Insomniac Nightmares

As noted yesterday, things are a bit in flux. Redesigning some things on the site, cleaning up my presence on other social media, shuffling through manuscripts to see what’s still salvageable, what needs work, and what just needs to go to the digital garbage bin.

In the process of that, I found myself rereading some of my short stories. I’m sure that, to a greater or lesser degree, most artists have those moments where they find themselves hating their own work. Doubt, self-loathing, proximity apathy, they are the ever-lurking companions of a creator.

I thought that was normal. But then something happened. I was reading some of these stories, and I actually enjoyed them. I saw flaws, yes, but they were flaws I could live with or easily repair. They did not diminish the value of what I had written, or send me howling into the night with a torch, hell-bent on burning the abominations.

They’ve been tinkering with my meds of late. Decided I was “only a little” bipolar, and that my actual problem is depression.

Now, I do feel better, but as I read these old pages that I had grown to hate so much, that I could see only flaws and worthlessness in, and actually take some measure of pride and joy in, I have to wonder… are the stories actually better than I thought, and I was just unable to see it through the fog of my little broken brain? Or have the meds just impaired my ability to actually tell if something is any good or not?

I don’t know… but I hope it’s the former.