Writing Yourself Out of a Funk

Is it possible to write yourself out of a funk? This is the question I’ve been asking myself for two weeks now. Something’s got a hold of me. I feel like an old leather shoe caught in the jaws of a pit bull, and I haven’t been able to shake myself out of it. I keep hoping someone will smack the dog with a rolled-up newspaper and pull me free. Sure, I’d be all covered in froth and slobber. But at least I’d be out of those teeth. They really hurt!

Writing is supposed to be cathartic, right? Good for the soul? Except I’ve never really been one for keeping a journal and writing about my feelings. It’s true. Go look at my journals. There are time gaps so large you can fit the Earth’s orbit through them. And I think the last time I actually wrote in a journal was maybe four years ago? I’m forty-seven years old and I’ve filled, like, five journals in my lifetime. And one of those journals only had about fifty pages in it. It was a starter-journal so I’m not even really sure I can actually count that one.

So no, never been very big on journaling. And I’ve really only been writing stories for the last seven years—November 2011, the day I entered the Marysville Library Writing Contest (and won). A date that will live in infamy. The day I jumped into the fray. My own Pearl Harbor Day. Although I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the 21^st.

I’m doing this 52-week story challenge. I’ve written six stories and I’m stuck now. Can’t seem to write anything new. I’ve been plugging away a little every day on “Ice and Ocean”, and I’m clearly going to miss yet another WOTF deadline on that one. I think that might be three straight quarterly deadlines in a row. A new record for me. I just really need to finish it so I can move on, but like I said, I’m stuck. Stymied. Marred. Moored. A canal boat cycling through a lock filled with tar.

It’s my old friend, Depression, coming around for another visit. I know him well. We’ve spent lots of quality time together, he and I, over the years, and I’m pretty sure I know what triggered his latest visit. Ever since we moved into this far-from-finished dream house, I’ve been in the slumps. I feel sorry for myself and sorry for my family and sorry for me putting my family through this, even though it’s not me doing it, not completely anyway. But I’m the responsible one, which means I get to experience the burden of blame on myself. I got out of my morning routine of getting up early and meditating and visualizing and stretching and reading and writing. It’s too cold here to get up in the morning. And there’s no place comfortable to sit. The concrete floor is cold in the winter. There’s no electricity in the morning. There’s no place private for me to shuffle around and shine my lamp so it doesn’t bother the people trying to sleep.

Also, I haven’t been exercising. For me, not exercising is like placing a Welcome mat on the front door for my good old pal Depression to come on in and cozy up to the fire. I’m fat (obese, even) and not doing anything about it and that never makes me feel good. I’m not sleeping well at night. I wake up every few hours, either because I have to pee, or because it’s time to feed the wood stove, or because the mice are chewing up the inside of our walls. I have no energy to do anything during the day.

Six hundred words now and I haven’t written myself out of the funk yet; I think I might have even made things worse by dredging it all back up, like burning the chili and stirring the black bits all to the top. Or the dog barfing all over the carpet. Question is: what am I gonna do about it? Am I gonna be the responsible person and clean up this mess, or am I just gonna keep ignoring it and hope no one notices? Hope it doesn’t seep into the woven carpet fibers and crust over. Maybe someone else will come deal with it, or at least help me deal with it. No one does though and, honestly, I don’t think anyone will. My mess, and it’s always just been me versus me.

I read the most amazing book lately by Elizabeth Gilbert called “Big Magic”. I think she’s my new favorite hero. It’s such a good book and I totally believe everything she says about creativity and fear, ego and soul, wonder and inspiration. Writing isn’t supposed to be torture. It’s not supposed to be pain or bleeding or suffering or any of the other negatives we typically associate with the pained and troubled artist. Writing is supposed to be joyful and inspiring and fun—a collaborative association between me and inspiration, together making something beautiful and happy. Not for editors. Not for publishing houses. Not for my mother or my wife or my kids or my writing group or for anyone else. Just for me. Something special, just because I love it. If other people end up loving it too, that’s great—extra bonus for them. But it should be for me, first and foremost, made out of love and happiness and joy and wonder for my own amusement. I can’t remember exactly how Elizabeth put it, but the thought was wonderful: What you and inspiration create together should be a souvenir to make you happy and remind you of the wonderful time the two of you had working on something together. She said it much better than that of course. Just go read the book. It’s amazing. I got it on audio CD and listened to it once, then listened to it again, then went to the library and checked out the printed novel and read it at home a third time straight through. Yeah, it’s that good. Trust me, just go get it.

I’m trying to adopt the “Big Magic” philosophy in my own life. I know it will help with my depression—the way the sound of a shotgun pumping in the dark frightens away burglars. I know a “Big Magic” mindset will help with my writing. Me and inspiration, working together to create something wonderful and magical and personal together, regardless of whether anyone else thinks it’s any good. You can’t really create art for other people. You have to create what’s beautiful and magical for yourself. Other people might also love it, and that’s great. Then again they might not, and that’s okay too. Doesn’t really matter what other people think. At the end of your time together with inspiration, you have your souvenirs to hang on your shelf or keep in a box for the rest of your life.

Why do we hang onto souvenirs and tote them around from house to house every time we move? Some souvenirs I’ve kept from my childhood. Why do I still have those? Why do we keep them? Why is the thought of pitching them so painful? Why are we so eager to show them to other people? Why do we get so disappointed when they don’t get all excited the same way we do?

Can we write ourselves out of a funk? Yeah. I just did. Now I want to meditate and reach out so inspiration knows where to find me. I want to feel its influence in my brain and in my heart. I want it to touch me with an idea so we can make a contract and collaborate on something wonderful, something just for me, just because I think it’s awesome. I want to write now for myself, not for anyone else. Certainly not with some expectation of an outcome I have no control over. Just for the love of creating something beautiful. A gift to myself. A souvenir. Something to remember the time that inspiration and I spend time together working on our next project. Time to start writing again.