This Bipolar Writer

I don’t talk about it. Dealing with it takes all I’ve got on most days—the highs and lows. Never mind the stigmata. It’s been tough on my family—shit, it’s been tough on me.

So why talk about it at all? It might help others understand my writing—subject, style, and emotions. I cannot help what goes on in my noggin. And those who walk my road know the gist—whining gets you jack. I won’t even get into the trauma I’ve inflicted on myself over the years. That’s a bloody and terrible tale for another day.

My fiancée and I have some interesting discussions, to say the least: a poor black girl from the hood and a poor-to-middling white boy from the country. She hasn’t always known about my situation. Lately, we’ve talked more on the subject—the ebb and flow of moods and emotions. She doesn’t fully understand why shit’s not lined up in my brain. The luck of the draw, I tell her. But here’s the deal: she gets it—and that’s the difference.

What does that mean exactly? There's no coddling (not my scene, man), and she doesn’t give me the old “suck it up” routine (I don’t shirk a responsibility—never have). She gives me space when the melancholy hits. When the turn comes, and I’m riding the high, she’s right there with me. We rock steady.

The roughest aspect: my son. I beat myself up over him. The sheer confusion of his daddy’s shifting moods—how difficult must it be for a young child to deal with those valleys and mountains? He’s such a great kid—easily the single best thing that’s ever happened to me. And somehow, even with his youth, he gets it too. Never underestimate the beauty and intelligence of a child.

Perspective: People will treat you differently because you’re bipolar. People will leave you because you’re bipolar. People will say it’s a choice to act this way (in some cases, it can be—if you don’t take care of yourself or give up completely). But, if you’re lucky and have the stones to let people in, you might find a person or two to back your play. We’ll label it empathy—fuck sympathy.

I deal by putting it down on paper. Everything—balls deep. I have to write—what’s going down on the page is what’s going down inside. I don’t have a choice but to write. And I won’t stop.

I hope you won’t either.

When Shit Goes South

I listen to Waylon Jennings.

9/13/22 Update: I'm listening to too much of old Watasha. 

Zurich, KS—Twelve Years Later

I recently took a road trip to my native homeland. My family has never left the area, and I’d been long out of touch. Zurich and the surrounding area shaped my life—both good and bad. I grew up there learning a work ethic seemingly forgotten in our current times. Along the way, I also rode those first critical waves of life experiences, both wonderful and horrible, that would influence the remainder of my life.

Upon arrival, I drove my fiancé through town (my parents live south of Zurich, in the country). I was shocked at the state of my childhood stomping grounds. I didn’t even snap photos—I didn’t and don’t want to remember it like this. The accompanying photo of Saindon’s corner store (beautiful memories), bank (the bank was gone even as a kid), poolhall (ditto), and Post Office (we didn’t have an address growing up—only a PO box) was kiped off the internet. Currently, with a population of around 85 people, the town seems to be falling in on itself. Like its pride has been stripped away by the heat and ever-present winds of the plains.  

Not to say Zurich was ever booming in my time. But there were always kids out playing, and now there are none. People kept their properties up, and now very few do. What holds it together and keeps the town alive are its exceptional people—rogues and prudent citizens alike.

I was able to experience this with the two most important people in my life: my nine-year-old son and fiancé, both city dwellers since birth. My little cowboy loved it—driving four-wheelers, riding lawn mowers, and discovering animals in their natural habitat. And I believe my girl, despite her upbringing (which was rough), is a country girl at heart. Both of them thrived. Both loved the overwhelming freedom of the rolling plains and the quiet that permeates and calms.

While the state of my old hometown is hard to take, the people draw me back and will continue to do so. I miss and love Zurich and Kansas.  

I love what being raised rural gave me.

Classic Crime Movie: The Case Against Brooklyn

 

As a classic film noir junkie, I’m always prowling for new material. I came across this and was hooked from the get-go. A rookie cop looking to climb the ranks and doing whatever it takes to make it happen—oh hell yes! The plot is solid. The acting is outstanding—Darren McGavin, as the new recruit, takes it to the hilt. McGavin is one of those forgotten actors, good in every damn role he played (Christmas Story and The Natural are his most notable). The supporting cast is right up there as well.

“The Case Against Brooklyn” (1958) is a new favorite and provides insight into what I'm working to achieve in my writing. Check it out—you’ll dig it.

Don't Chase the Rabbit

The rabbit being comparable titles recently published. I'm unwilling to fall into this chasm of nothingness. I read older books—masters who paved the way. Most crime writing today is watered-down bullshit meant not to offend. Writing pure doesn't cause offense. Instead, it offers a more accurate snapshot of how life was and is—not how we would like it to be to make ourselves feel justified and superior and enlightened. Do we really believe that someone living on the fringes wants to read some whitewashed dribble? Do you think they cannot handle the language involved—the language which is theirs, to begin with?

Ignorance is one thing. Naivete is another.

Focused

I’ve been playing around with a few short stories. I’m having a hard time getting motivated on them, though. After writing a 102k word novel, shorts feel like premature ejaculation—it’s okay, but I want more. I want to move forward with the next book in the series and focusing on anything other than my vision for this continuing crime saga is rough.

My issue is thoughts sometimes get muddled. I overthink things, overdo things—you know the drill. Getting hung up on the potential agent outcome will fuck with any writer’s head and send them on various mental escapades. 

Existential issues aside, I’m going to put my head down and work—on all fronts. Writers write, and that’s the gist. I’ll work on the short stories and notes for the next book. I enjoy the information gathering and thought process—brooding over such things keeps me centered. I dig the writing process too goddamn much. I’m not going to settle for the idea of being an author versus working hard to be one.

Query and Synopsis: Multiple Versions?

I started my query and synopsis long before my manuscript was completed. A rough process. You can research a hundred queries and as many synopses and still screw up your own. I figured waiting until my novel was absolutely complete would not be a smart move. I knew these two items were important. Each time I got bogged down in my writing, I’d switch to my query or synopsis for a bit. 

The first go-around, I tried hard to get the information in there. I figured agents need to know this shit, right? Then again, I also concluded that adding in more might come across as a lack of confidence. Agents are busy—long queries probably get nixed routinely. I could be wrong, but who the hell knows.

I wrote a couple of query and synopsis options: long, short, and varying word choices—every other agent wants something different. And it allows me to sound them out, seeing if one flows better than the other. At the very least, I’m not scrambling to start a document from scratch with each successive query. 

All of the above may be considered moot until I land an agent. But being prepared—giving it your all—is always the best course of action. It’s the only damn way I know how to do things.