They say “write what you know.”

At this point it should be self-evident why the books I write are so dark and violent. I am writing what I know.

I chose to write dark fantasy as a metaphor for my own experiences to a degree. I tried to write both mainstream and at once point a real memoir, rather than just tossing the bits and pieces into a blog.

However, I can’t get too close to the memories without putting myself into a bad state of mind accompanied by flashbacks. The memoir posts are as close as I can get to lancing the septic wounds.

I have started putting them into drafts and saving them there, trying to just post them one or two at a time as the need is on me to talk about them. My demons won’t let go of me.

A close friend of many years was reading them yesterday and he said, “I don’t know the half of it, do I?”

I replied, “You probably don’t know a third.”

I lived in fear for many years that my family would find me again with an eye to settling old grudges.

There are periods when I write obsessively in an attempt to outrun the memories. Sometimes I can and more often I can’t.

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