Behind the scenes of a summer of writing

A glimpse into a disconnected life, summer depression, and writing through both

You can’t walk down Main Street in our beautiful coastal village¹ in Maine without bumping into someone you know. If it’s someone I haven’t seen in a while, they’ll ask, “What are you up to this summer?” My response: “I’m writing a lot; I write a newsletter on Substack.” Not everyone is familiar with Substack so I try to add, “You know, like

Heather Cox Richardson

,” but I usually forget. Their follow-up: “So what do you think of this weather? Sunny, foggy, and storms; it’s Maine, right?!” It’s as if the word “writing” doesn’t get through, as if the word can’t apply to a 72-year-old, retired grandmother. I know the weather is a more apt conversation topic for a brief sidewalk encounter than my writing, but still.

This disconnect between my two lives, who I appear to be on the outside, and who I am this summer (a writer meeting a weekly deadline), is one reason for the summer blahs I’ve been feeling these past weeks. Heck, let’s call it what it is: summer depression. Seasonal depression in the warmer months is a real thing, for me, and for many other people, and while it sounds counter intuitive for depression to descend during long summer days, it’s quite common². I’ve written about it a couple of times over the past decade³.

Summer depression isn’t constant. My sister, at right, invited us to an amazing bonfire and lobster bake. It was a perfect evening of light and dark, sparking happiness on a Maine island.

Two voices inside me

When I’m walking through the village, I hear two voices inside my head: one reminds me that my life is wonderful (blessed with family and friends, blah blah); the other cries out that I’m not being heard or seen. Depression chimes in, blaming me for such a petty complaint, chiding me for not being clearer with the people in my life about what I’m up to and why my topic of [b]old age is so important right now. I also hear my mother’s sharp voice telling me to hush up about all this; depression is shameful and should not be talked about publicly, and my writing isn’t important enough for folks to pay attention to, anyway.

Do I get a different response because I am a woman?

I sometimes wonder if friends and acquaintances would respond to my husband,

Sam Harrington

, the same way. I imagine that if he said, “I’m writing this summer!” the follow-up would be, “What about? Are you writing another book?” People would be more intrigued, at least enough to ask the standard follow-up rather than skip over it⁴. 

In addition to acquaintances I bump into, my close family also seems to be disinterested in my work on this newsletter. I know they’re very busy, but I wish my middle-age children⁵ would ask how the writing is going; they say nothing. I don’t seem to have the courage, or the right words, to ask them for feedback. Maybe they take my writing for granted and don’t feel they need to say anything. Ditto for Sam, but I wish I didn’t have to bug him to read the latest post. 

Of course my own doubting voice plays a part in all this. Maybe this really is my fault. Without meaning to or wanting to, I’ve been slipping into the invisible identity of an older woman. I’m feeling cowardly and constricted. My own voice, amplified by the illogic of depression, is invalidating my own feelings and my experience of working on something important. But I want to be [b]older! I want to feel the kind of anger that makes you speak up for yourself, I want to tell this voice to shut up! So my depressive thinking, and my [b]oldness, go round and round.

Revelations from doing The Artist’s Way

Thankfully, there’s a bright spot amongst these doubts and conflicting thoughts. I’ve been working through Julia Cameron’s 12-week The Artist’s Way, her bestselling course and book on discovering or rediscovering creativity, with a group of

Kirsten Powers

’s subscribers. I’ve done this course once before, on my own. To my surprise, this time I’m experiencing lightbulb moments. 

Anger is a map, Cameron says; it tells you what your boundaries are and shows you where you want to go. I’m realizing that my anger is telling me that maybe it’s okay to ask the people closest to me for feedback on my writing, rather than waiting for them to say something.

Take yourself on Artist Dates, she advises. They can be very simple (I focussed on the colors of all the blooming flowers when I took a walk), or more elaborate (I drove two hours away to see paintings by N.C. Wyeth, Andrew Wyeth, and Jamie Wyeth at the Farnsworth Art Museum in Rockland, ME.) Both times I felt my depression receding, and a sense of wonder and contentment replacing it. 

And finally, the bedrock practice of The Artist’s Way, write three pages by hand every morning (these are the famous Morning Pages). This daily scribbling requires silencing my inner critic and allowing drivel to come out of my pen. Depressive thinking is constricting and black-and-white; this freeform writing has led me to think more flexibly and with more self-assurance about my life and my family and my identity as a writer.

The notebook I’m using for scribbling Morning Pages, three pages of drivel plus deeper thoughts that come, unbidden.

Perhaps the most useful bit to come out of Morning Pages is the following script I could use to answer questions from well-meaning acquaintances. It goes something like this:

“In addition to enjoying the summer, I’m writing a newsletter on Substack. I publish weekly so it’s a lot of work. I write about [b]old age, which is relevant to me ha ha, but also to the moment we’re living in, with Biden and Trump. So it’s an important topic. I’d love it if you’d subscribe. It’s a Substack bestseller!”

Questions for readers

• If you are writing on Substack, how do you describe your work to friends, family, and acquaintances?

• Do you feel a disconnect between two versions of yourself?

1. I’m a resident of Stonington, ME, the lobster capital of Maine, which lands more pounds of lobster than any other port along the coast.

2. I am not talking about incapacitating, deep depression; rather, persistent, low-level depression known as dysthymia.

3. In 2014, I wrote When Depression Creeps in Like the Fog. In 2021, How I Cope with Summer Depression. 

4. Sam is not writing this summer. Instead, he’s very involved with an affordable housing project here on Deer Isle.

5. Shortly after I posted this essay, my older daughter texted me, “I read your post! I validate you! You are a writer!” The exclamation points make this a little bit of a tease from her, but I loved the note nonetheless.