Bleeding on the Page

A Throwback Article

This article was originally published at the Mad Genius Club on May 10, 2014.

And in the time since then, I have healed to where I only have a slight twitch on certain topics. Which is perhaps why I generally write warm fuzzy cozy stories nowadays.

Once upon a time…

No, this isn't that kind of a story. That kind of story implies a happily-ever-after ending, and magical middle, and a cozy snuggle while someone reads it aloud to you. What about the other kind of story, where the author's heart-blood lies upon the page and you can feel the emotion?

I never meant to write horror. Honestly, when asked I deny I have done so, but fans have informed me that at least two of my stories are horror. One of them I meant to be about a woman gaining new hope and a beginning, the other… my mentor told me that the best stories came from metaphorically opening a vein onto the page. I pondered that, and paired it with something I had meant to do for a long time but lacked the courage, and wrote the story.

There are times I think I don't feel, or write, emotion the way other people do. I suspect it's partly being Odd, and that those of us who identify that way share this awkwardness with the concept of gut-wrenching emotion: is it too much? or not enough?

My first beta reader for the bloody story told me it gave him the shudders, and the reviews since it was published are that it is very different indeed from my other work. I know why, and I'm not sure I care to repeat it. In order to write the book, I reached back into my past, and used memories to write some of the scenes. Hence the title.

It was very difficult to write. With my novels, there isn't as much of me in the stories, so in a sense they are easier (although still not easy!) to write than that single novella was. By pouring out emotions onto the page, I felt myself vulnerable in a way few other stories have left me.

And that brings me to what made me think of it. There was a time in my life I was half-convinced I was crazy (any of you who have read Lois McMaster Bujold's Komarr will know why I identified with Ekaterin so strongly). My greatest fear was that I would be confined and committed. Now, I know that wasn't an option then, and I certainly know I'm not crazy. A little nuts, maybe, but not insane.

I've put Memories of the Abyss up for free download next week, and a friend made a joking comment that the Book Plug Friday listing was crazy (he's not read the story of mine). I joked back… and realized that I no longer feel broken in the way I did when I wrote that story. Healing has come, and with it, I believe, better writing.

I spent years so deep in fear and depression I could barely write at all. Now that I am happy? I can, and I do, and it is a delight, rather than a catharsis of pain on a page. To those who proclaim that you must be depressive to write true literature, I say Phooey! I am more in control of my own head, and emotions, which allows me to channel characters without tainting them as they pass through my head.

It's a good thing. I'm happy. And next week, I begin a marathon writing session to complete the next novel before the end of June. I'm excited, and delighted to see Trickster Noir selling well [note from Future Cedar: it did sell well and still does!], but it's more about being able to write, without having to bleed on every page. Heart's blood has its place. But to lose too much would kill me.