my mighty month challenge on face book
article about the challenge
I’m not good at challenges – I realize that I stress out and the few words I have left disappear. That’s one of the reasons I’m skipping JusJoJan on LindaGHill’s blog
I’m not good at journaling – My feelings come out in my poetry (which I rarely write now) and in my prose (which I feel is dreck)
So why even consider this?
If I don’t, I will stop writing. Writing has been my life-line; my hope; my outlet; my distraction. To give it up, is to give in. To the depression demons who mock my efforts as farce.
So for now, until I create a separate journaling space, what better place that in a darkened room inside a darkened house. If I’m to share my personal feelings, best do it in the dark by candle light.
This wouldn’t be pretty; I’m in one of my deep weepy depressions were all the voices are howling. Each day is a struggle; my sword arm is weary, and my shield is all battered and beaten in.
I can’t write and post anymore. The voices, often with tidbits of right in them, have convinced me others are the wordsmiths. Even the novelettes I’m writing, and planning are out of my scale. Each hair I lost – 3/4 of my hair – was an word, or an idea, or a way of expressing myself or a character. The “surprisingly early entropy” of my brain cells has swallowed up creativity, flow.
If writing hadn’t meant so much to me, if it wasn’t my last hope at achieving sometime, then I wouldn’t go on so. But my life has been never hope or dream, for the more you do, the less likely it will happen. Another kick in the gut when I realized that I really can’t write. Can’t pull together a story that’s only 10, to 15,000 words long. Mine are already longer but no amount of editing will turn them from make nos.
So I’ll try to journal – where no one will read (like they read now, ha) and I can vomit on the page. My days are full of self-recriminations, regret, remorse, laundry, trips to the drug or grocery store, and once photography and writing. My photo editing program doesn’t do what I wanted it to, and I stopped being able to take a good picture, and now I can’t write.
There, even before the 1st, one whole confessional journal entry.