October 16, 2016
Winston Churchill battled against attacks of the ‘black dog.’ To what extent this has been exaggerated by historians, biographers, and journalists is beyond the scope of my remarks here. The point is, despite bouts of depression, Mr. Churchill still produced an astonishing amount of written work. (Seriously, take a look at the sheer volume and variety of his prose. It is…humbling.)
Emulating Churchill’s work ethic suggests itself right now. The drizzly leaden skies have settled in over the Pacific Northwest. Various events and matters have, from my vantage point, shifted negatively. Shit, as per its wont, happens. I am aware of the vagaries of chance and the disinterest of the world in my doings and general welfare. Nothing personal is at work here. Still, when the black dog bites, it feels as if the Universe is flipping me the double bird and chuckling malevolently. Glen Cook, in one of his Garrett books wrote something along the lines of Garrett’s personal deity being the men’s’ room attendant in Valhalla, more inclined to make sure Garrett is getting pissed on than succoured. Represent, Mr. Cook, represent.
The point is, that I, like Mr. Churchill, need to soldier on despite my mood. I have books to write. The words don’t care if I’m feeling chipper or not, and neither should I.
Whining mode terminated – Initiate productive cycle –