I have depression. I’ve had it on and off in varying degrees for as long as i can remember. I’m 35 now. It’s rather crippling. I’ved been told, before, that being depressed doesn’t stop you cleaning. I’ve heard it doesn’t stop you working. I’m going to tell you, real depression, not just feeling a bit sad, does. it stops you doing anything. it takes all the fun out of life, dwestroys what you enjoyed, leaves you hollow and indifferent. And that’s what stops you cleaning and working and doing anything. You don’t care. The house is full of crap, you don’t care. You don’t have any clean dishes, there are flies and maggots around, you haven’t bathed in weeks, you really don’t care. Sometimes you cry, but that rarely happens for me. It’s mostly that i am SO tired, all the time, that i can’t get out of bed, and when i do, i just sit on the sofa and eat, cos eating in the only way that the day will end. The only way to get through it, back to bed. I’ve had it for years. I had it while writing the Shadow Seer, but i had uni too, and some how that helped get me through it. Now i am alone with it, and so I’m struggling to write. But i am trying, though i fear that I am letting Candale and his friends, and the people who loved the first book, down.
I’m saying this because i think you can see it in my writing, or may be i’m just paranoid. Book 2 was hard for me to write, because of the depression. To me, it lacks something, something of the flow, the warmth, the detail because of that. Book 3 is hard, for the same reason. I wonder if my struggles can be seen by others, in the words, in the pages. But I’m trying, I’m doing my best, even though the thrill, the love, the passion has been eaten by the depression monster.
I am rather tired of him.