some of the sweetest, most kind and gentle people i’ve known have written some of the sickest and most depraved stuff i’ve ever read.
writing can be purgative, it can release your inner monsters out onto the page, freeing you from them (at least for a time). it’s something i have no small amount of personal experience with, the source of stories and rants in a file to be destroyed by the executor of my will, stuff no one should ever see.
and so, i’m not in jail, or dead. 🙂
sometimes, the monsters aren’t our own. sometimes the horror isn’t of our own imagining. sometimes it’s reality, and like our imaginative horrors, it gets stuck in the grate of our minds, and it sits there, periodically swelling up in an infection of ugliness.
two ways to deal with those… write out the source of it, or just drain off the emotional pus and keep going.
i have one of those from September 11 i still haven’t dealt with, and i recently picked up another. this new one isn’t going to be around for long, Creative willing and the creeks don’t rise, as i have a story already brewing up about it, and i’ll be incredibly glad to get rid of it.
sometimes silly people ask why we’re writers…
listening to: “All She Wants To Do Is Dance”, Don Henley