I Kind Of Feel Like I Should Say Hi

Depression is, sadly, eating my face.  And depression’s boring to write about.  I started to write an entry on how this time is worryingly different (arriving earlier than usual, possibly rooted in real-life needs), but then my brain went, Christ, is he writing about that shit again? and I wandered away, bored.
It doesn’t help that I’m working on a very different Novel of Doom, one that’s literally mostly character study, and it’s terrifying me.  While it has a speculative element, which is the term we use in The Biz to say “Weird shit ahoy,” mostly it’s two teenagers talking to each other as one of them falls in co-dependent love with a vampire.  Who they don’t know yet is a vampire.  So I’m like, “Nothing’s blowing up, nothing is happening, this is boring, it must be boring,” and every time I write this novel – which I thought would be easy – I’m freaking out because we’re 15,000 words in and there hasn’t been one atomic explosion.  And I’m convinced without all that frippery, it must be dross.
Which may or may not be true.  Plenty of novels are written about ordinary people, and they work.  But for me, this is a bare minimum – stripping away all my strengths of creative ideas to just work on two people having ordinary lives before the weird stuff hits.  I’m not convinced I can do that.  I’ve been mainlining Stephen King (oh, Christine, you’re the best book ever) to try to remind myself that you don’t need to start with a gun to the head, but this is tapdancing way outside my comfort zone.
So it’s a weird time.  This journal may be all bees and comment-whores for a time.  And yes, I know it’s my space, but I still feel guilty about being a bad host.