Lingering in Londinium; or, Monasteries of the Imagination

English School, 19th Century, Snow Hill, Holburn, London

English School, 19th Century, Snow Hill, Holburn, London. By Anonymous (Christie’s) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk. — John Keats

It occurs to me that it’s not just characters who choose us, but it’s places that choose us, too. When it comes to Watcher of the Skies, I had a great many plans. I thought that the first part of the book would take place in Britannia (England), an alternate history version where the Romans never left and the Angles, Frisians, Jutes, Saxons, etc., were assimilated as a servant class (those that didn’t ally with the Welsh and eventually end up part of the monarchy, that is). Then I was going to travel to the New World, to an America only a few decades into colonialism, with a great Cherokee Nation, and many wonderful wilds left to behold. I had everything planned.

But that didn’t happen. Instead, I have lingered in Londinium. It’s a great deal different than London of our world, of course, but there are a many similarities. (I think of the worlds as having the same base melody, but different harmonies…) Where Westminster stands is a similar great building, but dedicated to Venus. The Tamesis is the river upon which the bridges rise and fall, and Roman walls still stand strong. Regardless, while the book has gone to the Lake District and back, I’ve returned again and again to the Roman sites of London, the busy streets, the rainy walkways and quaint inns. It’s become home for Joss, and I really didn’t expect that. But it also has become a sort of tomb, as more and more characters find their end there or, in some cases, find themselves trapped there. It’s a city changing fast, as the New Marians are taking control over the city and tearing down Diana’s banners and buildings and building their own to the Queen of Heaven.

At any rate, this picture feels about right. Granted, the skyline would be a bit different, but I like to think that the Roman style eventually evolved with a Persian influence and the Gothic still survives in Second World.

Which is all to say, as per usual, the novel is taking me on an adventure that’s been unexpected every step of the way. In spite of my best planning. In spite of my attempts to wrestle it into submission. And that’s why I keep doing it, even though it’s been hard, even though life has been conspiring to make it impossible. Whether I’m writing straight fiction or genre, that unforeseen quantity truly remains as close to magic as anything I’ve experienced in my life. And it’s not just something I experience. As I’ve gotten to know writers over the last decade, I see that it happens to them, too. And artists. And musicians. That chord of creation strikes us all, often unbidden, and we’re the ones that have to preserve it. And that brings us together in a way that is truly remarkable. A community of monks of the imagination. Or something like that.

Writing Through It: Depression, Anxiety, and Coping Mechanisms

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My new back yard. Image by Natania Barron, CC BY SA 3.0

We just moved. The whole house. Granted, it was only a couple of miles away. But it still sucks, it still interrupts everything, and it still makes writing just about impossible. Not that writing is always at the top of my list of things to do these days. I mean, in a perfect world it would be. But I’ve got kids and pets and family and responsibilities… and a house full of boxes. So. Many. Boxes. At this point I’m beyond the whole “write every day” thing which, when starting out, is super important. Of course. But reality? Yeah. I still don’t have a desk situation set up, so writing’s been slow (and, oddly, typing hasn’t been bothering me on the normal keyboard… I’ll pretend that isn’t weird or whatever). But it’s happening even if it’s slow. It’s 80,000 words of happening. Which is awesome. ::insert happy dance::

However, the world has been upside-down for weeks, now. We all got sick just as the move started. Just after we’d all been sick. Then the baby decided it was a perfect time to start walking. And, to save what sanity I have remaining, I also decided it was time to do something about my anxiety levels which, for the last few months, have been catastrophic. I’m not ashamed to say that I’ve gone back on antidepressants, and so far it seems to be helping a great deal. I’ve had some truly great nights of sleep, which have been at the center of my struggles, and I’m grateful.

I won’t say that antidepressants make me a better writer. But they allow me to get out of the awful feedback loops brought about by anxiety. I’m not the first person to ever notice that writers suffer from depression seemingly more than non-creatives. And recently Jim C. Hines wrote a far better piece than this one on writing and depression and medication. The first time around, I had postpartum depression. While I did, indeed, have a baby about ten months ago, this instance is different. Because my relationship with my daughter couldn’t be better. To be candid, I’ve bonded with her in a way that I was never able to do with my son due to PPD. I was afraid of my own child, paralyzed by fear and rushing thoughts and anxiety when it came to my son. Zoloft mended some of that, but also left me feeling a bit distanced from the world. Eventually, I was able to cope without the medicine. I never thought I’d have to rely on it again.

But this time, it’s been something else. When I finally met with my GP, I was in tears and shaky. When I told her everything that’s been going on in my life–valid, awful, heartbreaking things–on top of the insomnia and anxiety, she agreed it was time for help. “You seem like a really good person,” she said to me. “Just take some time for yourself. It’s okay to get help.”

I’ll admit, it’s frustrating. Part of me feels annoyed that I’m on this prescription train again. I’m also annoyed that I’ve had some really hard days in spite of the medication. I want to be strong enough to power through things, but I know I can’t. Writing is my coping mechanism, but that doesn’t always work. When I can’t write because of anxiety and depression, the rest of me starts to fall apart. I remember talking to my psychiatrist when I was diagnosed with PPD and explaining, “It’s not even that I don’t have time to write. Because it’s one thing to be so busy you don’t do it. But I’m not even thinking about it. I don’t care about it any more.” Thankfully, I didn’t get to that point with the current project, but it was getting close.

Six years ago, medicine helped me focus enough to complete my second novel. Now, it’s giving me the focus to finish my seventh, and hopefully to edit my sixth. But the healing isn’t all in the chemicals. The healing is still in those pages, in the words. So, hopefully, in time, they’ll be all that I need. We’ll see.

People Who Rock: Brigid Ashwood

Ascension Diptych - 1 of 2. - Delivery. Image copyright Brigid Ashwood; used with permission

Ascension Diptych – 1 of 2. – Delivery. Image copyright Brigid Ashwood; used with permission. (I know, I know. Me and birds, right?)

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the people I love. The people who’ve helped me through tough times, have inspired me creatively, and become friends and cohorts and partners in crime. Most of them have been discovered through this web of wonder, and I see them rarely (if ever). So I thought it might be fun to share with you some of the people I know who rock.

I think we as writers and creatives spend so much talking about ourselves (especially on these platform-building blogs) that it’s important to take a second and recognize those around us who’ve contributed to our success.

The first that comes to mind when I think “inspiration” is a woman I met about five years ago through our mutual love of steampunk. She’d heard my podcast, I’d seen her art. I interviewed her. We clicked. We’ve been fast friends ever since, and share a certain sarcastic yet romantic personality (Severus Snape meets Elizabeth Bennett, perhaps). And we also love steampunk, yet take it all with a grain of salt. It’s important to have perspective. Not to mention, we share a mutual obsession with fonts (good and bad) and both get excited about arty words like filigree and millefiori.

When I first saw her artwork, I was bowled over. I was unlike anything I’d ever seen. Now, I’m not an artist. But I like to imagine that if I’d truly fostered my talent and given as much effort as Brigid has, that what I’d make (if I actually had the skills) would look something like what she does. It’s elegance meets artifice (in a good way–mechanical beauties, strange contraptions with doll faces) all saturated with a depth of color and texture that just make me giddy. There were quite a few pages of Pilgrim of the Sky that were inspired by Brigid’s work, and when she agreed to do the work on the cover of the book, it made my year. We’d worked together on a poetry and art piece for Weird Tales, which was a joy, so it was easy as pie.

Brigid is one of the hardest working artists I know out there who, in spite of the everyday challenges (we’ve both gone through layoffs in our family recently) manages to consistently amaze me with her output. She’s also a Renaissance woman, who has many facets–not just visually artistic (and not just painting pretty pictures: she’s done everything from Tarot decks to runes to tongue-in-cheek designs!), but literary as well. She absolutely killed NaNoWriMo last year! I’m really looking forward to what she does as an author.

Which is all to say that Brigid is one of the people who’s a pillar of my online community: A friend, a compatriot, and a fellow mischief-maker. I have yet to meet her in person, but the weird thing is… I feel like I have already. I count her among my dearest (and one of the best phone conversationalists I’ve ever met–seriously, we can talk for hours!).

So if you have a sec, please check out her work, her website, and her store. Follow her on Twitter, too!