Bipolar Me

My usual mania symptom is overspending. This time, it was overextending.

It went down like this.

My side gig is as a ghostwriter. It doesn’t pay a lot, but it supplements my Social Security and, as my friend Robbin and I used to say, keeps me from stealing hubcaps.

Usually, I write self-help books. Ways to declutter your house. How to write in plain English (that one was fun). Advice for older teens nearing adulthood. How to end burnout. Grieving the death of a pet. They’re popular topics, but not very interesting to write about. (Occasionally, I get a more challenging and interesting topic, like pandemic preparedness or flesh-eating diseases.)

But, even though I took the fiction writer’s test and passed, I’ve only written one fiction book. It was pure smut. I have no moral or philosophical objection to pornography (or erotica, or whatever you wish to call it). I did the assignment and the customer was happy with it.

But I’ve been so booked up with self-help that I haven’t had the opportunity or the time to seek out a fiction assignment.

Until recently. I was contacted about writing a plot outline for a piece of fiction with the likelihood of getting to write the book after the customer approved the outline. It would be a 100,000-word paranormal fantasy romance, which sounded like a treat after self-help and smut. I was on the shortlist for the assignment.

And I really wanted it. I heard about the prospect just before the weekend and figured I wouldn’t hear a decision about it until Monday at least. I spent the weekend rolling it over and over in my mind—developing lead character, love interest, and villains; thinking up places in the multiverse where scenes could take place.

In other words, I got manicky. Realistically, I should have simply turned down the project. I’m already working on a project that will keep me busy through the end of January, and I write 1,500 words a day on it. If I took on the fantasy book, that expected word count would double. At least until February, I would be writing 3,000 words a day.

Theoretically, that’s not impossible. But I have a writing routine that allows me to get my 1,500 words done every day and leave time for self-care, interaction with my husband, meals, etc. It fits in well with how I work around my bipolar disorder and my strategies for coping with the symptoms.

And if I had made it from the shortlist to the one-list, I would have tried to do it. That was the manicky part of myself talking. It said I could do it, and do it well.

But I didn’t get the assignment. My disappointment was mingled with relief. Realistically, it was doubtful that I could have done it. The chance that I would do poorly on one assignment or the other, or both, was high. The possibility of working myself to frustration or exhaustion was real. It really would have been a bad idea.

So I dodged a proverbial bullet. My manic tendencies were short-circuited, and I was saved from acting on the feeling that I could do it all.

I’ll try to remember that, the next time I’m tempted to overextend myself. I’ll still be on the lookout for fiction assignments, but I won’t take one unless my schedule is clear.

The bad news is that I’m still manicky and back to overspending.