Buckle Up for Writing Depression

Hey all, this is really the only place where I feel like I can unload all of this. Writing forums aren’t great for mental health, because everyone will either call you sensitive or project optimism for their own projects onto you without truly taking the time to understand you.

I made a worldbuilding project. I have spent my entire life with it - the first words went onto paper after years of working and daydreaming, and that was in 2007. If I’m being careful not to overestimate. It’s been the same universe, too, and my escape from everything and anything that’s been a struggle. Escapism isn’t so awful when it’s used as a distraction until one comes down from an emotional high of some sort, I believe, and this one has become a diary. Every idea I loved, every franchise… My entire life’s worth of creativity is in this thing in its most condensed state. I’ve worked on it nearly every single day in some capacity.

Here’s where the problem lies. I wrote for myself. Wrote, that is. Initially. I’ve had a TON of projects set in this universe, all done solely for my own enjoyment and fun, because I can’t find anything to my personal preference unless I make it myself.

My best friend, who is now my partner, saw and adored the project. I didn’t consider the idea that this was something anything else would enjoy until he became involved, and soon I was working towards publishing it.

I worked my ass off. I worked 11 hour days 5 days a week in a shitty retail job, and I woke up to work on this book for an hour every single day. I worked nonstop. I used craft books, I used beta readers, and I took FOREVER.

I started in 2016, and this past winter I queried its third draft.

Dozens and dozens got me radio silence, form rejections, or negative comments. I paid for a critique with an agent, and the tone of her voice on the phone very clearly told me that it’s a pile of garbage. And not a random agent, either, but someone who I intended to eventually query, who is both in my genre and a very well-respected agency. I’ve had enough no’s to know that this isn’t a matter of taste.

And now I hate every single thing associated with it. Including my life’s passion, and now when I try to do anything creative all I can do is try not to cry at the feeling of never having worn the outfit I spent so long sewing. I don’t care. My health has taken a hit. The emotional trauma is severe enough from this that I’ve experienced a Hashimoto’s flare up as a result.

I’ve also lost my favorite hobby and my only escape when I feel terrible. When I consider my next project I can’t think of anything. I have ideas, but the problem is that I don’t think anything I have in store is going to amount to much, either. All of the concepts that are unique to what I’ve created are things that I don’t truly believe anyone is interested in reading about. And the longer I try to imagine which ones might make for a good book next, the more I start to feel like it’s all stupid. Even if I do find the desire to make anything else, with my working pace it’ll be 2028 before I have anything of note, and that’s enough to take the wind right out of my sails.

Thanks for coming to my ted talk. At this point I feel empty.