Generally depression is not a problem for me, however, I just finished the edits on a third book and, after reviewing the sales of my last two, the gales of November have come early. Is writing really worth it? Low sales, too few reviews, a body none the better from lack of exercise. Last night I announced to my hubby, I was over. Done. I’d written my last word, blogged my last blog, tweeted my last tweet. Then, to ramp up said depression to a fever pitch, I picked up Moby Dick:
“Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off – then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.” -Herman Melville
While listening to The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald:
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
Of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee
Superior, they said, never gives up her dead
When the gales of November come early – Gordon Lightfoot
It’s not exactly what a shrink would prescribe. I should be taking a walk on this fine crisp day, making myself a pan of brownies or volunteering to help people who are truly misfortunate instead of selfishly indulging my “hypos.” (love that word, don’t you? Can’t have sex right now love, my hypos are acting up.)
Hubby just stopped by on his way to the market with this bit of snideness: “I see you’ve really given up writing this time.” The cad. Just because I’m on the computer doesn’t mean I’m ever going to write again. I’m not, truly, no way!
When the gales of November come early, what do you feed your hypos?