Why Writing is Better Than Talking

My good friends know that I’m depressed this winter, partially because of SAD and partly because of family issues.

I think of myself as a warrior woman. Machine gun me with nails, I’ll spit them right back at you. Say I can’t and I’ll prove that I can. I create out of a deep need to express myself, and with a vengeance. You can try to chop me into pieces, but like the burls of a redwood, I’ll just multiply and conquer you a little at a time.

But not this time.

Depression has kicked my ass.

So I have sought out help. I have medications, which don’t seem to be helping one bit. I have a therapist, but confronting the things that are bothering me results in a sob fest. I’m not sure if talking helps.

I’m not good at speaking. I never have been. I signed up for Mr. Dionysio’s speech class in high school and spent the entire semester in silence. When I took speech in college, I had one successful speech, one that was rather “meh”, and one where I bombed completely – end grade, B-.

I couldn’t speak on the phone, and therefore gravitated toward factory jobs instead of those involving customer service. I thought I didn’t like people, and that people didn’t like me.

(Imagine me now, on the phone all the time. You can teach an old dog new tricks.)

I’m not stupid, I’m in the low Mensa range. I have coherent, cogent thoughts. I read smart books, funny books, inspirational books. But speaking, either publicly or privately…I’m the stereotypical writer, an introvert who’d rather hole up with my laptop or pen with a hot cup of green tea by my side.

So I have decided to write (again) about these deeply seated feelings. Get them on paper. Because I sure as heck don’t want to burden my friends and family with the intimate details.

Plus I can’t.

Last night, I had a Facebook “conversation” with a friend in a similar position. I received more insight in that thirty minutes of back and forth than I did the last time I saw the therapist. Why? Because we were typing. I don’t think I could have the same conversation in person. I cannot verbalize my sadness. Not yet.

And this is why writing is better than talking.


Monday Morning Mash-Up


Okay, maybe I’m not lazy, but I have the procrastination moves down pat. Okay, maybe I’m not the World’s Biggest Writing Procrastinator, maybe I have Writing ADD.

Nope. I’m lazy.

Why do I say this? The Internet tells me so.

Maybe not in so many words… The one good thing about being a writer and having access to the Internet is Monday morning. Honestly, I could turn off my computer the other six days, and Monday would be the key I’d want to waste my online time on.

(Of course, I’d have to adjust that rule for Donald Maass’s Tuesday Twittering. For a minute.)

I started this post last Monday before life got crazy; however, it’s not any different this Monday. For example, here’s a really good article on self-publishing by Bob Mayer, who’s one of my new writing gods. And for all you sh**** writers out there, there’s this article on the slash and burn. And of course, since I’m in the revise and revisit mode of my novel, this article likening the process to the infestation of bedbugs makes for an interesting read.

And the twitterverse is buzzing over BookEnds strategy for e-pubbing. Lots of comments on that one, folks.

For a wry look at the writing process, one can always find a laugh or two, and a gem of knowledge, from the Rejectionist.

Monday morning has now morphed into Monday afternoon (a scorchingly hot Monday afternoon), so I’ll take this moment to shut down the salt mine and go for a few hours of writing time – in air conditioned comfort.

See. I’m not really lazy. Just overwhelmed.