It’s Saturday morning here and I’m hunkered down in my favourite café, enjoying a couple of coffees and tapping away on the laptop. Weekends aren’t any different for me, just another day to play with words and see where they take me.
No matter what day it is, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. This hasn’t always been the case.
In 2014, depression wrapped its tentacles around me and pulled me into a deep black hole. Unable to cope with anything more than merely surviving each day, I shut down my business and walked away from the career I’d worked in since University. I had no idea what came next and, to be honest, I didn’t care. If there wasn’t going to be a tomorrow, that suited me just fine.
Throughout my life, books and writing had always been major elements. I guess having a published, award-winning author father will do that to you.
I’d dabbled with my own writing over the years. There were the high school English assignments and business documents after graduation, but I’d also experimented with fiction. Firstly, to impress Dad as he carved out his new career, and later for myself. My computer is still cluttered with false starts and unfinished ideas. I enjoyed the time I spent playing with these pieces but never felt like I had what it took to pursue it any further.
As the black clouds of my depression started to lift (thanks to good medicine and good therapy) and it looked like I would have a future after all, I started to wonder what that might look like, and whether I could have a hand in creating one that suited me better.
I was playing again at my writing. Nothing serious, just killing time. One day, I realised that writing was the last thing I thought about at night, the first thing in the morning, and (a first for many, many years) actually made me feel good. Well, better.
I still put the idea of being a “real” writer in the same basket as fronting my own classic rock band. Just loving music isn’t enough. It takes a bit of talent, and the persistence to do the work, none of which I could see in my past.
But …
But writing made me feel better and gave me hope, which I needed desperately at the time.
None of my pieces of work had ever been finished. For “work”, read: “jumbles of words crammed together and self-assessed as garbage”.
But …
I choked down the voice of dissent long enough to realise that I needed to learn more, and I needed to learn from the best. So before I could stop me, I ordered Stephen King’s On Writing.
For those who haven’t read it, the first half of the book is a romp through King’s formative years and had me crying with laughter. The second part of the book, though, is where the magic happens. King lays out a set of principles for writing and then goes on to talk about where his ideas come from and why he doesn’t believe in outlining. This all culminates in a challenge for the reader to undertake a writing exercise—start with the nub of an idea proposed by King, and write.
Write. Don’t think. Just write.
What the hell, I’ve got nothing else planned.
An hour later I sat back, equal parts drained and exhilarated. A 1500 word short story blinked at me from my laptop. It was compelling, human, and reasonably tight. And it was dark. Very dark.
Holy fuck, where did that come from?
The only phrase that I could come up with to describe what had just happened was “vomiting from my heart through my fingers” (apologies if you’re eating). The whole process was violent, unbidden and, once started, completely beyond my control. I was just a conduit between something I couldn’t explain and the funny squiggles we call letters peering at me from the screen.
For the first time, I felt like something connected me to actually being a writer. But, 1500 words is one thing. A full novel? I knew that was a completely different kettle of fish.
Still, I had nothing else planned. So I took myself to the café the next morning (the same one where I’m writing this) and started to heart vomit again.
And the next day. And the day after that. Trying to get a couple of thousand words on the screen each day, and not think too far ahead.
Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
Six months later, I looked over the rims of a hundred empty coffee cups and celebrated the first drafts of two 100,000 word manuscripts.
One of these was the seventh Rafferty book, False Gods. It still needed plenty of shaping and polishing before it would be ready for public release, but still… It was there, it was real, and I had been able to do the work to bring it to life.
And, along the way, the clouds had peeled back to the horizon, and I could feel the sun again. I know the dark clouds will always be there, but playing with words enables me to keep them out on the fringe and not gathering overhead.
I’m now doing what I am meant to do and I love every moment of it. I will be writing for the rest of my life, which I now look forward to.
And the whole time I will be ever grateful to Rafferty, and Stephen King, for helping me to see far enough to realise it.