Seems like every writer blog has one lately, a detailing of their struggle with clinical depression. How it lies. How it wears you down. Makes your body ache. How, insidiously, it assures you that everyone else has it worse, and you’re a horrible person for taking on when you actually have it really easy.

Everyone’s talking about it, because it is so very important. It is so easy to “forget” that you’re not alone, to shove that knowledge aside because you don’t deserve that small comfort. Or to look at the dozens and dozens of blog posts on depression, and instead of coming away feeling better, you feel worse because look how shitty they have it, and they still got a book out last year.

Some people can do that. Some people can’t. Some people are able to do that because they got help.

In general, I despise terms like “late bloomer” because they imply there is a time by which we should have a big enough pile of manuscripts and paychecks and trophies to point to and say “Look! Success!” When you have depression, adorable terms like “late bloomer” just add to the seamless gray press of worthlessness and loserdom. But late by whose standards?

Publishing isn’t going anywhere. It may be flopping around in an unattractive manner and tearing its hair over something or other, but it’ll be there. Take care of yourself. Bloom when you’re able.

Get help if you need it. You’re so worth it. You’re already worth it.

And since we so often need permission from someone who’s already bloomed, here’s Self-Care for Writers on Chuck Wendig’s blog.

~C