Sometimes a girl can’t write… but can still write about how she can’t write.
It’s funny how when I can’t write about anything, I can still write about not being able to write about anything.
Which is a thing, I guess.
So I imagine I’m not really blocked if I can still write about at least one thing.
It’s not always easy being a writer. The stuff that comes out of your brain and your fingers is more often than not from somewhere deep, somewhere you don’t necessarily want to go digging in. Sometimes the writing comes from places of joy and happiness. And sometimes it comes from places of pain and emptiness.
It’s been a really tough week. Major mood swings. Lots of drinking. Unable to do much work unless under intense pressure (i.e. deadline is in 5 minutes). I was done with Daredevil season 2 by Saturday around lunch. (Good thing I had The Americans waiting in the wings.)
So, I’m not really sure why I’m writing this. Maybe I want to reassure you that I’m still alive. Maybe I want to share my struggle with depression and show you that I’m a human being and not just a sex writing machine. That even though sex is what I think about the most, aside from food and my cat, sometimes I don’t give a damn about it. Or much else.
I will feel better soon. I know I will. These swings come and go. But just like periods (oh the joys of being a woman!), you’re never really used to them. They’re annoying and terrible. You wish they would go away, they would stop. And they do, and yet they come again.
So now I’m going to go stuff my face in delivery ravioli and meat sauce, and hope that I can get back to you with some sexy thoughts and adventures soon.