Writing is easy: All you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead. -- Gene Fowler

Monday, July 5, 2010

Attack of the black dog and other metaphors

Lately I've had a big heavy weight on my back, a weight which makes it all but impossible for me to do much of anything. Laundry? Half-done. Cleaning? Feh. Writing? You have got to be kidding. Even my brief foray into art via Yupo paper last week, while fun, was too little too late.

This happens to me from time to time. It usually lasts a few days, maybe a week, then fades away, leaving me to pick myself up from the floor, dust myself off, and get back to things. I wonder if it's better to give in to it when I know it's coming. I fought it off last week with fair success until the weekend, at which point I was swallowed by the wave, pushed underwater to tumble and spin in the fury of my own emotional turmoil. I know I'll resurface in a little while, but in the meantime it's oh so easy to get down on myself for not writing/painting/working/cleaning/whatever.

Maybe I just need a few mental health days. Am I allowed? The black dog says no. But it's easy for him to make decisions from his position square on my back. Would someone please throw a stick for him to fetch or something? Honestly, it's old already.

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