Saturday, November 24, 2012
LAYING MYSELF BARE, WHY I WRITE DARKNESS
Someone once asked me why I don’t write anything happy or funny. I am happy sometime, I’m funny—or so I’ve been told. Johnny Cash had his black outfits, his dark songs (skip the bullshit gospel junk). I have my stories. I wish I didn’t sometimes. Most of my stories are ripped right from my life in some capacity. In “Tom Ford, the Girl, and Rejection” he loses his family. Ditto. In “The Numbness” he encounters his father corpse, a man he hated all his life. Ditto. In “The Surrogate” she longs to have loving family minus an insane mother and abusive father. Ditto. In the yet unpublished “A Patch of Earth, a Spot of Sky” he tries, and for the most part is unsuccessful, to come to terms with showing feelings of sadness for someone he’d admired. I could go on and on… I guess what I’m saying is that I’ve never had that feeling of contentment. I’m 39, about halfway finished with my life. I’m alone. I’m pretty much broke for the time being. I worry constantly about the next catastrophe to come down the pipeline. Women, the one’s I’d be interested in are married, attached, or more messed up than myself. Some of the them enjoy my company when it’s necessary to get a fix of feeling good about themselves and then they move on. I’m left alone again. But I condone it through my actions so I must get that fix as well. It’s not a happy time. Therefore, I write. And it’s during the shitty times that I write the most. So maybe someday I’ll not write at all because I’m content. Or maybe I’ll write that sweet story that must be inside of me. It’ll be my own version of that Johnny Cash gospel music phase. Until then, I’m the man in black.