the weight of the impossible

A bit of a personal post today. A chance to vent, perhaps. Or just a chance to clarify what I’m feeling right now. And what is that?

The weight of the impossible.

Yeah. Sounds big, doesn’t it? The weight of the impossible? But that’s what it is because, silly me, that’s what I feel driven to achieve.

My choice, my doing, no one to blame but me. I know how high and difficult the climb is and yet I choose to continue. Choose to sacrifice and struggle for the smallest of steps forward. And we’re talking painfully small steps here. Like, laughably small.

And, no, this isn’t one of those “woe is me”-type of deals. Not at all. It is, like I said, a chance to vent and/or clarify what’s making my mood so heavy these days.

The weight of the impossible. I like that phrase. I don’t like how that phrase feels as I live it, but I like the heft of it as I write it. The solidity of the sentence. The cadence and rhythm. It’s a memorable phrase that perfectly captures my present journey.

And, honestly, it’s not like I’m the first doing what I’m trying to do. Thank god! This road is teeming with those who’ve walked before me. Who’ve struggled, fought, failed, fallen, stood up and eventually succeeded. Everywhere I look I see shining examples of the impossible having been done.

Right now, though, I’m surrounded by silence with no clue as to whether or not my efforts are known or seen or appreciated. I think “Yes” but I don’t know. Obviously, and I’m calling a spade a spade here, today is one of those days where the candle flickers and the dark grows darker and the doubt grows deeper.

But I still march on. Like a man in a long tunnel surrounded by deepest, darkest black who keeps putting one foot in front of the other because he knows without a doubt, with a faith that goes beyond reason or present reality, that there is an end, a fantastic end, and if he keeps walking he’ll find it.

That’s me.

So I keep writing, breaking down my long-term goals into shorter term bite-size achievable chunks — I’m somewhat famous for my email bullet lists, by the way — and doing what I can to move forward. Or even just stay where I am because the worst is to slide back. And today, for whatever reason, feels like a day where I slid back. At least in my head.

So, I dig in my heels, narrow my focus and just keep going. Keep pushing. Even if the push is imperceptible and the reward is negligible. Even if what I do now won’t show a result weeks, months, even years down the road, if at all, I just do what I can from where I am. Because that’s all I can do.

But you know what would help?

A sign.

A Yes. An “I hear you.” Or “you’re on my radar.” A “I like your work.” A nod — not even an answer, but a simple nod — that lets me know I’m on the right path. That I’m moving in the right direction. An acknowledgement that would help me find the spark to click Send on yet another email or to dial the phone for yet another unanswered call or make another bullet point list that might never be seen or discussed.

That, any of those really, would be the light shining far, far at the end of the tunnel telling me to keep walking.

See, this, right here, this is what the weight of the impossible does. It tests your faith. Dips you low so you can climb back out. Strengthens your resolve. Allows you to flirt with the possibility of failure knowing that your desire for a different result is stronger. That, even unheard or unseen or unacknowledged, you will fight on, keep pressing, keep asking, introducing, discussing. You’ll keep making those lists and getting the words on the page and brainstorming ways to carve out a space to help make the impossible possible.

But here’s something else I’ve learned: we’re not designed to carry the weight of the impossible by ourselves. This burden is designed to be shared.

And, now that I think about it, that’s what I’m feeling. The need to share what I’m creating with others. Build my dreams with people. I feel like it’s time to stop traveling this road by myself. To stop walking this alone.

Yeah, now that I think about it, that’s exactly what I need.

See? Clarity. I knew there was a reason to write this post.🙂

 

Breathe

Even if my life feels like

tornado

and I’m all

terrified-smiley-face

I’m still gonna close my eyes, find my courage, jump feet first and

rolling-the-dice

because, hey, if I do nothing, that’s what I get:

Nothing.

And that’s, like, the exact opposite of what I want.

So I gotta

breath-engraving

and then

three-number

                                   …

two-number

                                 …

spongebob-thumbs-up

 

Glamour’s sparkly bull farts

Her thoughts begin…

“For me, having an appreciation for horror movies falls into the category of ‘Things I Understand Exist, but Reject Wholeheartedly,’ right alongside anime and micropenises. When I learn that someone I respect likes the genre, I immediately change the subject. I can’t fathom why, so it feels dirty and uncomfortable to me–akin to hearing the word ‘moist’ uttered out loud.

…and that’s where I rolled my eyes so hard I’m pretty sure I saw 1972.

Because, listen, besides the slam against anime and micropenises (OMG, she said “micropenis!” She’s daring! And naughty! Sooooo edgy!!!), Abigail McCoy’s recent article in Glamour is an unapologetic — perhaps unaware? — glimpse into a sadly myopic world view that’s become common in recent years. One that says “I don’t like this so, therefore, if you do, well, something must be wrong with you, so whatevs.”

A world view that for me, frankly, feels a little dirty and uncomfortable  — akin to hearing the words “pumpkin spice latte” uttered by a girl in Uggs searching for the make-me-look-like-a-supermodel filter on her Instagram.

Now, I don’t have the pleasure of knowing Miss McCoy (nor do I think I want to, to be honest) but I do know Sour Patch Kids — file under “Things I Begrudgingly Accept are a Thing, but Make Me Throw-Up a Little When I Think of Them” — and according to her bio she’s absolutely besotted with them.

But I don’t like them.

To me, they’re sparkly gag-inducing bull farts rolled in dollar store sugar, passed through an anime micropenis and tucked under Trump’s left armpit until appropriately moist. And anyone who likes them, well, I just don’t get you.

Sorry.

But like those “smart women” Abigail knows who “claim” to like horror movies, there are obviously people out there who love eating sparkly gag-inducing bull farts.

Okay, I’m stopping there because, honestly, my mind is a bit too broad to continue the charade of hating Sour Patch Kids even if Miss McCoy’s achingly self-important ramblings seem to be driven by the sugar high she gets from double-fisting them.

How else could she write such gut-busting gems as

But I maintain that there is absolutely no value in feeling scared. Why do people want to be scared? What is good about that? Feeling scared is always, always a negative experience, and I don’t think it’s even the kind with a silver lining”

or

I can wrap my head around the whole ‘thrills minus actual danger’ appeal, but can’t you just get your rocks off by watching Homeland or something else written by writers whose artistic vision extends beyond scenes cast exclusively in blue-grey light with recently-widowed women being terrorized by things and beings that hopefully don’t exist IRL?

Writers “whose artistic vision extends beyond scenes cast exclusively in blue-grey light with recently-widowed women being terrorized?” “I maintain…I don’t think…I can wrap my head around…?”

Oh, Abbie.

Perhaps if she put down the sparkly bull farts, looked up from her venti-soy-half-caf-light-whip PSL, and wandered outside the cozy confines of her cosseted tribe at Glamour, she’d learn that A) the world is not driven by Her Royal “I”, B) not every horror film revolves around a recently-widowed woman — did I actually have to just write that? — C) blue-grey light is totally a director/lighting design/production design call and has nothing to do with the writer — seriously, doesn’t anyone at Glamour know this??? — and D) real life is full of things and beings that terrorize far beyond what you see on-screen.

And that’s why horror films and books are important.

Despite her accidentally arrogant assertion that feeling scared is “always, always a negative experience” — yeah, still scratching my head at that little gem getting past her steely-eyed editors; wait, are there editors at Glamour? idk — feeling scared, for some, is actually healthy.

In fact, for some, it’s necessary.

There are those who’ve seen and experienced things most of us simply cannot imagine. Things that have left them scarred in their deepest places. Experiences that have sliced deep, gouged muscle, carved into bone and left gaping wounds that still bleed — silently, invisibly — years, decades, later. To experience fear in the safety of a film or a book, a medium that can be controlled at will with a click of a remote or a closing of the Kindle or book, is sometimes the only avenue these people have of subtly releasing the pressure they feel. Of “reliving” their terror without actually touching their personal emotional third rails.

They find freedom and a sort of peace in the dark words, thoughts, imaginations of those who write and create horror. It connects with a necessary part of them that’s desperate to have a voice, but isn’t sure how to speak.

Now, one can optimistically assume Miss McCoy’s scars aren’t as deep and her wounds aren’t still sobbing. If fact, I hope it’s safe to say the most memorable terrible thing Miss McCoy may have experienced in her relatively young life is a viewing of The Ring fourteen years ago. And that makes me happy.

No, it truly does.

Because it’s, perhaps, that absence of scars, of wounds, that leave Abigail cold when it comes to horror films. Her joy is found elsewhere. Her healing is maybe more gentle. The release of her inner scream is found in frivolous things — as she herself said.

And that’s to be applauded.

I just wish those who truly do enjoy horror — yes, Abbie, they do exist and they are, in fact, smart and no, for cripe’s sake, they’re not lying — could be spared the unnecessary, dare I say shallow judgement of a woman who should know better, but sadly doesn’t appear to.

Because, like it or not, the world beyond Miss McCoy’s list of scary “Things I Understand Exist, but Reject Wholeheartedly” is much greater, much more interesting, and much more useful than she can ever imagine. Maybe if she found her courage, opened her mind and took a true, sincere, objective look, she might be surprised by what she finds.

Even if it does feel dirty and uncomfortable.

 

apologies…perhaps

I don’t know about other writers, but when I find I’ve written something a bit rough or cruel or viciously brutal— this doesn’t happen often, but it does happen — I feel more than a smidgen of guilt.

Not necessarily because of the experience the Reader will go through — they did sign up for it, though, so… — but more because of what I put the characters through.

Interesting, isn’t it?

For better or worse, I feel deeply for people who exist solely on the page. But that’s what I suspect gives my work emotional resonance: these people are real to me. Very real.

They are telling their stories. And, for better or worse, those stories follow me. Poke into my thoughts months, years, after being told. The consequences of what I create keep me awake at night.

No, seriously. That happens. A lot.

Almost a year after its initial release, Click, the third story in Eidolon Avenue: The First Feast, is one of those stories I can’t get away from. And it’s not just because of how brutal it was, but because of the innocence of the victims and the dangerous psychosis of the killer.

I’ve said this before, but I simply could not get my head around the absence of empathy and the glee he took in the act of hurting another.

You see, with my immortal Martuk, he does bad things, but there’s always a reason. So, at the end of the day, readers may disagree with what Martuk does, but they understand on a visceral, very basic level why he did it.

With Martuk, you hate him, you love him, you fear him and, most importantly, you understand the Why of his What.

But with Colton in Click?

He was pure evil. Evil and insanity. And, yes, there were reasons. A litany of Whys to his What. Wounds that drove him. Ancient scars that still bled.

But none of that excused what he, the Character, insisted I, the Writer, create for him.

I remember writing the story while sobbing — like, really SOBBING — because I HATED what was happening. Hated it. Made me sick to my stomach. Forced me up and out to take long walks just to escape it for a much needed breath of fresh air.

But it was the story that needed to be told.

You know, I still get emails and private messages via social media raking me over the coals for Click. Questioning my sanity, my kindness, my heart. Questioning what kind of monster I am to put on the page someone as horrible as Colton.

And I get it. I do.

Which is probably why I’m feeling the need to write what’s turned into an open letter.

But, listen, those of us who invest ourselves totally in our work sometimes don’t have the control over the final product people think we might. Sometimes our characters want to tell stories that we vehemently disagree with. Sometimes they grab us by the arm and drag us, kicking and screaming and, yes, crying, much deeper into the dark than we ever wanted to go. And when we stumble free, back into the light, after the story’s told, we find ourselves changed, wounded, even scarred.

But that’s the deal we made to do what we do. Life isn’t always pretty and perfect. Sometimes vicious people do atrocious things with no rhyme or reason. As someone who writes horror, it’s my job to capture the barest hints of that so that my readers can exorcise, vicariously, their own demons. I guess. I don’t know.

All I know is that I relish returning to the relative normalcy and sanity of my dearest immortal Martuk as I dive into Shayateen, his third and perhaps final book.

Still, though, I do wonder if there should be apologies…perhaps.

Looks like I still have some psychological knots to untangle.

mother mary had fallen

From Martuk…the Holy: Proseuche

proseuche-mother-mary

“Not only will this push the envelope, it will guild that envelope in gold, hone it to a razors edge and use it in a beautiful & brutal ceremony. It so heavy and beautiful and I loved every moment of it, Martuk is going to strike nerves.”

— Zakk @ The Eyes of Madness