When it comes it rushes through like the tidal wave of energy, filling my soul and making me wonder. “What the hell was that?” I stop writing for a minute, stare at the page at the words so eloquently placed on the page. It feels like someone else has possessed my soul for those few minutes.
There is something inside me that wants out. I try to keep it hidden, keep it from public view. It claws at my neck, digging into my skin, pulling at the tendons until finally it rises like a villain from a slasher movie, back again to kill something fresh.
I’ve seen it coming, but as always I try to keep it at bay by writing short stories to satiate its feedings. Something has changed, it no longer wants feedings, it wants a meal. I’m close to finishing my book. A book that is not what I expected, nor is anyone else. It is eloquent, philosophical, and not what I said it would be.
I tried writing something that is not me, something that is light, something that doesn’t have these things that claw and pull at my soul. I tried for the last few months and like the last few years the story failed, and it failed miserably. I write stories sometimes with these things, but they are short. I think this story is meant for that, otherwise I wouldn’t have these problems.
Like my post about U2 and “Streets Have No Name” I am at a point in my writing where this darker self has come through again, and she wants to be fed. I say she because that is the term I’ve always used for it. My darker self is waiting in the wings, she wants to be fed and from now on I will feed her what she wants. My longer, novel length stories are like that, my shorter stories are not. When they are, I constantly think I can do more to them.
Short stories were my way to control this thing. Now she doesn’t want to be controlled she wants to do the controlling, so I’ve given her the reigns.