I’ve been depressed. Seriously depressed. Couldn’t write, couldn’t bring myself to be on social media, couldn’t bear to pop into my account and confirm that my book’s not selling. Family members had some medical stuff lately, and doing the necessary left me with zero strength for anything else.
As a neurodivergent writer, this is one of the challenges to a creative life. How do I dip my toe back into writing without getting overwhelmed with embarrassment or shame at having been absent? The presence of these episodes for me is one of the reasons I chose independent publishing; I wanted a lifestyle where gaps in productivity wouldn’t hurt anyone but myself.
So here I am, with my book swallowed by the Amazon algorithm, which is to be expected. No one’s going to buy it if they don’t know about it, and no one’s going to know about it unless I carry out some of my plans for promotion. One tiny step at a time, I need to work on this, and work on my upcoming projects. And keep from comparing myself to other authors.
Yeah, right. But I went to a poetry reading yesterday, and I joined a local writers’ club. That’s something.
Lori Lynne Armstrong 