HeatMarie

The words I write, the stories I tell-whether true or make believe-will at times, and hopefully often make you feel a bit uncomfortable. They will tug on your emotions like a puppet master with entitled precision. They will make you question my sanity, my morals and even perhaps my integrity. 

I’ve spent a lot of time over analyzing my stories’ content, in fear of what others would think, believe, fear. I don’t know how many times an excellent thought or idea appeared in my mind, that was, perhaps–let’s say, a bit morally ambiguous. I erase it before I blot it down because, you know, you can’t let people know that THAT has ever crossed your mind. My dear Lanta, what on earth would they think of you? But I’ve gotten to the point where I will now say, “To hell with your opinions of me.”

I will never claim to be sane, let’s be honest, no writer truly is. It’s that piece of us that pulls us apart from the rest of the world. We tap into our minds, feel it from the gut, and constantly ask the questions that no one would dare speak out loud. Questions truly are a writer’s best friend. 

When it comes to posting my stories and writings, I hope that people will find they are not alone in their thoughts. I post them so that people can find a distraction. I post them in the hope that people will eventually find comfort in being uncomfortable. We are all human. We all make mistakes. We all have to live with those mistakes. And not a single one of us will handle it the same way. Beyond that, there should be no shame in admitting the truths of feelings, for that is all they are. Feelings. Perhaps if we could be more accepting of them, we wouldn’t feel the need to bury them so deep inside of us, to the point that they rot before they begin to fester and grow, causing more pain and anguish. I don’t know if there is an ounce of truth to that, but I do hold on to hope.

My last post, The Fall, had more truth contained in it than I should probably admit. But as I just told you–and I do mean this with the utmost respect–to hell with your opinions. I had a story to write.

To get it out of the way, why did I choose the present tense? Because I’m crazy. That much is true. But more than that, there is a different kind of emotion that pulls at you when you really have no idea how the story ends.

But regardless, where did the idea for The Fall come from? Over the last year, I have come across some reminders of my past. Not in a good way, either. Some people call them triggers. Those reminders haunt me. Lurking, waiting for the right moment to come out and surprise me. Time does not heal all wounds, I’m not even sure if it truly makes the cut a little less deep. But we train our minds to block out the pain so that for heaven sakes, we don’t have to feel. 

Writing The Fall took me many years to plot together. There is one specific scene that I’ve been trying to find a place for. No, I’ve been trying to write the story of how I got to that point. It was the scene in the car, with the man in white. Everytime I would think of a place to squeeze it in, it just didn’t feel right. After being reminded of my past, I forced myself to feel everything I blocked out before with a jug of wine, and time spent working, or studying, or writing, just so I would never have to feel those things I promised I never would. 

And then one day, I was talking to a friend about the choices we have made in life. And even in that moment, I felt like I was making another choice that would end with someone leaving, and never coming back. I still do. But alas, there was a reminder of what that pain felt like. And I knew that I had to write it down before I forced that pain away. Luckily, my brain never knows how to shut up, so at some point it told me, “A choice is an action, and every action has a reaction. It’s really just that simple.” And so it is. Until you get human emotions, ethics and morals involved. And then you get a story. 

After writing the first draft of The Fall, I knew something was missing. I knew how the drive scene came into the story. I knew how I felt leading up to that moment, I could feel it after all. But I left out the truth. I looked over it, and as the thought forced its way into my mind, a voice inside my head said, “No! Don’t write that!” Soberly, I told it to shut the fuck up. I’m going to do what I want. It’s the writer’s choice, not the voice of moral reasoning.

The line about the suicides I refused to add until the very last moment. A part of me was still reluctant to admit those choices I made. I harbored them in a safe. Refusing to speak of them. Because after all, what kind of monster would you paint me as?

You wouldn’t know that I went through hell after my mother’s suicide, which came 26 days after my friend decided to step in front of a train. Pain like that, with no time to heal, well, it really makes a person begin to question a lot of things. And for someone who has always questioned their worth; my, do the demons come out to play.

Now why? Why would I, as a writer, choose this? The answer isn’t simple. For one, it fits. It fits very well. Because it is the truth. I’m still amazed at how I don’t even see the story I am writing until I’ve read it out-loud. And yes, I read them out loud several times. 

The original story never told you what guilt could make a person feel so monstrous. Perhaps, if I left out the details about the suicides, it would have left the story open to interpretation, it could have left you with a bit more thought. Allowing you to fill in the gap with everything the writer has done to become such a horrible person. Yet, for once I wanted to be blunt (I have a feeling more of that is coming in the future). I no longer wanted to hide my writing behind metaphors and evasive poetic techniques, all so that I never had to say ‘too much’. Some people would tell me that there are some things people should never write about. I agree to an extent on the truths of that.  

However, I believe that is true when you care about how the world views you. Should I care? Perhaps that would be the smart thing. But I never said I had much intelligence. I am just a writer and the real truth is this; I am not the only person in the world who has made choices where the outcomes have had consequential effects. These choices I made, I did not make in hate; I did not make because I knew the outcome, in fact, if I did know, if I had the mental capacity to see into the future and know for certain what would happen, my choice would have been different. But it wasn’t.

Every action has a reaction. Every choice we make is an action, the reaction is just that. A reaction. 

And that is what the story was missing. It was missing the initial actions that caused the reaction of my firm belief that yes; I was a monster, yes; I deserved hell.

There is more than just a missing piece that confirmed my decision on writing the whole story. My writing is a tool. One that I have used over the many years to heal myself. I’m sure it doesn’t appear that way, because most of it is dark, scary, depressing. But as I write, I release those emotions. It’s like singing a song that matches your mood, just a bit more personalized. Which is why, at times, even I don’t know the story until it’s finished.

No, not everything I write is to fix a trauma induced response, not everything I write is for me. But some of them are. 

However, some of my writings are for pure pleasure. To escape reality and live in a fantasy world and watch it slowly come to life. There are many stories locked inside this mind of mine, some real, most are not and if I can blend the two together and write about my darkest moments, I can create a character with a darker story, and not have to waste my time wondering what people will think of me. After all, you now know one of my deepest, darkest secrets. And because of that, I have found a bit more courage to write. Perhaps not the time to do so, but we will save that discussion for later.

For now, happy Onriting.