I don't know if it's fall out from NaNoWriMo or the stress of planning a party while dealing with a mouse infestation, but I feel terrible lately. It feels like pulling hair to get any words on the page. It feels like every promotion I attempt costs many many more times than return. It feels like I'm banging my head against a wall. Little bumps that should improve my mood don't, and little dips that shouldn't mean anything send me spiraling into despair. It's a terrible time of year. We only have a few hours of sunlight and everything is grey and cold.
The holidays are coming. In years past, that would pick me up enough to make it through the winter. Lately, it doesn't come close. It just seems to mean more work, more stress and for nothing. I'm flogging myself to scribble out the scenes I've seen in my head for the sequel of Cargon, bound and determined to get all the pieces on paper for disassembly and rewriting later. It's crap. It's all crap. I know I'm not going to keep any of it, but I'm forcing myself to do it anyway, even though it doesn't make me happy, even though it seems like it won't amount to anything and no one will want to read it. After all, I can't seem to find people to read the first. Even though everyone who has read the first wants the second, it feels like a waste.
This is depression. This is the blackness I can't escape. This is why I hate to be me.