I had a thought but then I lost it. I’d look for it but that would require challenging the inertia depression brings to my reality.

Except inertia has been in abeyance for the last few days. I’ve been productive. I’ve been in an oddly good mood. These two things are probably not unconnected.

My anxiety’s reaction to the improved mood is to suggest it’s the calm before the storm, that I’ll soon be stricken in some way, likening my improved mood to the last-minute burst of energy some people experience before death.  

I learned about the end-of-life rally on an episode of Grey’s Anatomy. It’s an actual thing. Medical practitioners refer to it as “terminal lucidity”; that would be an excellent band name.

We do learn from television. I had a spirited conversation with my son on the matter recently. I feel confident that in an emergency, my years of watching medical dramas will render me able to perform an emergency tracheotomy with a convenient ballpoint pen. My son feels I’m over-estimating my capabilities.

Whatever. Won’t he be surprised by my proficiency during the zombie apocalypse?

I’ve been “more” of late. More productive. More willing to engage with life. The steps have been small; I only noticed them in retrospect.

The improved mood has given me something to write about, which is nice. Writing has been a bit of a struggle. It’s not that I don’t have ideas or started pieces. I simply can’t stand to work on them. I thought about editing some old posts but that didn’t engender enthusiasm either. And the list of writing prompts I saved for times like these made my lip curl.  

My mood is good, not perfect.

It’s an odd place to be in, to want and need to write while simultaneously dreading it.

I worked on my book for the first time in nearly a year yesterday. My autobiography, not the first draft of the truly atrocious novel I attempted that also mocks me with its incompleteness. I avoid them both religiously. If I don’t open them, I don’t have to deal with the fact that they need work. I can’t beat myself up over the imperfections if they remain unexamined.

But the good mood made me brave; I gave the mouse an enthusiastic double-click and waded in.

I was right; it’s crap. It’s extremely maudlin and very navel-gazey. There are a billion adverbs and it’s full of hyperbole. There is, however, a chance that it has potential. I remember where I was going with it when I started and I think I might know how to get there.

Not hating something I’ve done in its entirety is a nice feeling.

I was going to work on it some more but then I bought a bookcase.

I hope they never institute a bookcase tax. Kindle helps but I still acquire hard-copies with reckless abandon. I used to worry about it. Then I decided, whatever. Books make me happy. There are worse habits.

I recently discovered Thrift Books. It’s a massive clearinghouse for used books. If you’ve read it, they’ve probably got it. I found a book I loved when I was a teen. I found books to fill out the gaps in some of my author collections. Then I found out there was an app and one-click pay. Anyhow, there are twenty-two books coming now.

I’m in such trouble.

I realized something as I built the new shelves and reorganized to make room for new arrivals: I have a lot of unread books. Fiction and non-fiction, books I picked out myself, and books that were given to me. They’re not localized so I didn’t realize the full nature of the count.

Which is why I decided – with relief – that the time is not right for editing. I’m going to power my way through the piles of unread books instead. Or at least give it a good effort. I might even try my hand at book reviews again. I’m not very good at them; I find it hard to be succinct; there’s usually a lot I want to say.