It's been more weeks than I can count since anything seemed normal. A few weeks ago I wrote a post about dealing with the depression that comes along with living under a stay at home order. I understand it, I support it, but it is rough. It hasn't felt any more normal as time passes, either.
I hit a point where I couldn't come back after I finished the first draft of Maestra. I took less than two weeks off, but when I sat down to write again it was emotionless. My writing voice was gone. It wasn't because my talent had suddenly slipped away in the middle of the night. It was because my heart wasn't into it. My heart wasn't into anything any longer. I couldn't settle in to work on anything. All I kept doing was checking the news to see if anything was real.
I forced myself to write in small chunks, and eventually I rebounded to being back into my story. Some days still suck, and more than once I have had to walk away from the draft for a couple of days. I'm never going to forget the struggle I am having with getting this story formed and typed out. I'm a very linear writer, going from A to B in the most direct path. Taking breaks, for my own mental health, only makes me feel worse. I feel like I am getting behind on some made up schedule that never existed in the first place.
Breathe.
It's going to be okay.
Most likely...as long as I stay away from people and remember my mask when I'm in public.
Breathe again.
Each day is its own little universe right now.
If you are reading this and feeling broken or defeated, know that you aren't alone. This isn't coming from some Hollywood star sitting in a mansion. This is coming from a very sympathetic writer seated at a folding craft table where he spends most of his time either writing or on art projects to pass the endless days until society resumes.
We will get there. We have to believe that.
Take care of yourself and I'll see you all when the sun comes out from behind the clouds.
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