I used to be a writer. I know some of you will say, you write this blog, that makes you a writer. Maybe that makes me a writer by some definitions, but not really by my personal one. I was more of a writer as a child than I am now. I wrote short stories and miles and miles of poetry. I took creative writing in highschool and then I went to college and got a degree in creative writing. I was published in highschool and in college. Then I graduated and ran (professionally) in the opposite direction.
Since college, when I haven written, it’s been in journals or more recently, here. In my deepening desire to take a hold of my life, I’m reaching for things I used to enjoy – things at which I used to excel. To that end, I’ve been looking for books to help inspire my writing. I have one subject matter right now, mental illness. I started reading Glitterland by Alexis Hall and I have Out Came the Sun by Mariel Hemingway on deck. (These were the only two relevant books I could find in my local library digital catalog.)
Alexis Hall writes, “All the counselling in the world couldn’t teach me how to think rationally about my episodes, so I feared them. I feared them with a pure and primal instinct, like dreading the dark or flinching from fire. In all these years, this is all I have learned: Depression simply is. It has no beginning and no end, no boundaries and no world outside itself. Is the first, the last, the only, the alpha and the omega. Memories of better times die upon its desolate shores. Voices drown in its seas. The mind becomes its own prisoner.”
This passage is a tad dramatic for my personal taste, but the last few sentences are poignant. “Memories of better times die upon its desolate shores…the mind becomes its own prisoner.” He writes later, “When I was lost in the fog, it was as though nothing else existed. And, afterwards, it seemed incomprehensible that I had ever really thought like that.”
This is the paradox of depression, that one can fall so deeply into depression as to forget the light, and in the light, forget the gaping depths of depression.
That’s rather poetic, yes? Maybe I am a writer after all.
On to promised things:
Here is the shawl with the neverending cast-off. This is the second attempt at blocking. I tried to pin each individual picot point, but it stretched out the rest of the shawl too much. So, I just ended up picking ruffles to pin out. I think it will work.
Here are the equally neverending socks, finally finished. I did a few cable rows at a time in between all my other projects and then sat down over the long weekend and pounded out the rest of the (second) second sock. I am glad to be done with these. They had better fit their recipient.
This sweater is coming to an end. I have 1 1/2 button bands to knit up and as I’m skipping the buttons for this one, no buttonholes, so I’m almost to the finishing up.
And these, another pair of interminable socks, because the recipient has giant feet. But these aren’t due until after Christmas. I’ll manage by then.
Now, there’s a new baby in the family. He definitely needs something for Christmas. But it will be a wee thing, so it’s not really like adding a project to my Christmas knitting list.