So for the last several months I’ve been suicidally depressed. I’m doing okay now, and I think the worst of these feelings has passed for now. I’ve had this experience before, a half-dozen or so times in my life, maybe more. This time, as in other times, I had the strong urge to write about what I was going through, thinking and feeling, experiencing. I wanted to document it; I don’t entirely know why. I’m a writer, and that’s a part of it, but there’s something more than that. The idea of writing directly, openly, and as honestly as I can about what I’m experiencing is an idea that scares me even as it excites me. I’m afraid of what people will think, even as I remind myself that people are thinking a lot less about me than I am thinking about what other people might be thinking about me.
First, I'm excited to say that I've been accepted for a one-month residency fellowship at the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts. I'll be there in January to continue work on revising The Accountant. A few friends have gone there, and it sounds like a lovely place to do work.
Lately, I’ve been applying for a lot of grants and artist residencies, and as a result, I’ve had to do a lot of writing about myself. Most of the time these exercises are actually pretty useful and even fun; the great advantage of working on a project that I deeply care about — in this case my novel and writing generally — is that it is often easy to talk passionately and at length about it. I also find that answering the questions in the applications gives me some insight into what it is I’m up to.