I just started a new book. Writing a new book, that is.
I just finished reading a book about depression in teenage girls (not because I'm only interested in depression in girls, but because that's what the book happened to be about and I couldn't find any others that were about depression but not for people with it,) and just started reading a book about war in Afghanistan. Both are research for the one I'm writing.
I've been reading about fifty cal machine guns and Javelin rockets. Very fun.
I also read my journal entries from age thirteen to twenty. That was interesting. What was more interesting was the poetry I wrote and tucked into the pages of my journal. An excerpt:
Beneath stones ancient druid-made
And round perdition's flames
My cries fall silent as they fade
And stars fall crying haunted names
When Sirius burns overhead
While brightly Acrux shines
Then may the heavens find me dead
In snow among my Utah pines
I don't write much poetry these days. For me it's always been something that arises from very intense feelings—usually feelings I'd rather not feel.
I'm going to tell a story from inside the head of someone with severe depression, and I'm not sure how it will turn out. Who wants to read about depression? Most people don't even want to think about it. The funny thing about depression is that it has a logic all its own.
I ask myself why I want to risk writing a book no one will want to read. Somehow, it feels like I've been drawn into this, a little closer with each new story, and sucked into this one because I fell in love before I thought it all the way through.
My protagonists want to die, for cryin' out loud. Who can relate to that? More people than we realize, probably. But the story isn't about death. It's about what happens instead.