I thought I had managed to avoid mania for most of my bipolar life. Brief bouts of hypomania, maybe, but never the real thing.
Then I thought back on the last year and a half. For years I had been trying to write a mystery novel, but a year and a half or almost two years ago, I really kicked it into high gear.
I wrote. I rewrote. I tweaked. I outlined. I thought of names for my characters and backstories for them. I mapped out on what day of the week each event happened.
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