Today, I’m going to be talking about depression. Which counts as fair warning: Those who have no interest in this topic may wish to move on, now.

Long-time readers of this blog will recall that I do indeed “have” depression.  I also “have” hypothyroidism, another chronic illness.  I’m lucky in that these are the sum of my health afflictions, given All, and in balance neither really gives me. . .much problem.

Except, yanno, when they do.

The most recent depressive incident. . .which started to cloud in sometime, oh, around mid-2015. . . It wasn’t too bad at first — this is a chronic illness, which I’ve had for my entire life.  After you’ve lived with something for upwards of half-a-century, you develop coping strategies and rating systems, among other tools for getting through the day.

Anyway, the clouds started forming in mid-2015.  I did those things I knew to do — made sure I was getting enough (but not too much) sleep, and exercise, and interacting with people in Real Life, persisting at doing things that would normally give me pleasure. . .and, as sometimes happens, nothing much worked.  The clouds got blacker, and thicker.  I got duller, and forgetful, and even more inarticulate than usual.

Everything hurt, by which I mean it hurt to think, it hurt to have to cope with anything; personal interactions felt like a series of paper cuts — not stab wounds, because frankly I couldn’t work up enough energy to feel stabbed.  Life was a burden, and thinking was exhausting.

I drew hard on the cats, but even such cats as ours can only do so much, and belatedly I realized that white-knuckles, and waiting it out wasn’t getting me anything but duller, darker, and more exhausted.  My writing was suffering, and everything else, too.  So, I went to the doctor, reviewed the situation, and received a prescription for antidepressants.

I don’t like to take antidepressants, personally, so the ‘script was low-dose, just enough to take the edge of the pain, and make it possible to write, and more or less get through the day.

Things were still dreadful, naturally — the Black Dog had not left the room, he was just curled up on the rug, watching. Everything was still too hard, there was no joy, no humor, every one of my accomplishments was a failure in my mind.

And, all that changed, about a month ago.

No, it wasn’t the drugs; the drugs were only to help me continue coping.  And it wasn’t an Awesome Change in my General Situation.  Mark this, now, because it is key — nothing had changed.

Except that the Black Dog had left the building, and I was no longer depressed.

My accomplishments were once again victories; the fact that I’m old is a victory, because I really never expected to make it out of my thirties; I’m married to my best friend; I have energy; my vocabulary has leveled up; I can say what I mean to say — and I want to say it.

Like flipping on a light — trite, but true.

Since the last dark episode was so very long, I’m hoping to be Black Dog-free for quite some time.  I do so much enjoy being able to think clearly, and not have to fight for every concept — I can’t even tell you.  I enjoy being able to have ideas for stories*.  I enjoy — well.  Everything.

So, that’s all; no life-changing insights here.  Except that it always does amaze me — the change from dark to light, when it happens.  And the worst thing that depression does, among a dark legion of bad things — is withhold the hope of light.

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*The moment I knew I had to do something other than Just Wait It Out was the moment when Steve and I were, supposedly, brainstorming a story, and I looked at him, said, “I don’t know, and I don’t care!” — and burst into tears.

Page proofs for The Gathering Edge hit the mailbox yesterday.  This means that, today, I will set up station here on the desk, with our submission copy up on the screen, and the proofs in paper, compare one against the other, and mark any errors on the paper copy.

At the very least, this is a tedious process, and I enter into it with a strong sense of trepidation.

Most of you who read here are aware that the arrival of page proofs in our mailbox means that the release of the Baen eArc is not far away.  We, personally, do not know the name of that happy hour, ‘k? So it’s no use asking us.  Usually, we find out that the eArc has gone live because an alert reader drops us a note, which we do appreciate. So, if you notice that the eARC is up for download, do let us know, and we’ll help spread the word.

You will perhaps recall that, last year, Belle and I had a wager about how many Alliance of Equals eArcs we could sell.  At that point, Belle was of the opinion that we wouldn’t sell more than 500 (which would have been about 150 more than the total eArc sales of Dragon in Exile).  Sprite, who last year was too young to wager, had it as her Strong Opinion that we would earn out our advance on eArc sales.

Neither was right, though Sprite came closer to the truth.  We exceeded Belle’s high figure by a factor of twelve, indicating that a lot of Liadens were into eArcs last year, but we did not earn out the entire advance.

This year, Belle is taking the position that last year was a fluke, and that no one wants to read a Whole Book about a Tiresome Kitten, anyway.  Sprite, who this year can place a formal wager, has modified her position to Edge sales equaling sales of Alliance.

My position is that, with All the Uncertainty in the air, it could go either way.  People could hunker down, and hold their purses tight, hoping that the storm passes them by, or they could figure wotthehell; a short life but a merry one.

And now, it’s time for coffee and the first shift of proofing.

Everybody stay safe.

So, last night, or early this morning, I dreamed that the Master Harper had died, and in fulfillment of his last duty to the Hall and the Craft, his spirit had spanned the world, looking for the one who would come after.  He found her soul in Dreamland, and revealed himself. When he was certain that she had seen, he turned, for the last time, toward the Hall, showing her the way.

The spirit of the new Master Harper turned into a hart — by which we learn that she is a traditionalist — and followed.

A nice story, really, and about then I realized that I was one of several persons auditing this event, and my companions were Not Best Pleased.

“A motorcycle!” said one.  “One does not Seek Through Dreamland on a motorcycle!”

“Why not?” I asked.  “The steed we ride in Dreamland is that which is chosen by our soul.”

“It’s not traditional!” said another one.

“Well, he wasn’t traditional, was he?” said a third.  “That’s not exactly a surprise, after all these years, is it?  Gods know, we all came against his Ideas, down the years.”

“You want traditional?” I said, turning back to the screen, or the window, in time to see the hart leap from Dreamland into the cluttered room at the top of the tower, skidding slightly on the old pages underfoot.

The shape went misty for a moment, reforming into a ragged young woman, her hair tangled with brambles, her face dirty, clutching a leather bag to her meager chest.  She gazed around the room, face dawning awe and then delight as she discovered each instrument beneath its piles of books, scribbled notes, and gee-gaws.

“It looks like you’ve got traditional,” I said, waving my comrades over to watch the new Master Harper start her tentative tour of the tower.

In the distance, a motorcycle roared, wound out, and faded. . .