Yesterday while I was horribly depressed, I found the motivation to finally start working on my novel and wrote more than 1000 words in an hour and a half.
I never expected such a thing because immediately when I woke up I was terribly, terribly low. I actually tried to continue sleeping just because of how badly I did not want to be awake. Eventually, because I was hungry, I forced myself up and forced myself to eat something, even though I had no actual desire for it. I had gotten into a fight with my partner the night before which left our relationship in a precarious state, and even before that argument I had been feeling awfully depressed due to a recent injury that left me unable to walk for a few days, and also do to just the existential and practical question of what am I doing with my life?
All of that combined into a painful, toxic cocktail and although I recognized yesterday I should do something to fix that noxious feeling, I had no energy or motivation to do anything, not even to get dressed and step outside.
Everything was shit and nothing mattered, I felt that feeling deeply in my soul. There was no space in my mind for any optimism, any good thoughts. I couldn’t even escape from that feeling with TV like I usually would – all my favorite shows seemed like shit as well.
And so, I decided since everything was shit and nothing mattered, I might as well start writing my novel, since it is the one goal I’ve ever wanted to accomplish and if it turned out to be shit it didn’t matter since everything was shit anyway and so it was to be expected.
Normally my perfectionist and fearful side would have prevented me from writing, as when I’ve tried to write my novel before I’ve just sat there thinking of ideas but then negating them all in hopes of thinking of something better, in hopes of all of sudden having a world as rich in detail as J.K. Rowling’s pop into my head. This time, however, I just didn’t care – I didn’t care if all the words I put on the page turned out to be useless, I just wanted to get words onto the page.
I hadn’t thought of the story at all aside from a few elements that I want to be present, I had/have no idea yet as to the plot, cast of characters, or even what the world they exist in is like. I didn’t let that stop me. I just wrote, and made up as I went along, and reached over 1000 words. π
I had never done something like that before. Writing on here is one thing – it is easy to express my thoughts/opinions or describe experiences – crafting a novel from scratch is an entirely other thing. As I was writing it yesterday, I felt myself being absorbed more into the story, and thinking about what kind of world it is that my characters are existing in and now I have a vague notion of at least a corner of that world. And now I at least have something to work with, instead of just an empty page. π
Doing this was very rewarding, and it actually helped me feel like perhaps everything wasn’t shit. It was so wonderful – being excited and curious about something again!
Everything in my personal life is still precarious – my partner and I still haven’t spoken and I still don’t have an answer to the question of what am I doing with my life. Because of this, I still feel a wobbly, but now I at least have something to hold on to.