There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” ~ Ernest Hemingway
We aren’t the typical family. We don’t share familial blood reaching back generations, but we do suffer from a shared madness. Our family curse, non compos mentis, brings us together to chew over our afflictions, to swap outlines and plots.
We hear voices. Voices telling us tales that we are compelled to recount. We see faces. Imaginary people who live, and die according to our pen, according to our words.
A collective mania settles in the fringes of our awareness, leading us into darkness, carrying us along in a torrent of emotions, sometimes tragic, often joyful. Swirling around in our consciousness, struggling to break free, once unfettered, these characters, these entities, are as real, as mortal as we are.
No 12-step support group, instead a conspiracy. What is the best way to poison an unfaithful lover? Should our youthful heroine marry her elitist paramour, or runaway with her working class soul mate?
We won’t know until we finally sit down, open a vein, and bleed out our stories.