Like most of us, I write out of a compulsion that shares many of its qualities with mental illness. Not only voices, but entire imaginary lives being led inside the confines of my head. Horrible wracking self-doubt. Insomnia. Substance abuse. Inappropriate outbursts. Depression always waiting around the next corner, its collar turned up, lighting a cigarette… hunched and grinning.
For an activity that is predicated on communication, writing is pitifully lonely, sometimes.
You wrestle with an idea, you get some early words on the page, you can’t stop thinking about it for days, possibly weeks, until maybe it begins to take some kind of shape. You hone it, you tease it, you poke at it, you beat the living crap out of it. It beats you back. Hurts you. You live and breathe it. Then one day, it’s ready. The “market” is ready. All of a sudden, you are forced into the harsh daylight of commerce and consumerism, and you have to be able to handle that, too. Or your baby will be stillborn. Continue reading “A-Team to X-Men”