I am cycling into my other winter period of mental malaise. Concentration slipping some. Frustration mounting as my patience dissolves. Embers of irrational anger flare in the core of me. Dark thoughts dance with wild notions.
As usual, I find solace from it all in my own detailed delirium. Through my imaginary world and people who only exist in my mind, I find peace and defense against the onslaught.
‘Corrupted Souls’, the forth Jonathan Alvey novel, is progressing quite well. I am still writing it like no other novel I have written before, however. I jump from here to there, writing scenes in various chapters across the chronological span of it.
This is proving no difficulty in my ability to record and keep straight the plot. Probably I should be thanking the gods for my insanity. Confused and racing thoughts all my life have trained my brain to deal with it, to sort it out (as best it can) allowing me to write this novel all helter skelter.
It is my insanity that allows me the time to work at my writing. Because of my disability I have all the time I could want to chase down my Muse’s whispers. Yet, I find it hard to give thanks.
I don’t curse and rail against my condition. But I can’t quite give thanks for it either.
I am a survivor. I have found/been given/lucked out, on a escape from most of the things my mind does. It is creating a reality to which I can transport myself.
In the ‘real’ world taking to imaginary people and believing in impossible things is a sign of insanity. Luckily, since I already am, they just call me a writer.