As a writer I often get wrapped up in books, movies, and the things I am working on. I dismiss or don't always pay attention to those around me. Sometimes I do ignore the suffering of others. It isn't a conscience choice, it is just that I am so in my own head that I forget others exist. I focus on my characters, or the plot trouble I am having, or the fact that I need to design a cover for a story I am about to release.
As a writer of horror I dwell a lot with the darker side of life. I often think about murder and suicide and how to torture someone, either physically or mentally, and it can be mentally exhausting. Sometimes I can't deal with the trouble in the real world because I have been living that day in the mind of a serial killer, or in the mind of a rape victim. I never know what mood I am going to be in at the end of the day, and sometimes I just need a break, so I bury myself in something else and forget again that I have others who depend on me.
As a writer I have come to realize the solitary life I lead. My partner doesn't know what my life is like because they can't see inside my head. Most of my friends don't know that I may be utterly depressed because I just killed a ten-year-old in my book, or because I have been walking through the woods as a serial killer plotting his new life. If someone asks me how my day was, or how it is going, I will always answer that it was fine and everything was fine, because the truth might be so painful it physically hurts me to think about it.
As a writer I am lonely, a lot. I sit at home or at the coffee shop with my notebooks and headphones and listen to whatever music the characters wants while writing down the lives of characters who only exist when I let them out. I try to explain but if I go into detail you, out there in internet land, won't understand. How could you? You don't see what I see. You don't know what is going on in my head. It is a dark place, I live a constant life in a dark place, and yet I function every day, but I still wish that you would ask me out. I don't have co-workers. I don't have an office.
As a writer I know the love of other writers. I know the peace I feel when I am among other people who understand. I know what it feels like to be among people who will listen to the horrors I write and understand that this is what is in my head, it doesn't mean it is me.
As a writer I have been asked some serious and private questions. I wrote a story once about a mother who dumps the abuse and murdered body of the young child she killed. Apparently I described the abuse so well that I was asked if I too was abused. I wrote a story with a rape scene in it that I was asked if I was raped and if I needed to be led to someone to talk to. I wrote a story about burying a loved one and was asked if the story was about me. I just see things, situations, and I see them so clearly that sometimes it hurts. The story about burying a loved one, I actually cried when I wrote it. I cried when I finished it. I cry when I read it. It hurts. It hurts to be a writer, it feels like I'm being cut by a million different razor blades, but it also feel great, it feels like an accomplishment and a relief to get those people and those scenes out of my head.
As a writer I think. I think a lot. I also don't sleep. I have issues with sleep. I have so much I want to get out, and my brain just does not shut up. I should be sleeping now. It is 1am on Friday, July 29, 2016. I don't want to sleep. I have people to let out. I have a story burning in my fingers. A story that begins with, "Holy Shit," she exclaimed when her doctor told her the results. Cancer, again. How many times does one person get cancer. It was almost as if cancer had a revenge pact against her for some reason.
For now, my internet lovelies, I am going to try to sleep. I am going to go brush my teeth and pray that my cat makes it through one more night. I have been praying this a lot. I am going to hope that my partner has a great, accident free drive to work tomorrow. I am going to pray that I wake up feeling rested and am able to get to work on this story while it is burning so brightly in my brain.
I just wanted you, out there, to know what life is like, as a writer.
As a writer of horror I dwell a lot with the darker side of life. I often think about murder and suicide and how to torture someone, either physically or mentally, and it can be mentally exhausting. Sometimes I can't deal with the trouble in the real world because I have been living that day in the mind of a serial killer, or in the mind of a rape victim. I never know what mood I am going to be in at the end of the day, and sometimes I just need a break, so I bury myself in something else and forget again that I have others who depend on me.
As a writer I have come to realize the solitary life I lead. My partner doesn't know what my life is like because they can't see inside my head. Most of my friends don't know that I may be utterly depressed because I just killed a ten-year-old in my book, or because I have been walking through the woods as a serial killer plotting his new life. If someone asks me how my day was, or how it is going, I will always answer that it was fine and everything was fine, because the truth might be so painful it physically hurts me to think about it.
As a writer I am lonely, a lot. I sit at home or at the coffee shop with my notebooks and headphones and listen to whatever music the characters wants while writing down the lives of characters who only exist when I let them out. I try to explain but if I go into detail you, out there in internet land, won't understand. How could you? You don't see what I see. You don't know what is going on in my head. It is a dark place, I live a constant life in a dark place, and yet I function every day, but I still wish that you would ask me out. I don't have co-workers. I don't have an office.
As a writer I know the love of other writers. I know the peace I feel when I am among other people who understand. I know what it feels like to be among people who will listen to the horrors I write and understand that this is what is in my head, it doesn't mean it is me.
As a writer I have been asked some serious and private questions. I wrote a story once about a mother who dumps the abuse and murdered body of the young child she killed. Apparently I described the abuse so well that I was asked if I too was abused. I wrote a story with a rape scene in it that I was asked if I was raped and if I needed to be led to someone to talk to. I wrote a story about burying a loved one and was asked if the story was about me. I just see things, situations, and I see them so clearly that sometimes it hurts. The story about burying a loved one, I actually cried when I wrote it. I cried when I finished it. I cry when I read it. It hurts. It hurts to be a writer, it feels like I'm being cut by a million different razor blades, but it also feel great, it feels like an accomplishment and a relief to get those people and those scenes out of my head.
As a writer I think. I think a lot. I also don't sleep. I have issues with sleep. I have so much I want to get out, and my brain just does not shut up. I should be sleeping now. It is 1am on Friday, July 29, 2016. I don't want to sleep. I have people to let out. I have a story burning in my fingers. A story that begins with, "Holy Shit," she exclaimed when her doctor told her the results. Cancer, again. How many times does one person get cancer. It was almost as if cancer had a revenge pact against her for some reason.
For now, my internet lovelies, I am going to try to sleep. I am going to go brush my teeth and pray that my cat makes it through one more night. I have been praying this a lot. I am going to hope that my partner has a great, accident free drive to work tomorrow. I am going to pray that I wake up feeling rested and am able to get to work on this story while it is burning so brightly in my brain.
I just wanted you, out there, to know what life is like, as a writer.
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