Grand Funk....Not the Railroad....

 

Depression is rage spread thin.  ---  George Santayana

 

In the films, actresses like Garbo made melancholy and depression seem so attractive. Even glamorous.

Well, baby, that's in the movies.

It's uncomfortable to discuss, but to try to silence it and confine it only seems to give it strength. For me, anyway.

To voice it, though, seems to lift the handle on its dark cage and releases it out into the light so you can see it, so you can face it.

If you ever suffer from bouts of—yes, say it—depression, you may sometimes feel the same way. Many of these feelings are continuous for some. But even those occasional times are potent enough to knock me to my knees.

For me, some of it is like...

Everyone hates me. Everyone is out to get me.

Every bad thing that happens is my fault. Somehow---even though it has nothing to do with me or is a million miles across the globe—it’s still my fault.

I cry.

Every nasty word spoken on the social networks, in groups, all over the world, is directed at me. A perpetual condemning finger is pointed in my face.

I cry a little more.

My writing sucks. I might receive a million fabulous comments on my book and I smile. But let even one mockery, one snarky comment appear and I plunge into fits of giant insecurity about my talent.

I cry even more.

The world plays favorites and I'm the oddball left out of life's game of Red Rover, Red Rover. Nobody likes me. Nobody wants me on their team. I'm nobody's favorite.

Tune up for more tears.

I don't fit in anywhere. Being a square peg in a round hole, for some, is just wonderful individuality. For me, it's glaring, humiliating case of not being cool. I simply don't belong.

Bawl fest.

Everyone's talking about me behind my back.

Major waterworks.

Every other writer's work is better than mine. If I can't be like them, write what they write, I'm a failure. It's no matter that I have my own individual talent. I'm not happy with that. No, I want to be the other authors.

Cry me a river.

I want to be alone, very alone, yet the alone-ness is unbearable because it leaves only me in room with that the entity called depression.

I crave support and a kind word but, like a vampire to a cross, I cringe and hiss when it's offered. Hell, I even bite the friendly hand sometimes.

 

As an author, I can't get recognized fast enough. Not only am I angry at myself for this, I'm angry at those who are recognized already.

I sometimes alienate those who want to help. Not even they’re able to be the comforting rocks they usually are. I'm too angry to want a Rock of Gibraltar. I want to flounder and lick my wounds. I want to feel sorry for myself, it seems the only sensible thing at the moment. See? Just another side effect—the sincere feeling that I deserve to flounder and sink.

It reminds me of swimming lessons years ago. Upon my sinking in the huge, Olympic size pool, the instructor jumped in to save me. Panicking, I clawed at his head to push myself above water and nearly drowned him. I needed to be rescued but I resisted it.

This unsettled state causes resentment toward things where no resentment should be.

And here is the thing. I'm making light of the effects of depression...maybe trying to make some humor. Because, believe me, its reach is much deeper, much harder to explain, much, much harder to grasp. And much stronger.  

I look in the mirror and imagine myself a prima donna. Me, me, me. To most, I'm willing to bet, it appears that I have a severe case of narcissism. Yet, deep in my heart, I know the selfishness is merely a stubborn clinging—a realization that I really, really do not want to sink. And I'm screaming, shouting, hating, crying, loving, fearing, clawing so someone will notice that I am adrift. I'd probably, as usual, deny the helping hand. Because, you know, as Garbo would say, I want to be left alone.

Maybe I do need to be left alone. But I don't want to be left alone. Not completely. Not always.

And, yes, solitude is a beautiful thing and often a necessary thing. Yes, sometimes that dark cage is a sanctuary. A safe refuge. A beautiful, healing place. I cherish this escape, this private mental hideout from bouts of depression.

I just leave the latch open.

 

The Important Review that will Never Be Seen...

Aunt Margaret and Sister Barbara

What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though.  — J. D. Salinger, "The Catcher in the Rye"

Every time I read this Salinger quote, I imagine how it would feel to be that author. You know, the author whose friend does want to call them up anytime they feel like it. 

But, then...

I do have that friend. I do have friends who call me up anytime they feel like it and communicate with me every day. I am that author. It's just that, if you're like me, taking yourself seriously enough as a writer, letting yourself be proud that you are an author, is easier said than done.

What does this have with reviews?

Reviews and what they mean to an author are self-explanatory. Some think it's that we just want praise, that feedback is a all about pride for us. And I'd be lying if I said that wasn't partially true. Of course it makes us beam to see our work acknowledged. And, yes, praised. Actually, even less-than-stellar reviews are...well...they are still validation that the book has been read.

Something occurred to me last night, though, a behind-the-scenes part of reader feedback that no one usually ever sees, publicly, that is, but us authors.

Any reader who "gets" our stories---our plots, our characters, the whole shebang---is cherished. That is what it's all about to most authors.

And that's what this blog entry is all about. The reader who can call us up, reach out to us, who "gets" our story. The "review" that's not a public thing, no gold stars involved, but is a review.

One such readers is my beloved Aunt Margaret. (her photo above).

I had given Aunt Margaret a copy of my book, Joseph's Coat. Honestly? I didn't expect that she would read it. I just love her and I wanted to share my work with her. 

So when my aunt told me that she had started reading my book, I...panicked. 

Why?

Because Joseph's Coat is focused a good deal on the Catholic Church. One of my main characters is a nun.

So?

My beautiful aunt had been a nun for eleven years, back in the 1970's. Maybe, without even realizing, I was basing this character on my aunt. After all, she'd also been a teacher like my character during her years as a sister.

So it was the proverbial pins and needles, half-way hoping Aunt Margaret would not even read the book. Would the book offend her? Would the nun in the book, who has a not-so-nice side, be offensive to her?

But Aunt Margaret called to tell me that she is reading my book.

And Aunt Margaret told me that she was enjoying Joseph's Coat.

Here's the thing...

What struck me the hardest, made me smile the biggest, made me almost cry because it was pretty much what any author wants to hear...

She cited a scene that had resonated with her. Something about the scene that impressed her enough that she has told me, more than once, how she loved it.

Now what better photo opportunity can there be for me to share this scene? A snippet, if you will, from my book...

The bedside clock chimed, an almost obscene sound breaking the comfortable quiet. Eleven O’clock. Kate lifted to quickly turn off the alarm, then returned to the warmth of the covers.

Giovanni didn’t stir, he must not have heard the clock.

Kate, lying on her side, her hands tucked beneath the pillow, watched him sleep. On his stomach with knuckles pressed to his chin, lips parted with a soft snore.

Without opening his eyes, Giovanni burrowed deeper into his pillow and murmured into the linen-covered cloud of down, “Am I snoring?”

“No.” Little white lies and such.

“I am sorry.” With his eyes still closed, his voice deep, groggy, he rubbed his fingers across his mouth.

How beautiful it had been, the way he’d stayed with her while she studied the portfolio of plans for the Christmas pageant. Kate knew he’d been tired but he never let on to her that he was. It had been obvious, though, in the way he stifled yawns, the cups of coffee he consumed.

Even as he drank the coffee and talked excitedly with her, he occasionally mentioned how he ought to stop, that he had a lunch meeting the next day. But, when Kate glanced at the kitchen clock, reminded him of the meeting, he ignored her. And she knew, painfully so, that her interest in the plans, at her interest in anything, had awakened his soul again, just as it had hers. She knew, too, that he probably feared the moment might pass and he was afraid to walk away from it to go to bed.

This morning, even though he had a meeting soon, she didn’t wake him. He might be upset that she would let him miss a business appointment, but she didn’t care. The man asleep beside her, his wild curls dark against the white of the pillowcase, had worried so about her, even during his own mourning. Making certain during this agonizing year that she never sank and drowned beneath the misery. Without even realizing, he’d saved her life.

So, damn the meeting.

“Then why are you staring at me?” Giovanni whispered, his eyes half-open. Yawning, he shifted onto his back, rested his hands on his chest and squinted up at her. “If I am not snoring?”

As always, he’d sensed her watching him.

To get to the point of this blog entry...

Yes, sure, we writers long for reviews. Maybe not for reasons most would suspect. Reviews are proof that the book has been read. They are proof that the reader liked---or disliked---our work. But they read it. 

But...

There are those private "reviews" that are as valid, that no one but the author will ever hear. The reviews that will never be seen.

When Aunt Margaret, so passionately, let me know that the imagery was vivid enough that she still thought about it; and the fact that my character, just like my aunt or I would do, makes coffee in times of quiet. And my aunt loved that my characters do down a lot of java.

See? Those words from Aunt Margaret, from such an unexpected source, were the proverbial writers' high. 

And the biggest thing this has revealed to me...about myself as writer? 

That reviews are reviews, no matter where they come from, not matter how they're delivered. That sometimes, the reader you think would be least likely to enjoy your story might just surprise you.

Still biting my nails, waiting for Aunt Margaret's verdict on Sister Delphine.