I know there are studies that show that writers are able to alleviate their depression and sorrow through writing, and yet . . . we all know of at least one popular writer who ran the depression rails all the way to the end of the line and parked there forever. That’s likely because other studies have shown that depression and creativity to hand-in-hand, and that’s one of the reasons so much artistic types are overcome by their demons, be it substance abuse and/or depression.
A lot of times we write to rid ourselves of our own demons, and that does help. It also brings out moments where you, the writer, has to search your emotional closet looking for similar moments to mine for the entertainment of others. It’s not fun, but depending upon your story, it’s often necessary.
Kerry’s in some dark spots right now in the story, and while I don’t like placing him there, it’s necessary. Why? Because . . . that’s the story right now. I’m leading up to something, and while it’s not a nice thing to say, I gotta torture his ass just a little in their early chapters. Not a lot was written last night, but I managed about six hundred and fifty words. Part of it was due to my mood–I was more in a mood to kick back and just veg out a bit than getting into a story–part of it was not wanting to hurt Kerry some more, to dig into his soul and wound it once again. His home live sucks, and he wants to be with the girl he loves.
And now there’s other crap at play . . .
(All excerpts from The Foundation Chronicles, Book Two: B For Bewitching, copyright 2015 by Cassidy Frazee)
Kerry’s eyes opened as he came out of the dream. He didn’t gasp for breath or jerk upright as characters did in movies when they awoke from a dream: he simply exhaled and rolled over onto his back, looking through the darkness at his his ceiling.
He had no idea how long he’d been in his dreamspace, but it hadn’t felt as if it’d been long. He remembered times with Annie when they’d spent an entire day, from sunrise until the next, talking, playing, laughing, enjoying each other’s company—and later, after the admissions of love, hugging, kissing, and cuddling. This time it was more like a quick “Hello, how are you?” and then back out into real life. Not to he had no idea who this person was who’d invaded the dreamspace he shared with his lovely Annie . . .
Kerry slowly drew back the covers and got out of bed. He quietly made his way out of the bedroom and walked the few steps to the toilet room. It wasn’t often that Kerry had to get up in the middle of the night to relieve himself, but for some reason now he found he needed to go badly. He sat and tried pushing the dream away, but the last thing the girl said stuck with him:
“You hold my life in your hands.”
He bowed his head and sighed. What did she mean by that? How is her life in my hands? I don’t even know her; how can I help someone I’ve never met? He finally put the dream out of his mind, finished up in the toilet room, and returned to his bedroom.
I’ve come out of a few dreams the same way as Kerry has, and it can be a bit of a shock. I’ve never sat up in bed screaming, and don’t know anyone who has. But it looks more dramatic on the screen when it show it that way, I guess. And the dream was bothersome, because now Kerry’s got someone telling him he hold their life in their hands. In his world, don’t think for a moment that dreams don’t have meaning.
And his mind wanders back to that world once he’s back in his bedroom . . .
It was impossible to return to sleep, however: the dream had left Kerry too wound up, and he didn’t bother getting into bed because he knew he would only toss and turn rather than return to sleep. Back at school he’d head off to the hospital and ask Nurse Gretchen for something that would let him sleep in ten minutes, then head off to Bed #2 for a couple of hours of sleep. There wasn’t any chance of that happening—not for another couple of weeks, at least.
Kerry chose to sit at his computer desk instead. He flipped on the small lamp to his left, casting light upon the desk and his tablet computer, while the rest of his room remained in darkness. He didn’t know what he wanted to do: usually he’d jump on the Internet and start reading whatever he could find, but this time he wanted to talk to Annie. If this had happened at school, he’d meet her in the Mezzanine Commons, in three hours time, and they’d discuss the dream over breakfast before heading off to—what class will I be in on Tuesday? He powered up his computer so he could check out the real schedule Ms. Rutherford had sent him, and not the fake one that came in his travel package . . .
His tablet was up and running after a few seconds, thanks to the modifications Salem Director of Security Isis Mossmaon performed on the system as a present for his last birthday. Kerry was about to bring up a browser and read the email attachment when he saw the Skype icon notification in the lower right hand corner pop up and display a familiar name. He checked the time on his computer—03:11—and performed a quick calculation in his head. Only a little after twenty hours there— His finger hovered over the notification icon. Why not see if she’s really on-line?
Kerry tapped the notification: Skype loaded and proceeded to call the user on the other end of the connection. A few seconds later—as Kerry was throwing up a spell that would keep the conversation localized around the desk—the call connected.
A red-haired girl wearing pajamas with unicorns on them stared back at him through his computer display. “Kerry?”
Kerry sat back and grinned. “Hi, Emma.”
Emma has pajamas with unicorns on them. No word if they’re new, or if she’s worn them to the Midnight Madness. You never know: we may see them again.
There I left him–
And I’ll return to him tonight so he can talk.
It’s not the person he wants to speak with, but . . . any port in a storm as they say.