I think most writers probably suffer from it, but I didn't know that in 2004, when I published my first collection of poems. And it is possible that poets are particularly vulnerable to such melancholy. When you've worked as hard as you can to create something valuable yet you publish in a genre that has so few sales, so few reviews, so few readers, you're probably guaranteed a spate of after-publication sadness.
At least now, after three books, I'm experienced enough to expect gloom. But like a mother with a new baby, I still feel terribly guilty about it. Look! Here I am with a new book! Everyone wants to get published, and I've done it three times! Look at his beautiful fingers and toes! How lucky I am!
That sort of cheerleading doesn't help much with either a wailing, inconsolable infant or a box of unread poems. However, yesterday I did receive a note from my friend Angela. This is what it said:
“Yo, Shakespeare. Write an essay about unrequited love, false promises, fake IDs, blown head gaskets, radio late at night, sex with the same man after twenty-five years . . . you know.”
This seems like a good idea. I think I will.
2 comments:
I've become a great believer in "mark the moment." Do something out of the ordinary. Make everyone bow to you as a published author AGAIN. Burn some sage. Eat a bag of candy. Write a poem. Shred some paper. Rearrange the books. Dress only in black. Anything that says to you and maybe some others that something happened that is important. It might not cure the depression, but it can at least close off some of the expansive possibility of depression.
You're right about making a change, even if that change is private. No doubt, the worst part of melancholy is the way in which it makes distress seem to be permanent.
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