It's not writer's block, it's depression... or at least it is for me.
Trigger warning: This article refers to depression and suicidal ideation.
Every week—a few times a week—one of the beautiful, amazing, wonderful people in my life ask me about book two. Lately, it's been getting harder to lie about my progress. There is progress, if you're one of the handful of people who want to know, I promise that there are words being added, plots being refined, and shenanigans ensuing. Progress, alas, is very slow. This year has been a bad mental health year, last year was a great one. Last year I felt like I was kicking goals, editing went well, the book came out, work was good, the world was my oyster (as someone who doesn't like oysters, I'm not sure this is the saying for me). This year started with me in mental crisis, I hit a hurdle which no one could possibly have tripped over (of course they could, but I was busy hating myself) and somewhere in the process of editing the audio for my audiobook, something in me snapped. I couldn't do it, I couldn't face my computer, I couldn't face Reaper (the audio editing program), and I couldn't face my life.
The year has gotten better, but it hasn't gotten good. I don't however, have writer's block.
The work year began around the end of January, and I pretended to be fine. I decided—based on years of working with my family and psychologists—that if I could control one aspect of things, it would serve as a stabiliser for the rest of my life. If I could feel like I was a good teacher, perhaps I could be a worthwhile person. I kicked arse in the classroom, 2026 was the best start to a school year I've had. I have the most challenging student I've ever had (in one aspect), in a class with a plethora of challenges... my other classes are full of characters the DC rogue's gallery would be proud of. My maths students hated maths, my science students didn't know English (it's the only language I have), the snozzberries didn't taste like snozzberries! I was smashing it though. I studied stars and trams to work with my challenging student, I made maths accessible to the masses and a number of students passed their first maths tests of high school, it was all going great.
I would get home at night and cry. I couldn't write, I couldn't edit, I just couldn't manage anything.
The focus on school as a stabiliser worked—somewhat—and I am in a better place now than I was at the start of the year. I haven't been able to create though.
One of my dear and supportive friends has a daughter who is an avid reader. I had previously written a novel which I felt I could repurpose into a story, about and for this avid reader for her tenth birthday. I did the editing, I did some new writing, I was happy with it. It didn't do it's job though... it didn't restart the engine. If you have ever struggled with the pull cord of a lawnmower, you can put yourself somewhat into my shoes. I know exactly what I need to get done, I know exactly how that thing can be done, but for the love of all that has evolved, lived, died and is now extinct, I can't start the fucking lawnmower!!!!!
Sorry, I am struggling with getting going on my writing, not my lawns (except for when I am).
I am coming up for one year after the self-publication of my first novel. Shortly thereafter I will pass a year since I recorded the audio for my audiobook. Book two is twenty-thousand words long... I am coming up for a year since I wrote the ten-thousandth word. I don't know what to do with myself, I don't know how I will get going again on this.
If I pay someone to edit my audio and put it all together, will I hate myself for giving up?
If I never release the audiobook, will I hate myself even more?
If I wait to feel "right" about all of this, will I ever get it done? What if I never feel right again?
If I move on to something else, will I hate everything I create because it will never be book two?
No book is worth my life, and if I never write another word of prose, I will still have done something that many wish to have done, and I will have achieved something most never will.
In January of this year, I was thinking about killing myself. In May of this year, I was back there again, staring into the void. September fifth—as I write this—I'm doing much better, but I'm not doing great. My students—for the most part—are still kicking butt, more of them smile in maths and science class now than they did at the start of the year, they are growing as people and learners, and the role I have as head of houses at school hasn't been done better since I've been working at my school.
But... I still can't fucking write this stupid shitting book!!
I have things I think of doing, because I want to be writing. I like writing, it is good for me. I'm a better me when I can be creative, I am a happier me, and the snozzberries taste like snozzberries.
I'm going to keep trying to write, I'm going to keep trying to edit my audiobook and release it. I have a YA trilogy I have mostly written and I plan on editing it, improving it, and trying to get an agent so that I can then traditionally publish it. I will keep writing Barduk, he dies as the hero of a thousand adventures, and I am so far one adventure in.
If you have read this, and you have asked how book two is coming, it's all good. Book two is coming along, it's just moving slowly. Perhaps my initial thoughts of May 2027 will become November 2027, or perhaps it will be later. And that's fine. I'm not just saying that, it really is.
If you are struggling with your own mental health, here are a series of resources available (Australia specific). You matter, and you're worth it.
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