Those of you who notice such things, or care to notice such things, have probably noted that my bloggy blog type thing has been gathering dust for a while. As a person who writes primarily for my own entertainment (although entertaining others either by accident or on purpose is awfully nice), I just haven’t felt like writing much. I’ve fought a few battles lately — depression, work crap, psychos and love stuff.  I’ve also struggled with a lack of inspiration as my energy has been sucked off into several different places at once. They didn’t even buy me a drink first.

The bastards.

So, here I am writing again. It must count for something somewhere. As the Joker said, “ashes to ashes, dust to dust. If you don’t take it out and use it then it’s going to rust.”


I’ve always wanted to be the sort of writer who could run to it when I feel badly or when things are going badly in life. That ability has always eluded me. Those who suffer from depression understand that when the battle is just getting out of the bed and getting your shoes laced up every day, other areas of your life will suffer. Sadly, when I’m in the grip of major melancholy, my work pretty much eats it. I’ve often read that the creative life can “save” your real life. I’ve no reason to debate such a claim because obviously it works for some folks. I just wish that a little salvation would drop my way.


I’ve been called many things lately, not many of them good. It occurs to me that out of all the abuse one can suffer than little is as bad as the abuse that can get hurled your way by the people who supposedly love you. You get hit very hard with a fist, your body will at least mend. Words are psychological hammers. Their bruises tend to stay with you for a long time. People can be vile, no good to themselves or others. When you feel like garbage the last thing you need is somebody telling you that nobody likes nor understands you. I mention it only because it has contributed to my current state of creative lethargy. All writers suffer from some kind of self-doubt anyway, and when you hear that the whole world despises you, it just seems like confirmation that you’re wasting your time.

The bad stuff might not be true (I pray anyway that the bad stuff is not). Yet if the bad stuff hurts you (it probably wouldn’t be bad if it didn’t) then it might as well be true. The damage, as they say, is done. It occurs to me that I’m laying myself pretty wide open right now to a bunch of people who are mostly strangers. I’ve done that sort of thing before with this blog but I’ve always tried to make it at least mildly entertaining. Reading this as I go, I don’t know if much entertainment will be found — I may not be up for that sort of thing.

I quoted Pink Floyd when I titled this article. As I’ve gotten older many aspects of their album “The Wall” seem sort of whiny and self-indulgent. However, I think there is also a truth there that many people are uncomfortable with facing. I think we isolate ourselves — maybe we’re afraid of being hurt, maybe we’re just sick of all the dodgeballs life hurls our way. Whatever the case may be, we build our own walls. We may feel safe behind them but as a William from a previous life might tell you, safety is mostly just an illusion. Illusions have their own narcotic effect and can be as addicting as any drug. Like Johnny Depp in Ed Wood, I’ve refused to deal with reality for quite a long time. It’s either been peachy keen or as dark as dark can get. If I’ve taken any kind of truth from my little journey over the past few months, it is that life is aggravatingly both. “Take the good with the bad,” my ma use to say. Okay. I sure am trying mom.


My ma use to also say that you got to have some kind of goal. So here’s a goal — I’m gonna keep doing my thing as best as I can. Sometimes it will work but more often than not it won’t. Maybe that’s okay, too. At this point, it has to be because it’s all I have. Lots of love, friends.


  1. I empathize, as you well know by now I’m sure. Depression can stifle, suffocate, cause one to collapse inward into oneself. It’s also amazing the damage one person and his or her words — mere words — can do. However, I think you would do quite well to seriously write — not about the pain of it necessarily but a piece in reaction to it, almost a form of retaliation. A short story or a script, maybe even the outline for a possible novel. Keep the theme parallel to how you’re feeling but the characters, the setting, their situation can be ANYTHING. I believe characters like the Punisher…and Travis Bickle…and the Count of Monte Cristo…etc…all undoubtedly conceived out of an almost cathartic reactionary to depression (and anger, naturally) of some sort. Make it explode, even if it’s just psychologically cutting (just don’t go all Neil LaBute about it unless you’re into controversy with your catharsis).

    Let me tell you, as soon as work (fuck WORK) comes to a screeching halt for the the summer, I am getting my own depression and ulcerous envy out in the form of a television pilot script and season breakdown. I’ve never done that before, and I’m awfully excited about it.

    You should try something like that, too. Seriously. Bradbury said, “Write a short story every week. It’s not possible to write 52 bad short stories in a row.” I think that’s awfully sage advice.

    Liked by 1 person

      1. Do it! DO IT, MAN! It will do you good…and then get it published or made into a film so you can laugh in the face of all of your oppressors! Every one of them! (*evil laugh*) Seriously though, I think you totally should.


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