A Story to Tell

It’s been over a month since I last posted, and probably over a year since I posted something like this.  My new life as an expat has its challenges, and said challenges have kept me away from my writing as a necessity.  But since writing is probably more a part of me than my career choice, you can probably imagine the slow metaphorical death I’m undergoing.  Living in the Kingdom is especially challenging in so many ways.  The only way I can deal with it is to (1) focus on my kids and (2) travel as often as possible.

I’ve said before that I’m living my dream.   As I write this, I am sitting in a lovely hotel in Rome, Italy.  I’m a block from the Piazza del Popolo and maybe 15 minutes from Vatican City.  Italy is and always has been #1 on the bucket list; the first place I wanted to travel to when I was a child.  Momma gave me a globe and I picked out the boot and said I wanted to try it on.

But then my life took a turn—as life does—and Italy became a dream, a mirage.  I spent 20 years of my life as a caregiver and caretaker to my parents.  I watched my friends go out, have fun, date, fall in love, get married, have babies, etc.  My life was different: countless hospital visits, learning how to distribute medicines, understanding the effects of ravaging diseases, surgeries upon surgeries, all while working (and later, going to graduate school).  I had minimal help.  I tried to date, but it was too much.  I knew my parents wanted me to have that life but between caring for them and working, I had no time for myself, and that included self-care.  At this time, I was undiagnosed, so my emotions swung like a pendulum. 

Mania and the Nightingales

My yearly cycle certainly is maintaining itself.  I’ve been busy in the way that matters most to me: creatively.  Academic business is an aspect of this, as when I can write creatively, I can also write academically.  This is a good thing, as May draws closer, so does graduation.  But I’m not here to talk about school shit, as it’s boring.  Within the past three weeks, I drafted the first Nightingales book, CRASH!!! and am currently drafting the second, cool air.  In doing this, I was inspired to create a blog to supplement the series.  I’m keeping it private for now, and it won’t be ready for consumption until CRASH!!! is published later this year.

The Creative Network

It’s funny how ideas connect between people.  It’s fascinating how one person’s creative muse can channel and inspire the muse of another.  It’s actually wonderful when it happens, because I don’t believe it is something that happens regularly, at least in my experience.

As you may or may not know, my partner in crime and fellow lunatic Ankhesen Mié began work on a series heavily inspired and influenced by Grey’s Anatomy and Star Trek called “Gaya’s Astronomy.”  Whether you’re a fan of these shows or not doesn’t matter, as the series stands alone and doesn’t require familiarity of either canon.  Gaya’s Astronomy follows the adventures and exploits of a group of Ensigns shortly after graduating from Starfleet Academy.  I highly recommend it; it’s well-written, laugh-out-loud funny and the characters are fascinating and memorable…and *lowers head and whispers* just recently, she introduced a character inspired by my second baby’s daddy, Rick Yune, but that’s neither here nor there.  *back in regular voice*  Ankh treats GA like an actual TV show; it has an opening montage and soundtrack, and the volumes are set up as seasons, and each episode is a chapter.  We’re nearly at the end of Season 4 and just when you think Ankh can’t go any further, she does and tops herself.  Hence the beauty of the muse. 

In This, A New Year...

I’ve had the flu for the past month, which is the reason I haven’t been posting as much as I would normally.  The older you get, the longer it takes to rebound from illness and injury.   December is also the month when my yearlong emotional cycle is at its lowest point, so I can take comfort in knowing that soon I’ll be in a better place mentally and emotionally.  One of the things that I’ve come to understand with being bipolar is that I have to let my emotions do what they do.  I can’t (and won’t) suppress them.  If I’m shifting, I let my loved ones know that I have to be off the grid for a couple of days and they understand why.  It is the way my life is now, and if I’m to be happy and productive, I have to make adjustments in order to do so.

Hard

Something that has been made clear—painfully so—is that when I feel something, I feel it hard.  When I’m happy, I’m really happy.  When I’m hurting, I feel like dying.  When I’m angry—it’s rage.   When I’m sad, I’m depressed.  All a result of my mild imbalance, but there all the same.  So when I love—I love hard. To a small group of loved ones, I am loyal to the core.  Need a piece of change; I got you.  Need a quick/fast/in a hurry babysitter; I’m there.  Need help with a beatdown; I’m rolling up my sleeves.  If you need me and you’re someone I love, there is nothing I won’t do for you.

I’ve said in previous posts that I regularly come across guys who—while nice—don’t move the thermostat.  There’s something so bland about the situation that I instantly forget it and move on.  It’s not that I don’t want a nice guy.  I need something more, something hard.

So I guess if and when I come across the right guy who moves my ‘stat, I’m sure I’ll know a few things:  He’ll be strong enough, loyal enough and hard enough to handle me.  He has to be; I can’t be bothered with anything less.  He won’t be someone I can walk over or ignore; nor I, he.  It’ll definitely be chess, not checkers.  It’ll be war, Mr. & Mrs. Smith style; just without the weapons.  We’ll probably come out of it heads (metaphorically) bloodied but unbowed…and tighter than a pair of skinny jeans on a fat girl.

I love hard.  He needs to do the same.  We’ll clash because we have so much in common.  Probably fight like Ike and Tina (except I’m not getting my ass beat.  Spanked is another thing entirely *wink* :D)  But then the makeup will be equally explosive; like Sid and Nancy (without the heroin).  I laugh hard; to the point of tears, hitches and belly-aches.  He needs to have that ability.  There is no length I won’t go to make him happy, and I expect reciprocity.  I deserve that.

I know couples who live a passionless life, and have been told that their love lives are fairly indifferent.  The lives of married people confuse me, but I digress.  I suppose because I run hot, I’m incapable of being in a dispassionate relationship.  This is perhaps the reason why none of my previous relationships lasted longer than six months.  I dated nice guys, good men, respectable men, but there was something anesthetizing about our connections.  Nothing got my blood up, and that was a problem.  That’s when the thermostat analogy first reared its head. 

Time has passed and I understand better the nature of my passion.  I can’t handle being with a guy that registers nothing more than lukewarm.  But at least I recognize it and won’t waste his or my time.  When I come across what appears to be interesting men, I’m paying all kinds of attention to see if the ‘stat moves.  It hasn’t happened yet, but I’m convinced it will.  I love hard, and I won’t settle for less.

I’m sure I’m not the only one.

The Muse

So I have a new blog buddy, Kdaddy23.  He was talking about some experiences of his which I think would make a fantastic novel.  I offered him a suggestion or two, which got me to thinking about the enormity of my own creative spirit. 

As you may or may not know, I’ve been writing ever since I was a child.  I knew early on that I wanted to be a writer; it was something that just made sense.  It was a compulsion and I defaced a lot of my father’s books for want of something to write on.  My mother recognized my addiction and bought me my first typewriter when I was eight.  I taught myself how to type and produced my first book shortly thereafter.  From then on, it was game on.  I read as much as I wrote and absorbed the words and the writing styles of my favorite authors.  It was just a part of who I was.  Mama got me a better typewriter when I was 12, and my stories got longer and more complex.  I actually wrote and completed my first "real" book at 14, which was a major accomplishment.  I even drew a cover and tried to bind it with rubber cement.

I also used to write when I was in school whenever the teachers lectured.  It wasn’t a secret; everybody knew I was scribbling stuff underneath my class notes.  Sometimes I would pass pages along for my classmates to read.  It never detracted from my school work, but it was an obsession.  I wrote stories that were an amalgam of what I saw on TV, what I read, and what I saw in my mind.  I couldn’t help myself.  Obviously, there was something deeper at work.  I was a moody, mercurial child; prone to fits of rage, and it was especially during this time that I did a lot of writing.  I couldn’t help it.  I was driven, but I didn’t question the force that drove me. I wore out my typewriter in high school, but I would sneak and write stories on the school computers, and if I could get away with it, print them out.  My file cabinet is full of my teenage scribbling and I guard them with my life.  No one will ever lay eyes on those stories.

I’ve developed my own style over the years and found resources that helped me become better at my craft.  I never took a creative writing class while in college; it didn’t make sense for me to take a class in something I was born to do.  But I did read magazines and books on what I could do to improve my writing, because I didn’t have a beta or anyone I trusted with my stuff.  It didn’t matter; the need to write was overwhelming and I knew it was something I had to do or I wouldn’t survive.  When I was angry, I wrote.  When I was sad, I wrote.  When I was hyper, I wrote.  If I was struck with an impression, there was nothing I could do except write about it.  God forbid if I was hit over the head with multiple thoughts that coalesced into one powerful idea.  If that happened, the compulsion to tell the story overwhelmed me and everything else became insignificant details.  Then there were the times when I couldn’t write a single word, even though I was full of ideas.  I would sit and stare at a blank screen or piece of paper and wonder why I couldn’t focus my thoughts enough to start a story.  It was frustrating, but there was nothing to be done about it.

I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and took the time to reflect over my life.  I realized that my ability to write coincided with shifts between mania and depression.  Sometimes the shifts are mild and sometimes they are extreme.  Mild shifts produced short stories and unfinished pieces with heavy undercurrents, but powerful shifts allowed me to produce novels (be they fanfic or other) with dark and deviant content; as if I was conveying repressed memories and stuff that I had no business knowing anything about.  When I examined my work between mood swings, I could not believe I’d written it.  The stories are laden with obscure references and multilayered meanings.  Sometimes I have no clue as to where all of the detail came from.  Sometimes I have to ask if it was actually me that was sitting there telling the story, as opposed to being a channel for a greater entity.

My insight helped me to understand the force that guides me: my muse.  There’s no rhyme or reason to when she visits, but when she does, I am sucked into her embrace where I happily reside until she leaves me.  She’s a lover of the greatest kind; a spirit which opens my mind and clarifies my thoughts until they’re lasers and I can see miles and years beyond my experience.  Truly, there is no better place for me to be, even though she makes emotionally raw inside and drains my brain until I'm incoherent.  I’m incapable of doing little else; I’m forced to go to work because I like living in a house, but as far as anything else?  No.  I have minimal contact with my friends.  I forget to get the mail, I don’t sleep, I forget to eat, and I sit for hours and hours in the dark and my fingers move like lightning over my keyboard as I try to keep up with the movie in my mind.  When I do come up for air, my legs and back are stiff and my hands and eyes hurt.  My stomach is furious because I forgot to feed it. 

These are minimal concerns because the muse is greater than my discomfort.  It’s a marvelous thing that my bills are paid electronically, otherwise I’d be screwed.  When I’m open like this, I can write multiple convoluted novels at once, and I can seamlessly move back and forth between them without confusing characters, plots, scenes or descriptions.  I thought that was normal, but apparently it’s not.  At least that’s what the people with the alphabet soup behind their names say.

I’m sure I’m not done talking about this.  I have some questions for those of you that are authors: do you know your muse?  Do you have one?  What compels you to sit down and write what you write?  Do you recognize it as something other?  When did you realize that, at your center, you were a true writer?  And does everything else you do pale in comparison?

The Gift & the Curse

“We of the craft are all crazy.”  --Lord Byron

Recently, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder.  I’ve always considered myself a bit…different…than others, especially growing up.  My mother always called me hyper or high-strung.  My temper was explosive, as were my crying spurts.  Neither made any sense; sometimes I raged, sometimes I cried, but during each phase, I wrote like a madwoman.  I have a cabinet of unpublished material that will probably never see the light of day due to the content.

After I lost my mother in 2008, my depression was deep and long.  I slept when I wasn’t working, and when I was at work, I’m not sure exactly what I did to get through the workday.  I was exhausted all the time and in this instance, I was too tired to write.  I knew something was wrong and eventually got some help.  I couldn’t go on like I was.

I was diagnosed first with depression, but my therapist noticed that I was also experiencing mania.  She asked me a series of questions, which ultimately led to the correct diagnosis and the correct medication.  Since that time, I have spent time examining the whole of my life and everything I’d experienced made complete sense.  Everything, especially the unpretty parts, I could understand with total simplicity.  The periods between mania and depression are called shifts, and if you look at the condition as a sine wave, manias are crests and depressions are troughs.  The zero point represents “normality.”

I want to be clear:  There is nothing wrong with me.  I was born with unbalanced neurotransmitters, and it is something I inherited from my mother.  Being born bipolar is no different than being born with diabetes; both are a result of chemical imbalances.  Just like a diabetic has to take insulin to regulate blood sugar, I have to take a pill that regulates my dopamine and serotonin levels.  It is by no means a perfect solution; the higher the dosage, the more balanced I am and I’m on a very low dosage by choice.  

As an author, I need my mania and depression in order to write.  I’ve been writing all my life and I have to do it or I don’t think I’d survive.  I lack the lucidity to tell stories when I’m “normal,” but when I’m shifting, I have total clarity and can write several novels at the same time.  I’ve been doing this for years, and I prefer my periods of shifting as opposed to being stable.  Most artists do, and a lot of them stop taking their meds, or refuse to take them at all because they lose the ability to create when they’re not shifting.  Sometimes the shifts are so bad and so extreme that the mind can't take it, and some people commit suicide.

However, my daily life requires enough stability so that bills can be paid.  Understanding my condition has allowed me to identify triggers of mania and depression and embrace them consequently.  I know what to expect and what to do when they come.  I know that there are times when I’ll cry or rage for no apparent reason, or I’ll find myself writing, painting, or building LEGO houses for hours on end without knowing how much time has passed.  I’ll know I’ll be on medication for the rest of my days, and I accept that as the way my life is.  It’s the gift and the curse.

I’m not afraid to share this information.  Mental disorders in the black community have often been overlooked and ignored.  I’ve often heard that mental illness is a “white folks’ thing,” and “Black folks can’t afford to be crazy.”  Black women are expected to be strong.  However, strength can be demonstrated in knowing when we need help and getting it accordingly.

There are plenty of authors, actors, musicians and artists who have suffered from bipolar disorder, including Virginia Woolf, Linda Hamilton, Charles Schultz, Vincent Van Gogh, Mary Shelley and Ludwig van Beethoven.  Other artists who’ve struggled with the disorder are Charley Pride, Tennessee Williams, DMX, Vivien Leigh, William Styron, and Bobby Brown.  Even people like Jane Pauley, Ruth Graham, Marlon Brando, Abraham Lincoln & Janet Jackson have all had experiences with bipolar disorder.  It is not a black thing, a white thing, or any kind of "thing."  It is a treatable condition, and the more people know about it and understand it, the sooner the stigma of being “crazy” can be put to rest.

Suggested Reading:

Touched With Fire & An Unquiet Mind by Kay Redfield Jamison

Bipolar Disorder & the Creative Mind

Into the Void, part deux

So I'm lying in my bed with the windows open, listening to the rain fall.  The TV is on, blatting nonsense, and my room is lit with a solitary lamp.  I like the dark.  I like the night.  I love thunderstorms and rain that dances on the roof.  The smell of the air right before a storm is crisp and tight and practically has texture.  The sound of it whistling through the trees is like a lover beckoning me deeper into the dark.  There's supposed to be a storm coming and I hope I've not been cheated.  For my name means night rain darkness and it is when nature converges at this point that I am what my name is.

I am prepared for the visit; my skin is soft and warm and fragrant, my breath sweet, my eyes clear and bright, and my body ripe with anticipation.  My hair fans out around my head in a glorious dark halo and I know my love can't resist me.


My lover whispers my name, sweet and low.  The touch of his hand is a cool breeze, made more potent by the darkness of the sky and the swelling raindrops that will soon come to earth.  When I let him touch me and lead me, I'm deep into the darkness and the dreams where my creative spirit is anchored.  It is here where I conceptualize and create and see the worlds beyond the one I live in under another name.  But that me isn't the true me; what comes up and out of that void is the real me.  Pure, untouched, fundamental...raw.

I'm waiting for the rain.  I need the thunder.  I require the storm.  If I am to take the hand of my lover, I need these things to happen.  There in the void, I feel images, stories, novellas, novels...words waiting for me.  I see them in my mind's eye; feel them in the darkness of my heart.  There is where my true love lies, brought to me by the storm.


I'm waiting for the rain...and I hear it now...

Rage, the Flexible Bullet

I’ve had the fortune (or misfortune; depending on the way you swing) to know some people who are so twisted with anger that they are barely visible to the rest of the world.  The genesis of the rage finds its way constantly into conversations; while the details are a bit sketchy, I’m able to grasp how and why these people became so mad.

I know what true rage means.

Anger in small doses is excellent; it clears your mind, focuses your thoughts and is a wonderful motivator.  But just like a car engine that has to cool after being driven, anger must be allowed to dissipate.  It will naturally if left to its own devices.  It takes work to stay mad.  You have to constantly remind yourself of the people that did you wrong or the situations that you were deliberately or inadvertently put in that caused the break.  You’re always revving the car and making it run hot.  What ends up happening is that you eventually burn out the engine.  The brain and the mind are no different.  For people who are constantly, consistently mad, I imagine that they wake up thinking about ways to assign blame to others just to keep the emotions high.  They may even put themselves into situations so that their pain isn’t allowed to end.

I love astronomy, so forgive the metaphors.  But they’re relevant. The energy an angry person uses is equivalent to fusion in the core of a supergiant star.  It burns and burns until the star goes supernova, and then there is nothing left but a tiny black cinder.  This is equal, IMHO, to the soul or the heart of a person who has stayed mad for years and never allowed the hate to die.  They’ve allowed the rage to consume them and it spews forth in vituperative rants that are caused by the slightest perceived insult.  They go off at the drop of a hat and lose their focus of the initial conversation; what typically results is some bastardized version of what went wrong in their lives.

Most people don’t want to be around this.  Everyone hurts or has been hurt in some form or fashion; some deeper and more extensive than others.  I am in no way disregarding their pain or making light of their situation.  I’m speaking of people who don’t know any other way to be but upset.  A person can’t go on forever manufacturing ways to perpetuate their rage.  It will consume them, burn them out and make them a shell of their former selves.  It isolates them because no one wants to be around a person who is pissed off every minute of every day.  It’s futile because the kind of stress that prolonged anger puts on a person can make her/him physically and mentally ill.  Regardless as to what someone thinks is owed to them, the fact of the matter is that the situation may never get resolved to her/his liking.  And the truth is that s/he may never know about it.

Stephen King once described madness as a flexible bullet.  The projectile is fired into the world to hurt others, but it eventually rebounds and kills the person who shot it off in the first place.  The same can be said of prolonged rage.  Individuals who are always angry throw darts—verbal and physical, metaphorically speaking—to hurt those around them, but they eventually are destroyed by the emotional barbs they shoot off.   Some think a change of scenery (or, gasp! a man) will make everything better, but no matter where you go, there you are.  

To a person who is so consumed by rage, please get some help.  Seek out counseling and work those issues out with someone who can be objective about your situation.  A lot of people want to belittle the mental health profession and discount the fact that there are millions and millions of people who truly need psychological help.  If you are so warped by past hurts that you can barely see life passing you by, call your insurance provider and get them to refer you to an in-network therapist.  Get some help and get yourself together.  The people who love you will put up with you, but only for so long, and only until the bullets you fire hurt or kill them.

If you think I have absolutely no idea of what I’m talking about and I’m just regurgitating some bullshit I read from somewhere else or heard from another person, then you could not be more wrong.  Game recognizes game, or in this case, takes one to know one.