Writing With The Black Dog (Feb 1, 2010)

(This is a repost from the old VOX blog - apparently a few of those didn't make it to here when I migrated.)

"Writing won't banish depression. But depression doesn't have to banish writing. If you can manage to write through a depression, you will be in distinguished company. And you will very likely write something of worth."

-Susan Shaughnessy, Walking on Alligators

Many creative people suffer from some form of depression. The poet Byron referred to depression as "The Black Dog", as did Mike Wallace and Winston Churchill, but the phrase may have originated as early as Roman times. The idea of having 'a black dog on your back' has been around a long time, and it seems artists represent a large portion of the population of depressed people. Writing when depressed is very difficult. When you feel as if you're worthless, that you'll never succeed, that the future is a bleak and empty landscape with no light and no joy, it can be nearly impossible to put pen to paper, paintbrush to canvas. But it is possible to write through it.

This morning I found myself desperately wishing to avoid the day. I dozed off for an extra twenty minutes, then hopped out of bed to make up the time. I received a troublesome piece of news in the mail on Saturday (why do they always send them on the weekend?) and though I fought off the funk in order to enjoy my weekend, on Monday I'm reminded that the issues I ignored for two days are still there and still need to be dealt with. I wrote in my Morning Pages, despite not really wanting to, and discovered therein a silent, non-judgmental friend. I've written Morning Pages for many months but never had this sense of 'whatever you want to say, I'm here to listen' before. It was a great relief, and I finished all three pages and came up with a potential story idea to boot.

I'm a little puzzled by my success, though I'd never say I'd beaten the Black Dog. I don't think it's possible to 'beat' it. You have to learn to live with it, and each day typically brings a new struggle. But here I am, writing for my blog, when really I wanted most to just hide somewhere until the world got a little less scary. The world doesn't change, though; it's up to me to adjust my view and make plans to sort out my problems, where applicable.

That said, I'll point out it's easy to say such things when I'm feeling alright, like I am right now. I have a cup of hot tea and since WRTI is doing a membership drive (I'd love to become a member, but my money needs to go other places just now, guys, sorry) and therefore doing more talking than music-playing, I've got Gustav Holst's "The Planets" symphony in my earbuds. It's very nice. I just heard "Neptune, The Mystic" and now "Venus, The Bringer of Peace" is playing. I feel tranquil and content. The sun is shining and though it's frigid outside, it's comfy here in my study. I've pushed past the Black Dog and am letting him follow me, though not close enough to nip at my heels. Not now. Not today.

Staring Into Space

It's muggy in the house today; it's hard to breathe. I can't seem to get fully awake, and every time I look out the window I'm reminded of what a grey, overcast day it is. How depressing.

There's a meditation in Walking On Alligators that speaks to me today. It's about getting down to work. "To set to work right away, without dallying, is ideal," Susan Shaughnessy says. "But it doesn't work for everyone. Some writers need a time of pencil sharpening and staring into space." That's me, usually. I was working on some computers in here yesterday and so before I sat down to do serious work I took a few minutes to pile the stuff up in the corner to reduce clutter. Clutter disperses my creative energies and makes it harder for them to coalesce. I periodically go through the study and tidy up (or at least throw piles of papers into storage boxes) to reduce the clutter factor. Yes, in a way, I still clean my room like a teenager. No wonder I'm always running out to Staples for more boxes. Eheh.

Other days I sit down but don't get started until my tea is steeped and honeyed, my cookies are sitting beside it, and I've checked my e-mail to make sure nothing important has come in overnight. That's a little silly, I suppose, and probably counterproductive: to start off by indulging in a distraction. But if someone's changed their plans or needs something from me first thing, I need to know that. Not that it usually happens that way. Also, the Writer's Almanac comes in my e-mail every day, and I frequently need it to inspire me and get me going.

How do you cope with distraction? Do you go to work straight away or linger a bit before getting down to things? May your week be productive this week! Make and do awesome things!

On Discipline

Discipline is solitary. Only you really know what you'd rather be doing today. Perhaps you yearn for a long walk, or a cozy quilt and a good book. ... These treats have their time. But their time is not the writing time.
-Susan Shaughnessy, Walking on Alligators

Discipline is hard. It's really difficult to fight off the early morning sleepiness or the monkey mind that wants to meander all over creation and sit down and be creative. There may be other important work that needs to get done. That shoves creative endeavours off to the side. It oughtn't to, but it usually does.

I've written about this before, and I'm sure I will write about it again in here. It's an issue that plagues all modern creatives. We have lives and families and jobs and whatnot else, and frequently we feel as if being creative is something that's not as important as all those other things. The voice of The Judge booms over any attempt we may make to squirm free of responsibilities, to pare out a little time in the afternoon to sit down and write or paint or sculpt or what-have-you. "You should be doing 'X'! You're ignoring your responsibilities!"

You have a responsibility to nurture your creative self, too. Many of us place ourselves and our personal needs last on the list of things that need to get done. I do it all the time. If I'm beholden only to myself, it's very easy to just blow off that Artist Date or say, "Eh, I'll do my writing /tomorrow/." But tomorrow I say the same thing, and the next day, and before I know it a week has passed and I've not sat down to write fiction once. And on the heels of such a realisation comes the self-criticism, the put-downs, the mantras of failure.

It doesn't have to be so. Last week I missed two (TWO!) posts in this blog. I didn't race to catch up, I didn't berate myself (much) for having slacked off or been too busy or whatever the circumstance was. I'll just do my best this week to post here every day, like I usually do. It's okay. I don't want to repeat it, but it's not the end of the world. I'll just keep on going, one word in front of the other.

The Watcher

Are writers cold-blooded? Sometimes we seem that way to others. Sometimes we seem that way to ourselves.

One corner of our hearts is always reserved for the Watcher. That's the part of us that observes the high emotions of our lives and whispers "What great material."

This voice ... asks us to leave behind a record of what Dickens left for us: the workings of the human heart in the time we live in.

Walking On Alligators, Susan Shaughnessy

This weekend I spent a few hours helping some friends move. I was scribbling in my pocket Moleskine cahier from time to time, trying to get down on paper some of my feelings and observations about the event. My friends would rather spend the rest of their lives in this house, I think, but circumstances have unfortunately dictated otherwise.

I felt a bit ghoulish trying to document the day. The ghosts of my time spent at the place lurked in every room. And I only visited for several hours once a week. I didn't live there. An inner voice said, "You're going to stand here and write about this like it's someone else's experience?" No, I responded, I'm going to write about my experience. That's the only one I can write about.

Throughout the day I was struck by the disparity of emotions I was feeling: a deep sadness over the plight of my friends and my own sense of loss at the prospect of no longer being able to come to this wonderful house to play weekly games, overlaid with the camaraderie and kinship of working with a group of wonderful, silly people, most the friends with whom I've gathered weekly for seven years.

And I scrawled down some notes. I noticed things. I tried to be present in the moment, though those moments were sometimes filled with sadness.

I tried to collect those notes and my thoughts and feelings Sunday morning, but was successful only in copying them out of my notebook into my computer. The feelings were still fresh, still uncomfortable. I didn't want to face them, though that's really what my purpose was in writing them down. It's a very different kind of writing experience for me. The drops of blood weren't coming from my forehead this time.