A brief peek behind the curtain

I’m losing my mind.

I’m slowly going insane, and I’m having a hard time figuring out how to stop it.

This probably isn’t news to many of you, but at times I feel like I’m reaching critical mass and all manner of scary thoughts start emerging that I’d rather not entertain.

There’s so many things swirling around in my head right now that, in truth, writing seems to be the only thing that’s allowing the abscess of madness from bursting and seeping too far into my conscious mind. Naturally this is by writing all the current insanity down in a hope it becomes some sort of half therapy release. There are some advantages in making the untouchable into a tangible form or some sort. It allows me to mould it into something a bit more useful at the very least.

In a way, this is how it’s always been. I throw some words on to a page, and it usually has roots in what has gone through my mind at a certain time. That’s not to say all my work is like that – I don’t often go around wondering what it would be like to plunge a large sword into a king’s heart or plot the removal of the world’s upper class via magical means. Cases such as those tend to be part of the creative process for the story rather than a by product of my current thoughts – please put the phone down and call off the men in white coats. Thank you.

But in many of my stories, there’s a strong element of my experiences and thoughts. It’s a very obvious thing in terms of creation, given that no story is written in a vacuum. There has to be a part of me that goes into them to lend a sense of emotional attachment and heart, which (I hope) is relatable to other people. The last couple years have, in many ways, shaped the way I see the world right now and in turn have also created the form and direction of my storytelling. I’m not saying that all these stories are pain-filled and red-eyed anger (although admittedly, many are). But I’ve noticed the themes are starting to become a perhaps understandable reflection. Loss (Butterflies and Moths). Rage (The Cure). Denial (God is in the Details). Confusion (Faceless). Identity (Death of a Salesman). Escape (Bad Luck Inc.). Acceptance (Butterflies and Moths, again). And then all the above all over again in slight variant forms, among other things.

There are more direct examples of what may be going through my mind, although I doubt I’m truly ready to start delving too deeply into them. One particular unstarted-but-planned project is as close to autobiographical as I probably dare ever go, with a collection of notes, observations and thoughts built up from over half a decade of random stuff, although even that only scratches the surface and it’s laced with large dollops of fiction to help the medicine go down. I already wrote a diary for a whole year back in 1999 to 2000 and looking back at it (when I can decipher the chronic handwriting) is a painful and strange experience that I don’t really want to repeat. Although at times it’s funny to look back on some of my ever-present stupidity.

So I rather spread my insanity through fiction and hope my brain doesn’t suffer a mental relapse in the process. It seems to help. I think. I think…

…I’m losing my mind.