want to be an author on that kind of deadline again.
I followed my notes and my ideas, and thus came forth “Jian Dreams of Heaven,” which I haven’t yet had published though my professor at the time wanted to hook me up with a children’s book illustrator. It was a success amongst my classmates, as they felt joy at the end but were hooked by the feelings of loss and agony. I still hold the work in high esteem, wondering if I should make a Kindle publication of it just to see how it goes. But for now, I have dozens of other, larger projects that have been demanding my attention. And I’m not sure if my brain is fit.
Writing, as well as reading, was a compulsion that I couldn’t ignore. “The Midnight Disease,” as it’s been called. I had to be writing something, and not even some part of a major project. Sometimes, it was an essay, sometimes it was world-building lore and the background stories that I wrote only for me. That drive has diminished by multitudes, and in a life where I’ve defined myself by writing, how do I carry on? I’m not talking about a small case of depression here, throwing a writer’s block wrench into my life. I have suffered severe mental damage since my mid-twenties. Yes, I have a diagnosis but that’s my business. It has wormed its way into almost all aspects of my life that I used to enjoy. This isn’t about being disappointed. This is about being infuriated. I know from past-brain-self that I am so much more capable.
How do I cope? How do I get back on track? Is there any going back at all?
