It has been a while since I managed to complete even a first draft of a story. It is not that there is a dearth of ideas, far from it; I have several pieces that are waiting for me to able to get back to them, and several more waiting to be begun. But as I sit here in the near darkness, poring over my notebooks, it occurs to me that the problem is an existential one, and absolutely linked with my depression. It is not simply writers’ block, though <insert deity of choice> knows that’s bad enough. If the writer is no longer sure, absolutely sure, of who she is, what becomes of her voice?

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