Comic Relief

I have written some pretty dark stuff lately. Riots with body counts, bombings, scenes that traumatize my protagonists. The United States is falling into disorder, and in two years there will be no United States.

I may write dark, but I don’t write unrelieved grim. There is always humanity. There is always hope. And there is always humor. My characters shine in small moments where humor peeks out, and sometimes I go from subtle smirks to full-out silliness.

Take, for example, Nephilim cats. One of my Archetype characters created a passel of immortal Archetype cats that teleport and procreate. Their offspring, like human-Archetype crosses, fly. They also get into trouble flying around outsiders. The beauty is that most humans can’t believe their eyes, and they ignore the obviously flying cats. But when the outsider recognizes this cat is actually flying, and the ten-year-old girls are scolding him for letting the secret out … a tense moment of an outsider knowing secrets gets silly.

I worry sometimes about my sense of humor. On the other hand, I worry that my writing can get too dark. I wonder if I have the balance right. I would love feedback on this, so if you’re one of my readers, please let me know! Link to my books here.

A Touch of Darkness

I shy away from writing about dark subjects in my blog. It’s strange because I’ve had several dark times in my life. I don’t want people to think I’m pandering for attention, even though the reason writers post their works in the first place is to get attention.

I won’t write dark for dark’s sake, nor will I use gratuitous trauma as a shortcut to character development. Yes, someone’s past will contribute to their character. But I won’t use trauma as the only character trait or even the main one, and only if it’s pertinent to the story. (See also the “fridging” phenomenon—killing a girlfriend character to motivate the main male character.)

Writing about dark topics in my stories is something I must work my way up to every time. For example, the body count in Apocalypse. I had trouble killing anyone, but a developmental editor told me that the last battle had to look hopeless, so I killed eight characters. I also, ironically, edited that book for gratuitous darkness because I had tried the cheap way to make it darker.

Sometimes an entire book is dark. Carrying Light, one of the two I’m currently writing, is a dark novel, being that it’s written at the cusp of the collapse of the United States. Apocalypse is dark, because the fate of humanity hangs in the balance. But it was hard to write these dark enough at first.

In the end, I think darkness needs to balance light. That’s just me; I know there are people who write dark all the time, with lots of death, depersonalization, and alienation. I can’t write there, because all my writing adopts a quote from ee cummings: “The single secret will still be man.”

Fog

I wish I had seen the fog before it rose.

Fog smooths out all the edges of everyday life, softens the corners of the houses, tangles in the branches of trees, muffles the sounds of automobiles.

Fog obscures the view in front of us, defying even the illumination of headlights, and forces us to proceed cautiously.

Fog whispers secrets, like the witch in a fairy tale, and like the fairy tale, we can walk through the fog and never find the truth.

Fog reminds us that we can’t see everything. We can’t know everything.

Day 27 Reflection: Gratitude

Everyone knows that gratitude makes people happier.

Maybe not everyone, but popular psychology instructs us to write gratitude journals, naming a magic three things per day that we feel grateful for. One can find gratitude journals in hard-bound form, in smartphone apps, and in Facebook memes. That’s because gratitude journaling works, according to research in positive psychology (Emmons and McCullough, 2003).

Some days it’s hard to write anything in the gratitude journal. Days when little things go wrong one after another, we hug those hurts to ourselves as if to use them as currency to bargain with our Maker for better luck. When we fall into negative self-talk, learned patterns of pessimism, we can’t find a thing to be grateful for. Gratitude doesn’t come to mind when we suffer from depression or post-traumatic stress disorder.

I have those days of suffering, given that I live with Bipolar 2, which I’ve been open about in these pages. I also wrestle with negative self-talk. I’ve wrangled these two into submission for the most part, but still depression and darkness pop out at times.

I challenge the darkness with gratitude:

I am grateful for my bipolar disorder, because it has made me take care of myself. I am grateful because it has given me insight into suffering.

I am grateful for getting my manuscripts rejected because it has forced me to work harder and improve my writing.

I am grateful for my struggles because they remind me that nothing is simple in life.

Dark thoughts

I go through periods of time when I have dark thoughts. Most people don’t talk about their dark thoughts, unless rhey are screaming at God (a pretty healthy thing to do) or if a very talented therapist pulls them out. I have had very talented therapists and I didn’t even talk to them about the dark thoughts.

The dark thoughts are like existential questions, but the answers already seem set in stone. Thoughts like “I have not contributed anything to the world”. “I don’t feel like I truly know anyone”, “I have always been weird (which is worse than strange, I could accept strange)”, “Nobody would miss me if I died”… And that’s where the abyss opens up and swallows me.

With my imagination, it seems like I should fantasize about my heroic self fighting my way out of the dank forest, but part of the darkness is that I do not believe that I deserve good. I get triggered by failures, small and large, and how could there be a hero within me?

I wish I could tell you that all it takes to get me out of dark thoughts is for someone (my husband for example) to say, “But I love you! You’re worthwhile! People would miss you if you died!” It’s not as easy as that. I can argue with the best; I’m capable of convincing you that I have no intrinsic value.

Sometimes something breaks through. Sincere words to hug to myself, small gestures, a chance encounter on the street. A memory of something that went well. Writing things that we’re not supposed to talk about, like dark thoughts.

The Darkest Pit

Eighteen feet down where the sun doesn’t touch me
I tumbled, landed hard, the wind knocked from me,
still alive. Screaming for help doesn’t count
in the woods where nobody lives.

Crab-crawling on the walls doesn’t help, nor does
trying to jump, or wishing a ladder or
screaming for help in the woods where nobody lives
and my telephone landed above.

God helps those who help themselves,
says the adage, which implies to me
That this God turns his back on the helpless
and that I will starve to death in this hole.

The dead don’t exhort their God from the grave,
The living give testimony in their churches;
the sample is biased.When I die,
no one will blame God for forsaking me.