DEATH IS ETERNAL #412
2,630 words
This DEATH IS ETERNAL is the first of the month. That means it should be a free-for-all. But it won’t be. It won’t be for reasons I explained here. For those same reasons, this will be, as you’ll see in the contents, a different newsletter. Also, for the same reasons, DEATH IS ETERNAL #413 will probably be different, too! Do you want to know what are those reasons? Well, you must become a paying subscriber! You don’t want to know? Well, then, first, I must say this saddens me a bit, but secondly, and most importantly, I must confess that as someone of an extremely curious nature, I envy your lack of curiosity.
Contents
LOST IN THE MARGINS
Writing: understanding
Bye!
Reviews #299, #300, #301, and #302: ANYONE BUT YOU, STICK by Andrew Smith, BATMAN BY ED BRUBAKER VOL. 1 by Ed Brubaker, Scott McDaniel, Karl Story, and others, and SILENT SCREAM by Angela Marsons
1. LOST IN THE MARGINS
“Did you write today?” Mary’s voice was soft as they settled into bed, the night’s stillness wrapping around them.
Boris turned to her, his eyes wide with disbelief. It was as if something essential had shattered within him, something he hadn’t realized was so fragile. Boris stared at her, searching for words. “I forgot,” he finally murmured, his voice calm but heavy with sorrow.
“You forgot?” Mary echoed, her brow furrowing in confusion. Given his daily ritual, she found the idea almost comical. “How can you forget? You write every day!”
A flicker of amusement tugged at the corners of her mouth, but she held back. Boris’s eyes glistened, and she saw the shadow of tears forming. She took a deep breath, the weight of his sadness settling over her. “What happened?” she asked, rolling onto her side to face him fully.
“I forgot,” Boris whispered again, the words barely audible. His gaze drifted to the ceiling, lost in a maze of his own thoughts.
“Boris...” Mary began, but he interrupted her, his voice cracking.
“It’s the second day now,” he said, still staring upwards. “I know what I want to write... Actually, I know what I must write. I have a plan, or at least the idea of one. But I forgot... again!”
“It’s not the end of the world,” Mary offered, her tone soothing.
But Boris seemed not to hear her. “Whenever I forget to write... no, whenever I choose not to write, alarms go off in my mind. If I don’t do what I love, something’s wrong with me.”
Mary listened, her heart aching for him. She couldn’t fully grasp his dependence on writing, but she understood the need to support him. She reached out, gently placing a hand on his arm, offering silent comfort.
“Whenever I choose not to write,” Boris began, his voice thick with emotion, “it’s because something deeper is at play. My imposter syndrome. That gnawing feeling that I’m not a real writer, that my ideas aren’t good enough. Or sometimes it’s the haunting question: why bother when no one will read or care?” He paused, his words heavy with unspoken fears. “When I know I need to write and can’t bring myself to do it, it’s because something is broken inside me.”
Mary’s gaze didn’t waver. “So what does it mean when you forget to write?”
Boris sighed, tears spilling down his cheeks. “It means something even bigger is happening. Something more profound. Something maybe even scarier.”
Mary had seen Boris cry only four times in their nearly forty years together. This was the fifth. She knew, instinctively, that this was significant, even if she didn’t fully understand why.
Boris was a man of practicality, always tackling problems head-on. He rarely delved into his emotions, but tonight, his defences were down, and his raw vulnerability was laid bare.
“Scarier?” Mary echoed. Her voice, a whisper.
Boris, still crying, still staring at the ceiling as if seeking answers in the void, nodded. “Scarier.”
“Scarier, how?” she pressed gently.
“It means I’ve lost the motivation to write. It means I’ve fallen out of love with the act itself. I’m only writing to meet deadlines, not because I want to. Not because it calls to me. Inside, I feel like I have to, but the passion isn’t there.”
Mary nodded silently, absorbing his words, understanding the gravity of his confession.
Boris continued, his voice steadier now. “When I write, it’s because I want to tell a story. At least, that’s how it used to be. Lately, I feel like I’m burning out. There’s the newsletter, the submissions, the endless new chapters of my character, and my writing group. I’m no longer writing from an internal need but from an external obligation.”
Mary watched him closely, sensing the weight of his words. “You put yourself in this position,” she said gently. “Not long ago, you were feeling guilty about not writing at all. You were asking yourself the same questions but from the opposite perspective.” Her statement was more probing than accusatory, seeking to understand his turmoil.
Boris nodded, a faint relief washing over his features. “You’re right. It’s that all-or-nothing trait you dislike in me. I went from not writing out of a lack of purpose to drowning in it. I’ve swung to the other extreme.”
He paused, lost in thought. Mary remained silent, giving him the space he needed.
“I’m not writing because I’m tangled on a web of ‘all or nothing,’ intransigency, and lack of motivation,” he finally said, his gaze meeting hers for the first time. “All-or-nothing made me write too much too fast. Intransigency keeps me from working on submissions because I feel it’s my character’s turn. And the lack of motivation stems from my writing group not meeting lately. So, in essence, I forgot to write because I’ve become my own worst enemy.”
Mary marvelled at Boris’s self-awareness. His ability to dissect his own psyche without a counsellor was nothing short of remarkable. There was something almost magical in how his mind worked, especially when it came to writing matters.
“So...?” Mary’s question hung in the air, a lifeline in the quiet room.
Boris exhaled slowly, his mind clearer now. “I need to accept that maybe I need some time away. Or perhaps I need to change my schedule—and go with the submission rather than the character—or even realize that not having immediate feedback isn’t the end of the world.” He smiled. A small but genuine smile that reached his eyes. It wasn’t a solution, but it was a start. He felt the weight lifting, the fog in his mind beginning to clear. He now knew what was going on and could plan accordingly. This acceptance was a turning point in his struggle, a step towards healing.
Mary saw the familiar spark returning to Boris’s eyes. “Feeling better?” She asked, her support unwavering.
“A lot,” he admitted, leaning in to kiss her. “It’s amazing how much you help me, even without fully understanding the problem.”
“You do the heavy lifting,” Mary replied with a gentle smile. “I just ask the questions.”
Boris kissed her again. “Thinking is easy. Questioning is the hardest part.”
She laughed softly. “You only say that because you’re too lazy to think about yourself without help.”
He shrugged, joining in her laughter. They kissed once more, a tender, shared moment of relief and connection. Then, in unison, they said, “Good night.”
The end
2. Writing: understanding
I’ve often declared, and perhaps even penned it somewhere, that when I sit down to write, I’m, in truth, writing about myself. No matter how outlandish, inventive, or surreal the world and its characters might be, they are, at their core, extensions of me. And beneath the surface, each story is a mirror reflecting my inner turmoil and curiosity. This truth has always hovered in the background, a subtle companion to my creative process. Yet, it was only with LOST IN THE MARGINS that I actively embraced this notion, using my narrative as a means to delve into my own psyche.
In LOST IN THE MARGINS, I ventured into uncharted territory. The premise—a couple conversing in bed—might be fictional, though it carries the weight of authenticity. Jessica, my wife, embodies the epitome of support and understanding. These elements are drawn from my reality, yet the feelings and insights that arise from them are profoundly personal.
As I embarked on this week’s short story, a nagging worry accompanied me: the absence of a new HARVEY TURPIN tale. I concluded THE WHISPERING LIES on July 14, 2024, and by all accounts, I should have plunged into the new noir installment by July 18, 2024. But I faltered. I hadn’t revisited my latest work to discern if it harboured seeds for continuation or if I was facing a blank slate. This hesitation felt alien, particularly when my writing life thrives.
This disquiet stirred something deep within me—a persistent, insistent alarm that I could neither silence nor comprehend. In an attempt to unravel it, I chose an unorthodox path: I would write through the confusion. I wondered: if my subconscious revealed truths when I least sought them, what might it disclose if I actively pursued understanding? To my surprise, it yielded an answer.
Writing... Art wields extraordinary power. It can transform the world at large or, perhaps, only our own little corners of it. Art holds the potential to reshape our perceptions and emotions. Long live the arts!
(And let’s not forget therapy. Its value is undeniable and indispensable. Yet, it’s not always readily accessible, so we must harness whatever tools are available to us. Just remember, these tools are temporary measures and not a panacea.)
3. Bye!
Here’s where we say our farewell to the free subscribers. If you want to read the rest of DEATH IS ETERNAL, consider becoming a paying subscriber. If you already are a paying subscriber, first of all, thank you very, very much! And second, I’ll see you on the other side of the paywall.
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