October 13th: The people that live inside my head
There are many. But lately, there's been a new voice.
Happy Friday the 13th, friends.
I love this day.
It forever tempts me to get a new flash tattoo. It forever reminds me of my mom, whose lucky number is 13. Who finds these Fridays to be her most auspicious.
A day that feels like the early moments of witching season. A time and place to reconnect with the voices inside my head. The ones that tell me to write. And what to write.
Or rather, who to write.
A few new visitors have arrived. And they’re fantastically dark.
October 11th 9:15 pm
“I go through bodies like I go through cigarettes—a necessary stimulant. Momentary ecstasy. A quick burn, until the next one.”
Welcome to the newest character living inside of me: Beatrice. I don’t know her full story yet. I do know she’s homicidal and her preferred method is Death Cap mushrooms. I don’t know her motive yet. But I do know she smokes cigarettes. And holds your wrist when crossing the street instead of your hand.
I heard her at 9:15 pm on October 11th while I lay in bed listening to the soft and scratchy sound machine. But really, I’ve been hearing her for months.
She popped up after reading a news story. I forgot that inspiration comes from everywhere. And this sweet woman won’t leave me alone. She really is sweet, by the way. And haunting. It’s her complexity that keeps me listening.
Moving: a portal opened
I think with every change comes a release. And with this move—which feels massive in ways I can’t entirely explain yet—it’s an opened dam.
Hence the new visitors. And ways of writing. This desire to embrace a darker side of myself. A side I keep tucked away and coveted.
Hence Beatrice.
Once we move in and settle, I’m hoping I can give her more of a voice. I can get her duality down on a page. And then another.
That her complexity and humanity can live on in a book.
We’ll see. It’s her choice after all. Who am I kidding?
Love,
Dev
One of my favorite parts of being a fiction writer is the way characters present themselves to us. It's a magical thing. Almost paranormal. Are they people we create, or are they people who come to us to tell their stories?