Through other writer’s stories I have navigated to the surface from underground places where my only ally, and my only villain, is me, sometimes disguised as a reptile. Not an unusual trait for a writer (or artist) but I am challenged with (suffer from, experience, embrace) severe depressive episodes. I have learned to build and maintain depression escape tunnels where the walls are lined with things to make me feel better. Books, movies in particular, are embedded into the walls, each a rung of hope helping me to clamber out of my gritty and isolated hole.
This is why I am a writer: I want to return the favor. I want to craft stories to inspire people, to awaken spirit, to share my blueprint and help others design their own tunnels, to elicit emotion, to promote thinking and inner reflection, to entertain, to clearly elucidate my version of the world as I emerge back into the daylight, each time adding a new rung to the ever lengthening ladder.
My inner voice is gurgling just below my dermal layer, begging me to let her free, tired of being kept inside a box of simple language, of documenting ideas created by others, of losing my words and being devastated, instead of elevated, by words such as “you do not fit in”.
I am a non-breeder with no chance of passing on my genetic faults or brilliance. So far, my writing influence is relatively anonymous, local, and ultimately, short-lived. By the time I go underground forever, I want to have written pieces that impact and influence the world around me. I want to create a personal legacy that exists long after only one generation. I want to build a permanent well-lit tunnel where there are only ladders, and no snakes.