I believe, from my own experience and what I hear of others', that the dark hound keeps panting at your heels your whole life. Sorry, but it's true. The howling may change its tune.
Yeah, I know the hound will always be there. I can deal with its howling. My passion for storytelling, for creating, keeps me above the bastard's persistant heckeling. What hits me like a spear in the ribs is when the hound gets militant, and actually attacks, digs its teeth and claws in and tries with a very real conviction to drag me down and rip me to shreds.
I've never wanted to be anything but a writer. Since the time I could pick up a pencil and make words, I have been writing stories. Failing as a writer is my ultimate fear, and the fear of failing is my ultimate weakness.
Maybe I just need to vent my concerns to get over this bump I'm experiencing at the moment. So, please bear with me, and skip the next few paragraphs if you wish:
I'm in the final scenes of my WIP, my first official novel, 300+ pages into it...and it's the hardest part of the book I've written so far. I find it extremely difficult to get to the keyboard and write. I know that's the hardest part of writing, but I can normally overcome that. Usually as soon as I open the laptop and pop the chapter up I start to get "in the zone" and all previous apprehension fades away.
However, I have lost all but a guttering flame of motivation for this project, and writing in general. I can't figure out why.
I have one suspicion; that i'm beginning to come down with a case of depression, due to many contributing factors. Now, I live by the philosophy of "Life sucks, deal with it." I believe counseling is helpful to those who really need it, but personally, I feel like admitting that I need counseling is a defeat. I wasn't raised that way...it's hard for me to lay down and admit weakness.
I think the catalyst for this possible depression is the death of my younger cousin last November. It's been a gradual thing, but now that I look back, I realize I've slowly been sinking into this rut. Not just with writing, but with every aspect of my life. Lately I can't seem to find the point in doing anything, from coming to work, to fixing my car, to cleaning my house...anything. I think it started small when Chris died, small and disguised as regular grief, and snowballed into something else to the point where I'm not sure how to get myself out from under its influence.
Perhaps that is what is happening. I just need to pinpoint what I need to do to alleviate the pressure, so I can sit down and write again. Writing always lifts my spirits.
Okay, I'm done ranting for now.
BLG