Why do you write?

Somebody asked me on social media about writing inspirations.

I could go on all day (and will someday) about Ursula Le Guin, Sylvia Plath, Mary Gaitskill, and Patricia Sacco but this person asked specifically about “personal inspirations,” so let’s get personal.

I write about what I’m not “allowed” to say. My first poems, joyful odes to flowers and sunshine, very quickly gave way to stereotypical adolescent poetry about rage, betrayal, and bottomless irritability, and while I would never expose those to the light of day, I was so much less of a bitch for writing them instead of letting things simmer.

People have different attitudes surrounding writing as therapy, but in a profession where the margin for commercial success is so minimal, you have to write what you want to write–what you need to write–in order to keep yourself going–and that’s how I’ve kept myself going. I never intentionally set out to write for catharsis, however. In cases of all the most successful first drafts, I’ve simply handed my subconscious mind the pen and said, “Go!” Afterwards, I put it down for a few days, look at it once I have enough distance or show it to a trusted beta-reader, and begin revising.

The stories in Singing to the Dark all have several overlapping inspirations. I’ll organize them by level of cliche/relatability.

Love & Heartbreak & Sex & Heartbreak

When I first began writing what would become Singing to The Dark, I was processing a pretty severe breakup on top of a far less severe, but for some reason just as devastating situationship. To clarify, I am a sensitive bitch. I can dream up entire novels about divorce from the pain of a disastrous two week tryst.

In fact, the tryst need only be mildly disappointing, and I can spout War and Peace levels of tragedy for months! Three of the stories in this book are loosely based on heartbreak over the same skinny barista who requested we get day-drunk together—hence all the beverage imagery in “Woodsmoke” and all the resentment from David, the narrator. If anything, the story is more inspired by me trying to forgive myself for falling for people who aren’t good for me than it is about any one person, but that’s not nearly as spicy of an origin story, is it?

Death & Ghosts

In the year 2020, my father died of a heart attack. Long before then, I’ve believed in and seen ghosts, but his seemed the most sentient. None of the stories are directly inspired by his visitations, but “Sing to Me” was heavily inspired by the grief and by feeling his presence long after his death.

In the early days of the MFA program, I’d also witnessed a friend try to jump off of a water tower, so themes of mental illness and depression are prevalent throughout.

Trauma & The Origin Story

“Wants” was by far the hardest and the easiest story to write in the entire collection. The first draft flared out of me feverishly one morning after I had quit a heavily male-dominated job in which I essentially had to threaten a lawsuit in order to get my final paycheck. Fueled by rage and years of suppressed abuse trauma, it poured out of me onto three pages of looseleaf. The story started it’s life as an internal monologue from the perspective of a nameless, struggling actress experiencing PTSD as her boyfriend, ignorant of her sexual assault trauma, attempts to seduce her while their camera-toting friend films it. The first time I wrote it, there was blood. The second time I wrote it, there was less blood: the actress merely bit the boyfriends lip hard enough to draw blood and then, when he drew back, she apologized and began to clarify why she hasn’t been In The Mood lately.

The third time I rewrote it, there was almost blood in that I had to tear apart the entire story because my editor said it lacked clarity. “Why hasn’t she told him about her trauma? Why did they make the sex tape if she has this specific trauma? What happened in the video that triggered her so badly?” she said.

To be fair, she had a point: A lot of people don’t realize the way trauma rewires the brain.

Here are the things I thought would be obvious in the first draft that were apparently not:

1. (most) trauma survivors don’t like talking about their trauma. A lot of us like to pretend that nothing seriously bad even happened. If we don’t have to bring it up, we won’t.

2. (a lot of) trauma survivors, especially sexual abuse survivors, carry shame around the abuse–and are therefore even less likely to bring it up!

3. Trauma survivors repeat patterns that mirror their original trauma unconsciously and often unknowingly. We don’t know why—I certainly don’t—but we do. Part of me wants to theorize that it’s our subconscious mind trying to find peace or closure in the damage, but that is only a theory.

With that in mind, I revised the piece into a traditional narrative almost three times it’s original length and hopefully, if nothing else, the story and the point of the story is clearer: sharing your story (with the right people) heals.

Recovery

I have had the misfortune of losing several people to drugs, and I don’t know that anything has broken my heart in quite the same way because the drugs took them long before they died. They simply became different people–not bad people, but different. Careless, dimmed–one former addict described the sensation as “extinguished.”

I never set out to write about addiction/recovery–or any one specific theme–but the ghosts of my friends and loved ones often appear in my writing. Tom from “Sing to Me,” for example, is loosely based off of several people I knew and lost. Melinda from “Woodsmoke” is also an amalgamation of several people from my life

Forgiveness

I write to write. Oftentimes, there’s no conscious intention behind it—I just have something itching to come out. Catharsis is a direct goal, but above catharsis is understanding and forgiveness. I talk to myself for the same reason: it’s easier to make sense of things sometimes when they’re outside of you. In nearly all the stories, I wrote hoping to find forgiveness not just for others, but for myself as well.

A lot of heartbreak in life comes with a lot of rage and a lot of unanswered questions. A lot of mixed messages and words half-said, or words fully said but not always fully meant.

I didn’t get explanations for why loved ones lied to me in the moment. I didn’t get to speak with my dead friends before they cussed me out and drove away or disappeared into their highs. I didn’t get to say goodbye properly to my father before he died. The last time I saw him, he was dropping off a prescription at the house and I was on a phone with a friend, crying about some guy.

When I write, whether in first drafts or in revision, I summon a place where we have those conversations, we find catharsis, we find peace. I write to understand, and to forgive.