Whatever its genesis, I struggle with it. I have good days and bad, days when I feel normal and days when I feel like poor Dr. Jekyll, the monstrous Mr. Hyde lurking just under his skin. My depression presents itself as lethargy, punctuated by long periods of brutal (and ultimately dishonest) introspection whereupon my sub-conscious expounds on its favorite topic: "1001 Reasons Why Scott Oden Sucks as a Writer." It is Resistance at its most powerful and insidious . . .
And so, we fight, my depression and I. It's pankration without the slenderest of rules. We gouge and bite and throw elbows and try to beat each others heads in with rocks, with the goal being my desk and the work upon it. I always win through, but some days I can only curl up and protect my vitals while that bastard kicks the shit out of me, then crawl to me chair while he gets his second wind. Once I get my fingers on the keyboard I know I'm safe for a couple of hours, at least.
That's where I'm at, now. Bloodied and bruised and feeling low, but with my hands stroking the keys -- making words from letters and sentences from words. So screw you, depression! You useless fucking toad! What I write today may reek to high heaven, but you can't stop me from writing it! Not today!
Words needed: approx. 100,000
Words written, to date: 36,660 (I edited some of what I wrote before the ill-fated Holiday Plague of 2013, trimming back a bit of useless verbiage)