Every situation I’m in, I write it out in my mind. I break down what’s going on around me and put it into words. Mostly dark words. Mostly unforgiving. A lot of people look at me weird, so I can only conclude that I talk to myself. I can’t say it bothers me.
For instance, I’m coming up to 40 and my best buddy can’t make the celebrations – so in my head, he’s being chased by a band of sex starved badgers, cornered and ‘enjoyed’ by them. The walls have graffiti and his blood on them. There’s a blue Biffa bin, that has parts of his brain on, where he tried to end the ordeal. He is wearing black patent dress shoes, which is odd as it’s lightly raining and they forced him to skid into the aforementioned bin, as he tried in vain to escape. His azure blue tie is still in place, whilst one of the badgers ‘enters’ his ear, reaching a crescendo with wild cries.
I’m not bitter about him not coming. Honestly. I just like detail.
When I’m in the office and people are being busy, at being busy, the cogs in my mind come to life and I’m taken away to far off lands and darkness. Always darkness. There are reasons for the darkness to stain the brightness I have in life, but it would take a few books to get it all out and my stomach doesn’t need it.
But, this all creates a problem for me. Most people I come into contact with, think I’m a single shoe size away from being a mentalist. Believing that there is a Soft Cell waiting for me, no Ball to play with, no Almonds to consume though.
My sense of humour offends A LOT of people. People aren’t running away from me, but they are definitely a little wary of the bleak recesses of my grey, hat contents.
I struggle with people, catching words before they fall out and pollute those around me. I’m never me, fully me, because I desperately don’t want to piss people off. Despite what people think of me, I actually care. I have a merry band of like minded/ill individuals and together we evade the authorities, stay off registers type of thing. These people are an enormous help, maybe they don’t even know it, without our little group, some, probably all of us, would be locked up.
I recently asked the Twitter world of authors, what they wanted from their writing. It was a clear split between a best seller and critical acclaim. I suppose the reason I write is because I have a millions stories burning away in my noggin and I really need to get them out. Otherwise, I could start writing bad project plans at work.
Life has taught me that friendships mean different things to different people. That you crave the ones where the other side seems distant and take for granted those who are always close at hand. They aren’t all the same. We aren’t all the same. And there is no law about dreaming up disgusting ways for your mates to die. I don’t think…
The two shorts I wrote were quite bleak, merging elements of my life and elongating them with artistic license. I’m not as dark as the characters, but I write dark. My novella is a comedy so dark, people may need to read it via a torch. But, the novel I have just finished, is a heist book.
I’m confused. I can’t concentrate long enough (or I’m not intelligent enough) to figure out which genre I should be writing or what suits me best. Stories slip from me like an icy path to Satan’s front door, black ice created the interactions of those around me.
Humans, friends, people – have an innate ability to bend, break, ruin, rebuild and improve those around them.