Gareth Lewis's Blog, page 3

Depression 6: Self-Image

[WARNING: This is a self-indulgent series of posts in lieu of getting actual help. It’ll probably just be irritating to anyone else]

Part of my problem in trying to connect with others is basic biological urges. The desire for a partner. So when trying to reach out to connect with someone, I usually find it easier to communicate with women.

I try to suppress such considerations from any conversations I do have, but can never be certain. Again, another thing that holds me back from talking to anyone. It’s generally the avalanche of neuroses and contributing factor in my head that always gets in my way. Until I’m in a conversation, and go blank.

But it’s always there, and is one of the few times I get self-conscious about how I look (possibly the only time I care).

Obviously, I have self-image issues. Hardly unjustifiable, though exactly how I look to others is a mystery.

I’m not the type of narcissist who has a clear self-image. Do many people? I only look in the mirror when shaving, combing my hair, or suchlike. And I’m generally focused on one area rather than the whole.

Generally speaking, I’m an ugly, middle-aged, man, with an unconvincing false smile (does ugliness matter less as you get older?). That’s according to the mirror. According to the rare photos I don’t manage to avoid, I’m more grotesque, and look fatter than the mirror shows, with an indecisively balding spot on the top of my head that’s been only sparsely haired for decades, but refuses to actually go properly bald.

I could always try and project more self-confidence. But why? It’d just be a lie. And while much of personal interactions seems to involve lying to some degree, it’s not something I’m really practiced at. I think I just panic too much in social situations, my mind going too blank to fill the void with the polite lie.

Not that I’d necessarily leave people with much of an impression of me. I have too little interaction for them to be likely to remember me at all.

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Depression 5: Writing Bad

[WARNING: This is a self-indulgent series of posts in lieu of getting actual help. It’ll probably just be irritating to anyone else]

I’m not a real writer. Apparently a fear of many writers. Which doesn’t mean it isn’t true for some.

To be more precise, it should be ‘I’m not a good writer’. Which is, of course, a highly subjective term.

But I’ve been doing this for over a decade, and it feels like my writing is getting worse. And I’ve yet to achieve any success.

Not that I consider myself a failed writer. A failed writer doesn’t finish the story. I’m just an unsuccessful one. And unsuccessful can change over time.

I’m just not sure I believe it will. Or that I really want it to. I want my stuff read. And I’d like to make a living at writing, so I can continue to do so. But I don’t really have any image of what success would be like, and seem unable to place myself in any such scenario.

I’m not sure if I’m sabotaging myself. I know there are things I’m doing wrong. Basically the marketing. Reaching out to people, which will always be a problem for me.

And I’m sure the reason I can’t sell anything in the short story market is that they prefer idea-centred stories, whereas even if I start off from an idea, the story itself always ends up taking priority for me.

But I’m not sure whether I’m just not a good writer. Feedback from some people I trust is reassuring, though there’s always the concern of how much of that is politeness. A part of me kind of wants a voice of authority to say I’m a bad writer, and should stop doing it. A verification of what I feel deep inside.

Yet while I sometimes feel that about my writing, the next moment I’m completely the opposite. I have written some good stuff. But it’s shallow. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything. But then, what does?

I’m reasonably convinced I have some skills, or at least an inclination. There was one recently popular book, based mainly around it’s final twists. Those twists were similar to ones I’d used in a story a few years back (whose readership may just have gotten into double figures, so it’s purely coincidence of similarly twisted minds). So some of my ideas may be worth something.

Which could just mean it’s my execution that’s lacking. It’d be nice to think that, rather than that it’s all just a matter of luck. A lack in craft could be fixed. Random chance is notoriously harder to control.

That assumes that it’s my craft that’s lacking. But I see writing as being as much about art as craft. And if my storytelling art is what’s lacking, I’m not sure it’s possible to learn.

Ultimately, I feel compelled to write. I’m not entirely sure how much being read really matters. Possibly as part of the having a connection to the world, sharing my ideas. But it’s not the immediacy of a conversation, or an actual interaction.

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Depression 4: The Prison of Things

[WARNING: This is a self-indulgent series of posts in lieu of getting actual help. It’ll probably just be irritating to anyone else]

One of the great things about the upheavals in society since I was young is the increasing digitalisation.

I have so much stuff. Books and comics and DVDs and so on (it should hardly be a surprise I’m a geek).

But that’s a lot of stuff to take up space. It’s a millstone around my neck.

Since most of my stuff is actually ephemeral on a certain level, just ideas which used to require physical delivery systems, I could conceivably transfer my life to an increasingly virtual one. (Obviously not all. Walking around in only virtual clothes is indecent exposure unless everyone else agrees to the illusion of virtual clothing. Also, cold at this time of year.)

It’s not quite the same though. You need power to be able to access the information, and a device on which to experience it. And you don’t necessarily own the instantiation. You just rent it on a long-term contract, which the provider could cancel if you happen to change credit card or something. Or they could go out of business.

But it means less stuff to accumulate, adding to the increasingly nomadic inclination of first-world society.

I do feel constrained by all the stuff I’ve accumulated. In reality, it’s other obligations which hold me here (along with the lack of anywhere to go). But if I were free, and did want to go anywhere, I’d have to do something with this lot.

A part of me just wants to burn the lot of it, though another part rails at the thought of ever burning books. But a symbolic disposal, if just recycling them. The pragmatist in me will just continue selling them on ebay though, because I don’t exactly have many income streams. And while I don’t spend much (one benefit of having no life), I can’t help thinking of the long-term, when I might need the money (if only to reach my death before running out of funds to keep myself alive).

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Depression 3: The Modern Disconnect

[WARNING: This is a self-indulgent series of posts in lieu of getting actual help. It’ll probably just be irritating to anyone else]

 

Constant Change

We live in a world of constant change. Technological advancements now come at such a speed that society has to constantly adjust to keep up with things.

Life is consequently fast, and increasingly unstable. There are far fewer certainties in life (other than the final certainty).

There are also far more choices. Far more options. Even a century ago, the life you were born into could have decided the course of your future. It may have been possible to fight for a different one, if you knew what you wanted.

Now, provided you live in the right place, your options are far more vast. So vast that decision anxiety can take hold. With so many options, how can you choose one? Can you even choose one, or do you simply stumble into something and get stuck there, either growing comfortable or suffering in silence?

And if you do choose a future, will that choice still be valid in a year’s time? Maybe less.

Given such permeable foundations, is it even possible for many to have a coherent sense of identity. There’s certainly less likely to be anything as clear cut as they might have had a century earlier. Even if they hated what they were, they knew what it was. An identity you hate at least gives you something to rebel against.

I have trouble seeing any role in society I could do, anyway. I was useless at interviews because (at least in part) I’m no good at faking enthusiasm. Why should I, anyway? Most jobs seem so pointless. Being a cog in the machine, producing something – goods or service – to ultimately keep the machine going. Necessary for the continuation of society, but I see no gratification to be derived from it. Only a wage, to continue living a pointless life, while being encouraged to produce more cogs for the continuation of the machine.

I’ve never seen how that life could be lived. I tried it. Waiting for it to somehow settle in, if only by routine dulling down my thoughts. But the pointlessness of it never went away.

Not that life without it is any easier. But at least writing offers more of a distraction from the sheer horror of existence. Even this only helps keep my final collapse at bay while my mind is occupied.

But society is increasingly under stress from the incessant rate of change. And far wider than it was a century ago.

 

Global Isolation

Communications has made the world virtually smaller, and put us in the position where we can have more in common with someone on the far side of the world who shares our worldview, than with our neighbours (who not so long ago could well have had roles not that dissimilar to our own). And we can have more communication with that distant person. This obviously has an effect on the destabilisation of local communities, especially among the young.

Personally, I don’t find online communications the same. I know it offers a sense of community that can be hard to find if you’re geographically isolated from others sharing your interests, and maybe that’s fine if you’re a more sociable type.

For me, the lack of physical cues in the communication makes everything too easy to misinterpret, so I’m always second-guessing what I say. It’s always safer to just not respond at all, rather than risking causing offence. And while taking time to make a considered response should be better, I still find myself typing the wrong thing when I do try to take part.

You can never be sure what another really thinks anyway, even looking them in the face. The virtual connection just makes everything that much more ephemeral.

Even so, finding your own clique online can offer a sense of community. But there remains a sense of detachment I’m unable to dismiss, leaving me cut off from even that illusion of connection.

I’ve been on a few communities, involved in discussions, and even keep in occasional contact with some members. But I’ve never really felt the same connection as with people I’ve physically met (not that I’ve necessarily had any real connections with them).

And virtual communities can be too deceptive. It’s easy to fall into lurking, reading what’s said and feeling like you’re still a part of the community. But would those involved in the community even remember who you are? It’s not as though you’d be seen observing the discussions.

Unless you can find somewhere where you really feel you belong, and where you can be comfortable, and then actively contribute to discussions, online communities can too often be illusory.

Following people you admire can also be dangerous. If they’re active on social media, you can feel like you really know them. You have to remind yourself you don’t. Not really. And they probably don’t even know you exist.

The distance offered by online communication makes my social anxieties no easier to manage. It can take hours to compose a single response to a simple question, leaving me exhausted, and still sure I haven’t said the wrong thing.

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Depression 2: Inciting Event

[WARNING: This is a self-indulgent series of posts in lieu of getting actual help. It’ll probably just be irritating to anyone else]

I went to a writing coference last weekend. I’ve been to a few one-day ones before, but this was the first multi-day one. I’m never sure what I hope to get out of these. Connecting with people who should be the same as me, I think. Finding someone to talk to. Not feeling so isolated.

They’re never satisfactory. Yet I keep going, somehow convincing myself I can make more of an effort to make a connection, that next time things can be different.

Maybe the extended period of this convention let the feeling build up that much more.

Many writers claim to have impostor syndrome, and more than a few of not being the most socially adept. But I saw little of that. Just cliques of people happily talking around me. So either they’re better at hiding it, or not as badly off as I am.

These are mainly social events, and being unable to connect socially means I’m probably not getting what I should from them. There are panels, of course. But in those I’d never be able to ask questions. My mind just freezes up, and any hint of audience participation flip me into panic mode.

I did manage a few conversations on the last day, though only when people spoke to me. I managed polite responses, but felt too reserved. I’m always worried my desperation for connection will make me overshare, so I probably overcompensate by being totally unmemorable.

The night before I’d actually initiated a conversation. I’m not sure when last I did that with someone I didn’t already know. Maybe never.

It was someone with whom I had only a casual acquaintance, from a few exchanged emails. I knew she was there, and had been wondering whether it’d be polite to introduce myself, or politer not to bother her while she was with friends. The anxiety attacks when I considered doing so were almost crippling, leaving me almost in danger of throwing up.

When I saw her alone at the bar later waiting to be served, I somehow, impulsively, managed to go up and introduce myself. I don’t think I said where she’d have known me from, so can’t be sure whether she recognised me.

It passed quickly, without me freezing. Though I have no idea whether I came across as some kind of freak, but that was hopefully just my anxieties. More likely I was instantly forgettable.

With social interactions so infrequent, I find I over-analyse every little thing I may have done wrong. (Should I have offered to buy her drink? Would that have been polite, or too pushy?)

There were, of course, others there I’d have liked to have talked to. But I have trouble talking to people I’ve known for years. I can respond to them, but actually going up to them is another matter entirely. Approaching someone I vaguely knew left me an emotional wreck for the rest of the night, and I achieved little sleep.

It was one small victory over my anxieties, but nowhere near as much as I’d have liked it to be. And I so rarely interact with others that seeing it a first step in anything is ridiculous. It made the enormity of what I’d have to overcome to get anywhere that much more obviously insurmountable.

By the time I got home I was suffering bouts of almost collapsing in tears, and I’m still not entirely sure where they’re coming from. It’s not like staring down at the nihilistic end of everything isn’t a regular sight every time I consider the future.

I think maybe it was just me finally acknowledging reality, and accepting that all the daydreams I have about connecting with anyone are just that.

I’ll always be apart, alone, never having even the illusion of connection.

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Depressed 1: Opening Shot to the Head

[WARNING: This is a self-indulgent series of posts in lieu of getting actual help. It’ll probably just be irritating to anyone else]

Hi, I’m Gareth, and I’m depressed.

Just to be clear, this is in no way advice on how to cure your depression. I am firmly in the death-grip of mine, and doubt I’ll ever be free of it. I certainly can’t see any hope of it in the future, no matter how certain parts of my mind try to trick me into daydreaming otherwise.

I’ll still be depressed by the end of this series of posts, so don’t go into it expecting any uplifting stories. In fact, I should probably warn everyone away from going any further anyway. Depression is probably contagious, even just as a meme.

I will offer no hints on how to manage your depression. I’m barely managing mine, so we’re all on our own in that regard.

Yes, there are mental health professionals I should probably urge you to reach out to if you feel the same. I doubt I could do so myself. Mainly because I’ve already run through the scenarios of how such things would probably go. My depression is as much philosophical as based on my personality issues, and pumping me full of medication to stop me thinking is just burying the problem.

I’m functional, and no current danger to others, so don’t see why engaging in a lie would be in any way helpful.

But your circumstances may be different, and if you’re capable of reaching out to others, you probably should.

 

Setup

I live in a rural area, with my mother. (Yes, I’m probably a stereotype, and there’ll be plenty more for you to mock later) I did live away for six years, while working halfway up the country, but moved back after getting thoroughly discouraged with that job, and to help look after the place as my father’s health deteriorated. (I was living in an urban area, so it’s me rather than the rural location that’s responsible for my isolation – although growing up here may have had an influence.)

There’s a reasonable-sized garden, and a chicken run (rough ground) about twice the size. There are currently only six chickens, each functionally having a space as large as the area of the house in which to roam.

Maintaining it is a Sisyphean nightmare, doing my already wrecked body in to keep it under control for little reason beyond being able to reach the fence to repair it should a fox get in.

And that’s without mentioning the bloody snakes. A growing population of adders and grass snakes in recent years, and I don’t usually linger long enough to identify which. They get into the chicken run, and the garden, and it’s only a matter of time until there’s one in the house. It’s a constant source of anxiety during hot weather, and even in winter I dread it getting warm again.

The closest I’ve come to one was opening the compost bin. One had taken up residence in a full bin, and was actually ensconced in the rim around the lid. So when I lift it off, the snake slips down. Fortunately I still had it held over the bin, so it didn’t fall on my feet. I now knock a couple of times on the lid and wait a few moments before opening.

The work is mainly in the dryer and warmer weather, but I doubt I’d be able to hold down a job and help maintain the place. Not without abandoning writing, and totally crushing what little remains of my soul.

Writing is probably the only thing that’s held off a psychotic break so far, and if I didn’t have that I’d be in far worse shape by now. Or possibly just dead.

It’s not as though I have any actual social life to distract me from being stuck inside my head.

 

Issues

I’ve never been good communicating with people. My main problem is initiating communications, probably an inferiority complex over why would anyone be remotely interested in anything I have to say. I’m also not that good at responding. By now I’m so out of practice that I’ll answer honestly rather than use the polite pleasantries required for social interactions.

I haven’t really had any friends since school, and seem unable to connect with people. A few kind of connections over the internet, but to me they never feel the same.

As time goes on I find myself increasingly anxious whenever I have to go anywhere, and I’m becoming more isolated from the world as a result.

The only future I see is an increasingly narrow one defined by family obligation.

I’m never good at travelling. At enjoying the journey. At living in the moment. My mind always goes ahead to what’s next, and after that, and that ultimately leads to only one place. It’s not something that I can stop doing without stopping thinking, and it probably prevents me doing much of anything.

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The Lingering Death of Hope

Warning: This is just another record of my breakdown, since nobody else reads this. If you stumbled here by accident, just move along.

 

It was my first Fantasycon this past weekend. And probably my last. I go to conventions in hopes of finding someone to talk to about writing and stuff. Among those who share my interests. But I’m still unable to talk to anyone, and too broken to change. Conventions are primarily social events, and unless you already have friends there, they can just be isolating. You’re still an outsider.

Even talking to a casual acquaintance, with whom I’d shared only a few emails, took a ridiculous amount of effort, and internal argument (is it politer to introduce myself, or not to bother them? They’d certainly have no reason to want to know me.) And when they ask how I’m enjoying the event, why don’t I lie and mouth pleasantries? Honesty is never welcome. And should I have reminded them where we’d connected, in case they thought I was just some random nutter (not necessarily untrue)?

That may actually have been the first time I tried to reach out to someone at one of these things. Still, I should have known better. I’m usually held back by having run through the scenario to work out what to say, to a couple of levels, so we’re not immediately freezing in awkward silence. But I acted on impulse, which of course ended with me feeling like an idiot.

Neuroses and existential despair took hold as the weekend went on, the future opening up a vista of isolation, with death the only respite.

Yet still that treasonous sliver of hope won’t quite die, promising, against all logic and reason, that things can get better. That I can connect with someone.

Even though I know this is a lie. All hope does is enhance the anguish, preventing me withdrawing from the world and submitting to the march to death in defeat.

Still, Bristolcon is at the end of the month. Maybe I’ll finally be able to kill off the remains of my soul there.

Here’s hoping.

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September Update: Ghost Bullets, New Covers, & Fantasycon

It’s been a while since I did one of these. Mainly because I seldom have much to report.

First off, a progress report on stuff I think I’ve mentioned before:

All Roads Lead to Hell isn’t doing much at the moment. I thought I’d submitted it somewhere, but can’t find the email confirmation. Having done other stuff since, I have little enthusiasm to do anything with it until I decide my self-publishing future. It’ll at least be one stored up if I want to do a fast publishing schedule.

The Border Guard is with the editor, and should be back next month. I’ve a rough outlines for the second book, and even rougher for the third (it’ll probably be a trilogy, because that’s what the story seems to want), but I don’t want to break them down too much until I see what needs changing in the first one.

 

Ghost Bullets

This’ll be the title for the new series, unless I swap it with the title of the first book, The Ghost Gun.

It’s an attempt by me to come up with an open-ended series that I won’t necessarily get bored of. I’m hoping to achieve that by setting it up so that the central character can be replaced whenever I feel like it. It centers on the Ghost Gun of the initial title, and whoever happens to have possession of it at the time.

Once the central idea was in place, the story came fairly easily. The outline wasn’t too detailed before I felt compelled to write it, so revisions will probably require a bit of work.

Then the ideas for the sequel came quickly. And in just over a week I had that outlined and calling to me to start writing.

The initial drafts of the first two books in the series were done in under a month, and I’m forcing myself not to go any further until I have them revised into some kind of shape.

The second one, The Redacted Man, in particular needs more work. I went in with a vague shape of the mysteries I needed to point at, and just threw clues up when appropriate, to be tidied up and made to work in revision. So there’s that to look forward to.

Ghost Bullets will be an urban fantasy series, with a heavy crime influence. In fact the second book may be a bit too light on the fantastic at the moment, but I need a bit more distance to judge it properly.

 

New Covers

I’ve redone the covers for the Grey Revolutions series. They were starting to irritate me.

Here are the new covers:

I’ve also reduced the prices for the rest of the year, with the first book, Grey Enigmas, set to free. Even on Amazon (apparently you need to go through KDP to do that, not the report a cheaper price button on Amazon, which never seems to work).

 

Fantasycon

I’m not starting any major projects at the moment, with The Border Guard due back next month. And I’m attending Fantasycon in a fortnight. It’s the first multi-day con I’ve attended, and I’m not sure how much I’ll get out of it. I have trouble talking to people at the best of times, which is supposed to be a big part of these things. It’s entirely possible I’ll go the entire weekend without having a single conversation, which would feel like a waste. But I suppose attending is the first step.

 

Other than that, I’m trying to knock a novella, The Entropy of Ideas, into some kind of shape where I can try submitting it. And the Glyphpunk series needs new covers (the first book of which is also free at the moment), if I can come up with an idea for them.

I may provide another update before the end of the year. If there’s any progress to report.

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Suicide Squad (belated) Opinion

I’ve just rewatched the Suicide Squad film, and realised what I’m unhappy about with it.

On the whole I liked it, but that may just be my nostalgia for the property (mainly from the Ostrander era in the ’80s. I’ve read the first collection of the New52 era, but it didn’t really catch me).

While some of the characters are off from the versions I like, that’s understandable given the shift in medium (I suspect Waller may be slightly closer to the New52 version). On the whole, they were recognisable enough, and entertaining.

The main thing that irritates me is the story, particularly as a first film. Dealing with a problem Waller caused through her machinations isn’t out of line, but as the first film – potentially only at the time – it makes her look less than competent. It also feels like a traditional reactive superhero story structure, with the heroes simply switched for villains.

I liked the rationale of the team being green-lit because of the idea of the next war being fought with metahumans. That’s close to the Ostrander version of the team, interacting with metahuman teams working for other countries (fictional and real), terrorists, and corporations.

I’d have preferred it the story had focussed more on this angle, with the threat being covert actions by a hostile power’s metahuman operatives. It could have made the film feel fresher, and it’d have been closer to what I like about the series.

I still like it more than the previous films in the DCCU though, which admittedly isn’t saying much.

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