Last November, I learned there are times when writing isn't healing for me. Although I have made my living as a writer for more than 20 years, I now realize that in the ebbs and flows of each year, there are periods when I don't feel like writing at all.
For much of my life, I didn't feel this way. But, for the last few years, I've realized that when I am experiencing a low-grade depression, I do. Last year this was a terrifying realization because being a writer is not just what I do, it is who I am.
For the last two decades, I have understood that I make sense of my life through writing. And it's the way I express my creativity. But last year, when I experienced such a devastating depression, I realized that I wasn't interested in writing about it. In fact, I wasn't interested in thinking about it.
In retrospect, this presented a huge conundrum because my lack of interest in writing made me question the very essence of who I am, and what my mission is. After working for so many years to become a writer and an author, I couldn't imagine how I'd survive if I quit. Worse, I couldn't imagine what I'd do to find meaning. (to be continued)
FYI...I'll be moderating comments and responding to them later this afternoon. I'm working on a gardening project and will be gone much of the day! But, know that I care about each and every comment, and, as always, I appreciate your willingness to respond to what I write.