The Thoughts of a Bipolar Writer


There is something about the rites of Spring that makes me go off the deep end. No lie.

I can’t really explain it properly but it’s like this presence in the air, like someone has sprinkled cocaine in the ventilation system and I just got a really good dose and now I’m coming off the high and tweaking. Okay, well, maybe it’s not quite like that, but the sentiment is similar.

The truth is that I do my best writing in the winter months. My friend Elizabeth calls it my “introspective time” and everyone around me knows not to call me or wonder where I am. They know. I’m at my desk or in the La Fuma chair or somewhere writing away like a mad man. In a very anti-social way, of course, but still productive.

But the thing is, the Spring, it messes with my head and therefore with my writing mojo. Suddenly, the daffodils are blooming, the gardens are calling, there are lonely vegetable seeds tucked away in a folder somewhere pleading to be let out . . . it can all be very distracting. Just seeing the sun outside and knowing that my skin is itching for some Vitamin D is enough to sabotage my whole day.

And that makes me crazy in a certifiable sort of way. Suddenly, I’m obsessed with mulch and flower beds and weird DIY stuff like making lamps and using spray paint on just about anything. Seriously. It’s an addiction – I need help. I sit at my homemade desk and stare at the screen trying deperately to will myself to do something useful, but alas, my lap top can’t hold a candle to my beehive brimming with bees.

So what does one do?

I don’t know, but I’m trying to figure it out. When I do, I’ll let you know.