I grew up in the great Desert Southwest—Las Cruces, New Mexico. To this day, I love the desert landscape—the rich browns, reds, and greens of the Mesilla Valley running right up to the foot of the purple Organ Mountains.

It is sunny and dry 300+ days of the year there. Yet there is a wide variety of vegetation due to two factors—the Rio Grande and a major underground water table. So, with just a little work, industrious settlers cultivated the land into produce and/or cotton farms as well as pecan orchards. (According to a study by a task force in the NMSU Ag Department, 46% of all chiles produced in the U.S. come from New Mexico.) Unlike farmers in the deep south where rainfall is usually plentiful, farmers in New Mexico must work to get water to their crops. They irrigate—there is a series of canals that run through Las Cruces that carry water all throughout the Mesilla Valley.

Today, I took these industrious farmers’ example to heart. The “rainfall” of writing still hasn’t come, so I dug deep, found what little reserves I had left in my creative reservoir, and tapped into it. An hour later, I’d written more than 1,200 words! Much like the early farmers in the Mesilla Valley, I didn’t have to dig too deeply before I found a source waiting to be plumbed. They found water for their crops; I found refreshment for my creativity and spirit.

I’ve had a few people share with me privately that they, too, are experiencing a drought in one form or another in their lives right now. And to think I almost didn’t post yesterday. Not sharing my thoughts and feelings when I’m “blue” is another symptom of that downward spiral I mentioned. I usually just smile and pretend everything is okay—which is much easier to do online, and extremely stressful at church or work. And yet the perverse issue with that response to the depression is that all I really want is for someone to reach out to me, to understand that I’m hurting, and to help me lift myself up out of the three-day-old coffee dregs that my life has become. But how can I expect that kind of help if I don’t ask for it?

Are we creative-types more prone to bouts of the blues or depression because of the solitary nature of our pursuit? Or is it because most creative-types are introverts who spend too much time looking inward—depending on ourselves alone for refreshment and falling down the spiral when our internal resources are tapped out? Unless you’ve been living in a cave for the last couple of years, you’ve heard over and over about how our country’s/world’s natural resources are quickly being used up—from fresh water to oil and natural gas. Our internal resources are like this—if we don’t find some way to renew them, eventually they get tapped out.

This is when we really need to turn to others and, though it may be one of the most difficult things we’ve ever done, ask for help. You know who the people are around you who provide that kind of refreshment. For me, it’s my crit partners, Erica and Georgiana, with whom I can vent off my frustrations and receive encouragement in return—and offer encouragement when one of them needs help. It’s chatting with my friend Ruth, who shares my affinity for British actors/movies and the music of Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin. It’s singing songs about Jesus and his resurrection in choir practice. It’s praying with my spiritual mentor or my best friend. It’s laughing over an inside joke. It’s writing and feeling that gentle rainfall starting once again, quenching my drought.

So, when you’re tapped out, where can you turn? Who is there—or can be there—for you to help you return to the “Sunny Side of the Street”?

Have you ever noticed that writing is sometimes a lot like the weather? If we work hard at it, most days can be sunny and pleasant—not remarkable, but enjoyable. Occasionally, the words will come pouring in a torrential rainfall, blowing and swirling around us until they threaten to carry us away like Dorothy’s house in The Wizard of Oz. Then there are those drought times. The times when no matter how hard we try, the words just won’t come.

But I have to stop and examine what’s really going on when I hit one of these droughts. Is it really that the words won’t come or am I just not putting in enough (or any) effort? What am I doing that is taking focus away from my writing? How am I spending the time I’m supposed to be writing? What excuses am I making for the time I’m letting slip away without getting anything accomplished?

And then it strikes me—whenever I start feeling a drought in my writing life, I’m feeling it in all areas of my life. As someone with cyclical depression, I know the signs of a downward spiral . . . and it usually follows a time spent focusing too much on me and not enough on my writing, on others, and on God. It also usually follows a time of stress—such as having my car break down on me Monday on my way to the car place to get it looked at, starting to teach a new Sunday school class, figuring out that I’m not going to be able to afford to go to Pennsylvania for alumni weekend at Seton Hill in June. 

Once I recognize the signs (compulsive eating, staying up extremely late, wanting to do nothing but sit in front of the TV, having extreme difficulty getting out of bed in the morning, not wanting to have contact with anyone), I can start pulling myself back out of it by refocusing outside of myself—calling my friend Gayle and talking and praying with her; getting back into critiquing for my crit partners; making sure I am meeting my word count every day; sending Easter cards to my niece and nephews; spending time in Bible study; picking up a new book to read; writing an entry for the blog.

So, here I am, on one of the steps of that journey, posting a blog, writing the first words since I posted on Sunday. I apologize for not having anything insightful or profound to share about the craft of writing, but hopefully by the end of the week, I’ll be back on track, both here and with everything else. Until then, I beg your indulgence while I try to refocus and pull myself back up emotionally.

Love to all!

–k