I Have No Idea What I’m Doing

For the longest time, I wasn’t sure I was going to finish this article. Or even start it, for that matter. In fact, I’d just about decided to email Lisabet and tell her I wouldn’t have anything this month.

Because when it comes to my writing, I usually have an idea of what I’m going to say well in advance, and then I usually spend days going over the article until I feel like it’s fit for human consumption.

But this time around, I didn’t think I had the energy because on top of my deadline for ERWA, I’d also added a few more because my ambitions are many while my resources (time, sleep, sanity, etc.) are few.

I had an article on depression to post to Medium, a flash fiction story to post on Simily, a short story that I’d been trying to edit for days, another short story to submit for a horror contest next month, agents to find for the children’s book I’d just had edited, my other children’s books to send to the same editor for polishing, the first book in a sci-fi series on its second or third revision and a pesky screenplay I’ve been meaning to get back to.

And it was during my writing of the article on depression that I literally wrote the line, ‘The only one pushing me, is me.’

I wanted to smack myself upside the head. I probably would have, if I hadn’t been so tired.

In the interest of sanity, I decided I would set a limit as to how much I could legitimately get done. I would revise this post once, and then publish it, regardless of how ugly it might be. Because forward momentum is great but there is a difference between moving forward and crashing forward and I would like to avoid one at all possible.

If I weren’t as white as a ghost, I would say I was practically freestylin’, but even writing that down makes me feel awkward.

To be perfectly honest, I have no idea how I’m going to end this article. The only thing that comes to mind is a quote from a famous author whose name I can’t remember about how procrastinators and perfectionists are their own worst enemies and I know I can find that quote if you give me a second, hang on. Don’t fail me now, Google. Okay, here we go. Pro-cras-tin-a-tors and per-fec-tion-ists are their own worst…dammit

Another Scorching Case Of Writer's Block


I’ve been having a rough few weeks and a scorching case of
writer’s block has set in. My parents (both sets) have health problems. For
that to make any sense, you must understand that I have parents who raised me and
an older couple who adopted me of sorts a few years ago. I call them Mom and
Dad. That Mom is having severe vertigo problems due to a possible serious inner
ear infection. My mother who raised me died two years ago, and now my dad who
raised me is in the hospital with a heart problem aggravated by his COPD. I
know the parents labels gets confusing. It’s like Neal Gaiman’s Coraline –  I have Mother and Other Mother. Then there
are my biological parents and cousin since I’m adopted. My birth mother died
about four years ago and I’m in regular touch with a blood relative, a cousin. I’ve
turned family into a three-ring circus.

I’m not processing all this mess very well. On top of it,
my two latest books aren’t selling. That’s a severe disappointment. I don’t know what to do about it. The weather is getting colder and
winter is coming. The cats won’t stop fighting. The books not selling well is
hitting me especially hard since I see no point in writing at the moment. Why
bother when next to no one will read my books? I’m working on a horror novel at
the moment as well as a short erotic romance story, but the words simply aren’t

I know I’m not the only one feeling this way about my writing. A fellow horror writer on Facebook just said pretty much the same thing about his own aspirations since it’s harder for him to reach his goals now than when he was younger. One commenter pointed out that maybe when he was younger he set the bar for his goals too low. I wonder if that could be my problem. I used to be happy simply being published. Now, I want to be published by bigger, better houses, get lots of great reviews, get huge sales, and eventually win awards. Not only is a lot of that out of my hands, it’s harder to achieve. I have accomplished the first of those goals for the most part but not the others. Not yet. Maybe I just need time. In the meantime, I have no desire to write at all.

What to do?

I haven’t had writer’s block in awhile, but I haven’t
forgotten how I’ve dealt with it in the past. The best thing for me to do is to
not fight it. Just give in to it and find something else to do that I enjoy that
will improve my bleak mood. I know this won’t work for everyone. This is only
about what has worked for me. My point is to find what works best for you. If
writing through the block works, do it. If getting away from the keyboard for
awhile works, go for it. This is what has worked for me.

I’m still going to the beach nearly every day. Walking on
the beach is my primary form of 
exercise. I’ve lost 15 pounds since the beginning of summer. The
difference this year is that my husband and I intend to join the local YMCA to
use their exercise machines and the pool. I lost 15 pounds last summer and the
summer before that, but gained it all back and then some because I had no
exercise regime set for the fall and winter. So there’s something to be happy
about. I’ll likely reach my target weight (130 pounds) by next summer. Good.

I’m concentrating on my new radio show, Into The Abyss With Elizabeth Black. It’s about horror and dark
fiction, my other literary loves. My first guest will be Josh Malerman, who
wrote Bird Box, a scary-as-shit novel.
I loved it. He’s going to be on my show Thursday Oct. 6 at 4 PM EST. I still do
radio shows for Blog Talk Radio and that includes shows about erotic romance
and writing. My past guests include women from Broad Universe, Madeleine Shade
(who specializes in fairy tales), Cherry Wild and Sophia Soror (they also
specialize in fairy tales), and Melissa Keir. Doing these shows keeps me afloat
so that I don’t feel as if I’m floundering without direction.

I’m reading more. I like erotic romance and erotica
collections by Cleis Press and Xcite Books. I have quite a few books by these
publishers, and they inspire me when I write erotic fiction. I’m working on a
call for submissions for Cleis that isn’t due until December, so I have time to
come up with a story. I would love to be accepted by them again. I also enjoy
books that scare the crap out of me. I’m about to begin Snowblind by Christopher Golden, which takes place in Massachusetts
in the dead of winter. Perfect timing. I’ve also decided to reread a classic to
inspire me while working on my own horror novel, Hell Time. I’m rereading Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar.

Finally, I’ve been watching plenty of TV and movies. I’m
binge-watching Mr. Robot, and I’m on the season finale now. Rami Malek deserved
his Best Actor Emmy for playing the lead in this show. I’m also enjoying
American Horror Story: My Roanoke Nightmare, although it’s not the best thing
I’ve seen. The new TV version of The Exorcist is very predictable but the first
episode held my attention. Nice Easter Egg with the brief glimpse of a
newspaper article about Chris MacNeil from the original movie. Lucifer is back! Love that show. My husband and I can’t get enough of Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries. It’s my favorite TV show.

I’ve been baking. I made lemon poppy seed quickbread, angel
kisses cookies, hobnobs (British oat tea cookies), maple candy (it is fall
after all) and lime spritzer cookies. The lime spritzers taste exactly like the
same cookies Pepperidge Farm used to make. They were sold only over the summer
and they’ve been discontinued a long time ago. I loved those cookies, and now I
can make them myself.

In a nutshell, I’ve been doing things I enjoy to take my
mind off my worries and the writer’s block. When I’m ready to write, I’ll write.
I’m not going to put undue pressure on myself since I know that will only make
the situation worse. Next week I attend a Writers Coffeehouse New England
meeting, and I intend to learn how I can get word out about Into The Abyss With Elizabeth Black, including
possibly getting it into syndication. This coffeehouse is chock full of
valuable information, and I go every chance I get. I’ve been to one before and
I learned a great deal there. After we return, I decorate the house with
Halloween gack. I have two Fargo snow
globes and a Halloween snow globe.
All three depict scenes from the movies. Those are my pride and joy, and I love
showing them off. I’m looking forward to Halloween and the fall season. I can
at least enjoy myself until this dreadful mood and block lift. Maybe my parents (all of them) will be better soon. Until then, I’ll
binge-watch more movies and TV and bake stuff. Once I begin writing, I know
I’ll be fine.

In the meantime, I will continue to watch this video, which I can’t watch and be unhappy at the same time. It’s Cab Calloway and the Nicolas Brothers doing Jumpin’ Jive. This is said to be the greatest dance number ever recorded, and I sure agree with that. Get those happy feet moving!

The Original Mind May Be A Troubled One

Elizabeth Black lives on the Massachusetts coast with her husband, son, and four cats. You may find her on Facebook and on her web site.

It came as no
surprise to me that writing is one of the top 10 professions in which people are
mostly likely to suffer from depression. According to a new Swedish study, “writers
have a higher risk than the general population of anxiety and bipolar
disorders, schizophrenia, unipolar depression, and substance abuse. They were
also about twice as likely to commit suicide.”

A second recent study
from Austria found a tie between creativity and mental disorders. According to
this study, “creative professionals are a bit more likely than others to
suffer from bipolar disorder. The healthy relatives of schizophrenics tend to
enter creative fields. A genetic variant of some psychoses may be related to
creative achievement. Some dimensions of schizotypy–personality traits that
may make a person more vulnerable to schizophrenia–predict a person’s

I’ve suffered from
bi-polar disorder since I was a child, but I wasn’t diagnosed until my mid-20s.
I’m currently on medication that keeps the mood swings in check but I know the
moment I go off them I’ll dive into the pit of Hell and soar to uncomfortable heights
again, and neither is a pleasant experience. During these highs and lows, I
wrote and continue to write. I’ve also painted, drawn, and composed music, but
mostly, I put fingers to keyboard.

The tie between art
and mental illness is not something to be taken lightly. It’s not merely a
matter of having “the blues” and needing to pick yourself up by the
bootstraps and get on with your life. Depression and other forms of mental
illness can very devastating —and deadly.

Creativity and
madness go hand-in-hand. Hemingway committed suicide with a bullet to the head.
He’s not the first writer to suffer from mental illness. Virginia Woolf drowned
herself. Sylvia Plath stuck her head in her oven, but only after giving the
kids milk and cookies as a snack. Her colleague and friend Anne Sexton also
committed suicide. Zelda Fitzgerald was diagnosed with schizophrenia, and she
spent the last years of her life in an asylum. F. Scott Fitzgerald suffered
from depression and alcoholism. Hunter S. Thompson shot himself. Susanna Kaysen
stayed in a mental hospital and later wrote “Girl, Interrupted”.
Hermanne Hesse, who may have been bi-polar, attempted suicide and spent time in
several mental institutions. Another possible manic-depressive and definite
violent alcoholic, Malcolm Lowry, spent time in a mental institution and died a
“death of misadventure” combining booze and an overdose of sleeping
pills. Whether his death was suicide, accident, or murder remains unanswered.
Spalding Grey long suffered from depression and he committed suicide after
leaping from the Staten Island ferry. Mental illness isn’t confined to writers.
Actors Patty Duke, Vivien Leigh, Catherine Zeta Jones, and Jeremy Brett were
diagnosed with bi-polar disorder. One of my favorite British actors committed
suicide. George Sanders checked into a small in a hotel in Barcelona, wrote a
short suicide note and took an overdose of barbiturates. He wrote, “Dear
World, I am leaving you because I am bored. I feel I have lived long enough. I
am leaving you with your worries in this sweet cesspool. Good luck.”

seems to be a history of suicide in the Hemingway family. Another notable
Hemingway to kill herself was his granddaughter, Margaux. Despite the common
belief that Hemingway committed suicide, his wife insists he accidentally set
of his gun while cleaning it.

I’ve already
mentioned Sylvia Plath’s suicide. Some believed based on her note that she
didn’t intend to kill herself and that her actions were a cry for help. She
wrote the brief note, “Please call Dr. Horder.”

S. Thompson left a suicide note before putting a gun to his head. Thompson left
the “Football Season Is Over” note for his wife, Anita. He shot
himself four days later at home. He wrote: “No More Games. No More Bombs.
No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50.
17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun for
anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax This won’t

Henry was plagued by alcoholism and cirrhosis of the liver. His final words
were: “Turn up the lights, I don’t want to go home in the dark.”

Esinen wrote his suicide note in his own blood, and he gave it to a friend the
day before he hanged himself. He wrote:

my friend, goodbye

love, you are in my heart.

was preordained we should part

be reunited by and by.

no handshake to endure.

have no sadness — furrowed brow.

nothing new in dying now

living is no newer.”

Virginia Woolf had
had a mental breakdown years earlier, which she feared was about to recur. She
committed suicide by stuffing her coat pockets with rocks so she wouldn’t
float, and then she drowned herself. She left the suicide note on the
mantelpiece of her home, for her husband. “Dearest, I feel certain that
I’m going mad again. I feel we can’t go through another of those terrible
times. And I shan’t recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can’t
concentrate. So I am doing what seems to be the best thing to do. You have
given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that
anyone could be. I don’t think two people could have been happier until this
terrible disease came. I can’t fight it any longer. I know that I am spoiling
your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can’t
even write this properly. I can’t read. What I want to say is I owe all the
happiness in my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and
incredibly good. I want to say that everybody knows it. If anybody could have
saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty
of your goodness. I can’t go on spoiling you life any longer. I don’t think two
people could have been happier than we have been. V.”

With talent often
comes pain and sorrow. Creative people may be tapped into humanity’s foibles a
bit more than the average person, hence the acute sensitivity to what goes on
around them. I often wonder if I’m attracted to the Dark Side because I’m a
writer, or am I a writer because I’m attracted to the Dark Side? Writing is a
wonderful way for me to relieve stress and solve problems. When I create a
character going through similar ordeals as myself, I can detach and come up
with a good solution. I wonder how many other writers have done something
similar? I know writing is one way to gaze into our darker selves, although
it’s not necessarily a safe thing to do. As Nietzsche said, battle not with
monsters lest ye become a monster and if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss
gazes also into you. I prefer to dive right in rather than play it safe and
hang around the comfortable edges. And I know many other writers do the same
thing. It makes them human.

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Hot Chilli Erotica


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