Bipolar Disorder Won't Be Mentioned By Name

We All Have Our Things

Hey, friends. I’ve been conspicuously missing for a handful of weeks. Since around the time that doe, the deer, the female deer hit my car, I’ve been in a spiritual wrestle that feels a lot like Whac-A-Mole.

One moment, I think I’ve turned a corner, the next, I struggle to summon the necessary energy to wake with my 6:11 alarm. Funny as it sounds, the 6:11 is a sign of improvement.

In my ultra-productive times, I’ve set my alarm for 5:50am. Around about last June, I set the alarm for 6:18 with a booster alarm at 6:23. It went a long time with that configuration. Long for me.

I’m used to having bouts of depression, and when they hit—often around January or February—I might fade for a couple weeks, maybe three, before snapping back to productivity/motivation.

This time around, I was in the dumps for about seven months, and I can’t say as I’m out of the dumps quite yet. I’m climbing out though, and that’s something.

Part of climbing out is the resurgence of a real desire to get writing again. I felt it strong a few days ago, and here I am, pounding the keys. It feels great.

From the age of nineteen to the age of thirty-seven, I hadn’t taken more than two days consecutive off of writing. Then I started the Author Marketing Mastery through Optimization (lovingly called AMMO) program.

With AMMO, I became ultra-focused on selling the novels I’d written, and all that time marketing sometimes left me creatively gassed. I would go a couple weeks tweeking and fine-tuning ads all in the hope of exploding my author career in a more public way.

Even then, though, writing was what I wanted to be doing, and I felt a constant wrestle to tell stories.

Then the events of My Life In Cats began—the ones started by the death of my good, good friend, Chewy. I could borrow the lyrics of our good friend Marshall M. and say that “on the surface I looked calm and ready” and that would be true.

I kept writing.

I travelled the country selling books at comic conventions.

I showed up.

But my spirit was beginning to yield, and while a straw might break a camel’s back, it was a doe that broke mine.

I stopped writing entirely, dropped off social media, retreated into myself almost entirely. For those who listen, I have a podcast called Becoming A Household Name. It was the only public contribution I made for nearly a month, and I barely did that.

It’s been a rollercoaster, a rollercoaster with a mole as my cabin mate, a mole with a very hard head and a lot more determination than I.

I think, at last, I’m back to myself enough to get the metaphorical plates a-spinnin’ again. And with that, I’m beginning a new collection of essays.

Maybe I called My Life In Cats a memoir. Maybe that’s what it was. Certainly, it lacked memoirian continuity. Really, it’s a collection of essays. I like essays. Here’s to hoping you do too, because today, and moving forward, I’m going to start a new series of them.

I’ll be doing a few things differently this time. In an effort to produce higher quality, I won’t have a schedule for releasing these pieces. They’ll come as they do.

Bad as it may be for growing the coveted hoard of devoted fans, I won’t commit to a schedule. Never fear, though. I’ll be writing. Regularly. Daily? Probably. I do best with daily doses.

But I won’t publish until the piece feels right—or close as I can get it to right.

So for now, I’ll finish by wishing you a happy final groan of winter. Spring comes in a mere 15 days. I can’t wait. I’m ready to blossom, and I hope you are too.

With Love,

Jody

Oh, and PS: The working title for this collection is My Life In Jigs, but I might change that. I’m open to suggestions if you know your way around a workshop. Carpenters, don’t judge me harshly. I’m no authority on the table saw. Yet.