It’s a sickness.

The last two weeks have been relatively light on writing. Last week, this was mostly of necessity (thank you, dayjob) while this week is mostly by design (thank you, Chloie).

That doesn’t mean I haven’t made any words at all, but it’s meant I’ve limited myself to only writing down vivid and precise things that I will regret not writing down for later use. These things are non-negotiable because they respect and feed the well as well as coming from it.

(Also, I might have slipped and published a 400 word how-to about auditing college courses here in Columbia, Missouri. I swear, I have the strangest household accidents…)

Making words is necessary to my mental health. Being a writer is a significant element in my self-image, and I derive a lot of my self-worth from writing, but the process is also critical. Sometimes, when I sit down to write, it’s got nothing to do with a project. There are days that I put everything else away so that I can unwind with an idea. Other times, I spend ten minutes putting something down so that it can exist somewhere other than my skull.

Don’t misunderstand. When I write a story, the story itself isn’t necessarily therapy. My characters aren’t me, their struggles (usually) aren’t mine. It’s the process of feeling for them (or maybe as them sometimes) and putting everything together that’s therapeutic for me. Making stuff helps me keep my brain in order.

Weeks when my writing is curtailed either by circumstance or by design are strange beasts. I imagine it’s like the horror stories the conservation guys would tell us about underwater caving; too much silt or not enough light and you literally lose track of which way is up. I have trouble regulating my moods, or knowing what those moods actually are until I start talking about them. Things like anxiety and depression start to well up in the gap like water fills a hole in the sand.

It isn’t all bad. The little holiday I get when I’m only working 40 instead of 60 hour weeks can be nice. I went out to see Rifftrax do Reefer Madness and then followed it up with karaoke on Thursday, and then last night caught up on Project Runway.

After a while, though, I stop being able to enjoy the extra time. The noise in my head starts to get too loud. Reality gets harder to grip, taking care of basic needs gets harder to do, and sooner or later my choices come down to losing my mind or writing a way up out of the pit.

~*~

If you’ve been living under a rock, you might not be aware that about one quarter of Pakistan is underwater due to massive flooding. There are already signs of cholera outbreaks. I encourage everyone to give, if they can, either directly to aid organizations, or via fundraisers like help_pakistan. Recommendations: Doctors Without Borders, Oxfam, and The International Federation of Red Cross and Red Crescent Societies.

~*~

The Internet is a strange and wonderful place where even RDJ can be a pin-up girl. (Link possibly unsafe for work.)

PSA: Facebook “dislike” button scam.

Florida GOP/Tea Party candidate believes people with “Coexist” bumper stickers (example here) want to give the country away to our enemies. In other news, I have a new bumper sticker and think Allen West is an imbecile.

A friend linked me to The Princess, a Monday/Friday web comic about a transgirl. She got linked to it via a parenting list/blog. I think it’s sort of charming, though I don’t know that I’m likely to be a regular reader.

From TIME, an article about what prisoners at Guantánamo Bay are reading.

This article about the NYT killing off the word “hipster” amused me no end. Full disclosure: I own a fedora and chunky black glasses.

US Civil War thing #1: nearly untouched Confederate prison camp located in Georgia.

US Civil War thing #2: Small Truth Papering Over a Big Lie. Mostly this is more about the modern cultural situation still arising from the Civil War.

From the Department of WTF: Evangelist Billy Graham’s son, Rev. Franklin Graham, believes that President Obama was born Muslim because of his father’s faith, and that the “seed” of Islam is propagated father to son. Yeah, no.

From the Department of Freaking Awesome: The oldest house in Britain. When something was built before your island detached from Western Europe, it’s old.

This post has been mirrored from Christian A. Young's Dimlight Archive. To see it in its original format, visit dimlightarchive.com