One thing that keeps me most grounded so that I can continue to write dark fiction is traveling. I love to travel to new places, small
places, little known places. The places where you find the tiny hole in the wall places and best experiences that keep you alive and loving life. In truth, it’s the only way to write about the dark, to know that the light is out there somewhere, too.
When I told coworkers and friends I was going to Amarillo, they asked why. I said, “Because I’ve never been before.” Apparently that’s never a good answer. I began to wonder if I had actually said, “I want to eat your children,” because of the horrified look they each gave me individually. But I set out to prove them wrong.
And I did. Images of our trip are peppered herein. But I realized in writing this post exactly why I do what I do and travel the country looking for the long lost hidden gems that nobody knows, or cares, about. That reason was alluded to a moment ago.
I write dark. I write dark because my mind lives in the dark and macabre. I used to enjoy this in a disgusting masochistic way. Now, I actually dislike “going there.” But it’s both what entertains the reader and what I know.
Going to new places and feeling new things is a (hopefully) more healthy way of “feeling” rather than
cutting myself or other harmful psychotic actions I’ve used in my past. Traveling to the middle of nowhere where my ears scream for sound (I have tinnitus apparently) grounds me in the real. I don’t take many pictures because it’s amazing to live in the here and now. For decades I lived in the past and the made up futures that played out in my head.
If you want to know anything about the images/places you see, ask. Otherwise, simply share in the joy that is their reality.