I got sick this summer. And progressively sicker and sicker as fall came and wore on. Enough that I struggled to keep up my home and volunteer obligations. Enough that I couldn't always get out of bed. And a lot of days, I couldn't get much work done. Writing about something other than books was even tougher (hence, the glaring absence of such posts). I couldn't always think straight or even find the words for basic things ("Put the...thing in the...thing," I would say.) It took a lot of effort to read, let alone write a review. A post that used to take me an hour or two to write was taking me days--most of the time, I gave up. And then responding to comments became tougher because it took so much concentration, more than my fatigued body and mind could handle.
You can imagine what it felt like to stare at my own book, my own words, unable to make much sense of it all. Along came depression, yeah? That's what happens to a writer that can't write. I can tell you it sucks feeling broken.
But, I'm doing better now. Awesome, huh? While I still struggle to pull the late nights I was accustomed to, I'm a much happier person, feeling good. I was even able to go to the World Fantasy Convention last week (picture post to come soon). It didn't take much, really. Now that we know what was wrong.
Still, I feel sad that I've let so much time pass between you and me. I feel like I've neglected our friendship...like with those of you waiting for giveaway results or for books or correspondence from me; I'm especially sorry about that [on that note, I've finally posted the winner of the signed AUDITION and the winners of the signed JAY ASHER books]. I can't promise that I'll be able to post regularly, but I can promise that I'll give it my best shot. I hope you still want to be friends.
Anyway, I wasn't going to say anything. I'm not all that comfortable sharing this kind of stuff. Any kind of personal stuff, actually. I've always felt very protective of my private life (It's not because I have photos on my phone à la Scarlett Johansson. Probably.) You might have noticed, too, I rarely talk about my writing, which ranks right up there with my family and home life as PRIVATE-PERSONAL-CONFIDENTIAL-DO-NOT-TOUCH. Having any sort of online presence makes me feel...hm. Vulnerable? No, that's not the right word. Naked? Protective? I can't explain it, maybe.
Since I started this blog, I've taken regular, long breaks from it, usually when I'm feeling a little overexposed. Is it a writer thing, you think? Or...probably just a weird personality quirk, huh? I see some writer/bloggers who don't seem to have a problem talking about their Real Life lives, especially their writing. It's admirable, really. But my writing is like, I don't know--like my soul? Is that too melodramatic? I'm not sure if my resistance to sharing it or anything about it is born out of insecurity or self confidence or supremely anal perfectionism or clever marketing. Maybe all the above. But I do know this isn't likely to change, at least not until there's a book to promote, in which case you might be like, WTF, Carol? Or maybe even, You write? Or, I thought you weren't a real person.
P.S. I'll try not to get sucky sick again. But chances are, if it happens again, you'll probably not know about it unless I feel guilty for neglecting you. Sorry...