Depression lies.

I have eight days to finish editing my novel, to let someone read it, and then send it to the publisher. That said, I’m pretty sure I can do it. I’m over half-way done, and I’m turning the last corner. It’s a great thing, having a book done. This is my first, everything else published have been short stories.

So yes, it’s a great thing. And it’s terrifying. What if it sucks? What if no one reads it? What if, what if, what if…

I believe strong in my stories. I think I have interesting ones to tell. But, as my publisher said, all writers have this moment of doubt. Plus, due to battling depression and anxiety, I’ve had my own voice in my head telling me how everything will go to hell.

That voice, can go to hell. It lies, like most things in depression. It’ll always be there: the self-doubt, the worry, the belief that maybe, just maybe, I do suck. But here’s the thing: Fuck depression. I’ll live with it, but I can’t let it win. Ever.

So I’ll keep editing, I’ll get my novel into my publisher on time to debut it at NorWesCon with a launch party, and I’ll enjoy every minute of it.

Watch this space: Night Hues is coming!


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