Soul Eaters

We are over the hump in NaNoWriMo! This is the beginning of the end of the month. As it stands I have 34,593 words written in my novel. I won't lie, it has been difficult. There have been more downs than ups, but I keep moving forward. Depression has been a killer. So has my wonderful family, I love them all, but they are one of the biggest sources of my distractions. Errands also have a wonderful way of eating at my writing time. Distractions, all of them, but not necessarily in a bad way, just difficult.

Manic-Depression is something I find many authors battle with. I don't know if it is that whole "tortured artist" thing, or if it is just because imaginative people are prone to it. Either way, I am most definitely being affected, in spite of my medications. (Wait, did that sound insane?) It sneaks up just when I am getting close to my personal daily word count goal, takes a bite out of me, and leaves me wondering why I even thought I could write. I've been told by some of my writing buddies that they suffer them same, and I have been witnessing others on the NaNoWriMo forums dropping out or banging their heads against their desks in sheer frustration of battling that inner demon.

Depression eats at a person's soul. It is that little evil monster on your shoulder, reading everything you have written, and throwing it back at you saying its all a bunch of nonsense. It is those doubts, the ones that fly around you telling you that no one will ever read it, that you'll never get it published. It is that super critical inner editor screaming at you for run-ons, spelling, and grammar mistakes. It rips your soul to shreds, leaving you staring at a screen full of hieroglyphics rather than words.

I know others are feeling the same. The forums on the NaNoWriMo page are full of novelists talking of their frustrations and doubts. Some are worse than mine, others aren't. But the common theme is one of doubt and worry. "Will it be worth it?" is the most common question I have seen. Surely they suffer too, their hearts weighing down with the weight of that worry.

I've lost a good half of my "writing buddies" after they confessed that they just can't do it. They've allowed those fears and doubts to eat at them. Their words counts weren't always low, either. But for whatever reasons their personal demons have convinced them of, they've decided to drop out of the great race to 50,000 words. Some have cited depression, others just a few doubts.

But in spite of depression, and all its ugliness, I am still here. That counts to something, right? I have made it over that hill, the month is half over. But then there is still the family. My father, bless him, thinks he's being supportive, but isn't. My husband? Forget it. Every time I speak of writing, my novel, or NaNoWriMo, he finds a reason to talk of something more important to him. And I was hoping at least one of my brothers would be cheering me on, no such luck.

My father tries to be supportive, mind you. He reminds me periodically that one of his high school friends is a best selling author. She is even on his friend list on Facebook. He tries to not interrupt me when it seems as if I am typing away. But I can't talk to him about it. There is an aura around him that gives me the impression that, in spite of outward appearances, he just doesn't believe I can do it. I understand, but it doesn't stop the hurt.

I have been having problems with my husband in the first place, but they have been even worse this month. No, he doesn't hurt me physically. Instead, his words and actions eat at my soul. The one man in the world who should be cheering me on the hardest won't even let me discuss it with him. Interruptions, topic changes, and just plain ignoring me are tactics he employs. It eats at me in ways that defy words. As toxic as he may be to me, I still love him, but that is a subject for a whole other blog.

My brothers are a different thing altogether. One is busy in college, trying to make a better life for himself and his wife. The other seems to be battling with his own depression. Neither one seem to have time to notice, or care, about how my writing is going. I try to ask them for advice, but it feels like walking up to a judge. I get that stare, or the silence over the phone. Its that stare, that silence, that make me feel as if they are judging every word and deeming it unworthy of comment. I can understand it from one, but both?

Even in spite of all that I am still here. Even with all the errands to go grocery shopping, the doctor, or whatever. Time killers, those errands sneak up on you just as you get rolling. They can easily eat up a day, or make me so tired that it takes the day to recover.

It is the battle through all of this that makes every single word I write in my novel worth it. Because, if I can do it in spite of this, then I can do most anything I set my mind to. I have to do this, not because I can, but because so much is saying I can't. I will reach my goal, even if it kills me!