The Door
One question I’ve heard, when describing my novel A Weapon Undone, is an understandable one. “Why would someone want to read a book where someone’s depressed all the time?” That said, a person asking such a question probably has a view of depression that is, at best, incomplete.
When you think of depression, you might be imagining someone like Eeyore; someone moping about, a hangdog expression on their face, saying “Woe is me, woe is me.” It would be hard—though not impossible—to make that entertaining. But that was not how I experienced my depression at its height, and that’s also the case for a lot of people who suffer from it. And of course, we only ever see Eeyore from the outside; we are not brought into his mind, and so we are relegated to seeing the symptoms of whatever internal struggle he is undergoing, and not the struggle itself.
That internal struggle can have a lot of dramatic potential. The way I’ve been describing it recently is as so:
Imagine, that in your mind, there is a door, and behind that door, is an all-consuming nightmare. You’ve been pressed against that door your whole life, trying to keep it closed, but the thing behind the door keeps getting stronger. You start to believe that maybe you should stop fighting, to let the thing through, to let it tear you apart, because you’re so tired. But there’s still a part of you that knows you can’t let it win, even if you think you deserve to lose.
I remember one panic attack I had at work, about fifteen years ago. My mind was in turmoil, my experience horrendous. I struggled against this thing that was pressing further and further into my mental space. It became harder and harder, and then almost impossible, to have any other thoughts. It was a battle to stay upright, and so I tucked myself into one of the small offices we had, hid in a corner out of sight of the door, and blacked out.
What would this have looked like from the outside? Conversations would have been stilted, my shoulders would have sagged; I perhaps would have seemed disinterested. Any invitations to social events (such as lunch) I would have declined, though I would be unable to really explain. I probably came across as acting a bit weird. But no-one would have been able to tell just how difficult even staying awake was, or how much effort it took to respond to anything they’d said.
It is in interiority where a story about depression lives or dies. Weapon… is informed by my own experiences with severe depression, and what is the point of trauma if we can’t mine it for stories?
I think people would want to read a book like that. I certainly hope they’d want to read a book like that, because I wrote a book like that.
If you’re an agent, editor, or writer, and would like to read it, do get in touch via the form at the end of this page.
PS:
If any of these feelings sound familiar, it might be worth talking to a doctor, or a therapist. For a very long time, I was stuck in a hole, until I got the help I needed. Like cancer, depression is an illness; anyone who’d look down on you for having depression is being a fucking asshole. Don’t be an asshole to yourself. Get help. It might not seem like it, but it can get better. It didn’t seem like it would for me, and I was very, very wrong.
Good luck.
Note: an earlier version of this post was read out on my Instagram account.