Thank you, thank you, for putting up with the mess that I am! You know the old cliche of the dysfunctional writer/artist? That's me.
I've been battling some depression this week and it's taken a lot out of me. Nothing severe; just the usual Fibro-fog of "OH GOD I HAVEN'T DONE WHAT I SHOULD HAVE WOULD HAVE NEEDED TO DO AND NOW I'M TURNING 41 AND I STILL LIVE IN A RENTAL HOUSE THE SIZE OF A BOX AND THE WALLS ARE CLOSING IN AND IF I STEP IN CAT LITTER ONE MORE TIME I'M MOVING TO BORA BORA!" depression.
Please tell me you understand where I'm coming from...
But the sun always peeks out, doesn't it? It comes around the corners and grabs at you when you can't breathe. I have to actually go outside, wave it down. The house is just too dark and even the sunlight gets a bit down trying to get in through the old, crank windows that lost their cranks some years back.
Then I remember what I really should be doing. Not what I THINK I should be doing, not what I WONDER if I should have done when I was 18 and stupid (aren't we all at that age? OK, so there's SOME out there who aren't. I'm not talking to you...scoot!) No, it's a soft breath of air that whispers through that draping moss. It sounds a lot like cicadas singing. A distant, constant drone of chirping that you get so used to you forget it's there until someone points it out and wonders aloud, "Gee I don't know what I'd do if I lived somewhere without cicadas?"
Me either. I think they're one of the creepiest things that ever survived the Cretaceous period but their song is the South. It's always there, haunting, singing, never letting up except in those odd fade outs that exist on the fringes of human hearing. Then, like the tide, it's back, carrying you away and you realize you're home again. You've been home all along.
If you pay attention.
That home is writing and I can thank the Chatham County Public Library system and Susan Hill for grabbing me by the throat and shaking some sense in my muddle mind. Seriously. I had to return some books yesterday and while I was there, I wandered around the stacks, just looking. I like to write down book titles I want to eventually read. I could publish an encyclopedia of Books I Want to Read Some Day. Perhaps I will. It'll be full color on that lovely, recycled paper that's kind of stiff, you know, and feels almost dusty under you fingers? Anyway, I decided to creep around the mystery section (because, that's how one explores the mystery section) and I saw the name Susan Hill. You know I love ghost stories and I've only ever read her spooky stuff. But these were murder mysteries (my guilty pleasure). What? Why didn't someone tell me she wrote mysteries? Off with you head if you knew and didn't share!
And it hit me, like a branch from the person hiking in front of you and swears they'll keep that Rhododendron back long enough for you to cross the stream * thWACK!* You should be writing.
You. Should. Be. Writing.
|And I just spent WAAAAY too much time looking at memes for this...but here's David Tennant. |
And you can click that link for more memes. You're welcome.
And that was that. Whoosh, Susan Hill writes mysteries, I should be writing, David Tennant and here I sit. OK, David Tennant had nothing to do with it but it's not a bad picture to have on a blog, is it? I didn't think so ;)
Have a marvelous afternoon, Dear Ones. Forgive this foggy minded, occasional depression warrior's whoopsie of not logging on during IWSG and taking this long writing back to you all. Pay attention to your Souls. They know what's best for you. Not the thunder, not the crashing waves, not the neighbor down the street who screams EVERY SINGLE WORD HE EVER SPEAKS. Listen to the cicada noise. The soft, ever present hum. Tune in. It's still there and it's your deep truth. Seek that truth, cling to it with your teeth.