“Bad Things” the title reminds you of Bad Things by Jace Everett doesn’t it? Don’t lie. It does. If you don’t know what that is, it is the theme song of True Blood. Yeah, you remember it now? “I wanna do real bad things with you” the song went. Freakin killer song. Man, I can’t believe I used to watch that show. Binged through four seasons, I think. In total I have watched five seasons. I have no idea if the show is still on or what, been long since I checked it out or thought about it.
I used to watch most of the series for a character that didn’t even appear that much in the series, compared to other big characters. I forgot her name, but I have her picture (didn’t want to Google her name). I used to feel real sorry for her. This is her.
I like that she is pale as well. I think a tan is overrated anyway, I find pale attractive for some mysterious reason. Anyway, enough blabbing and let’s get into what this post is about. It isn’t about True Blood, Jace Everett’s Bad Things or that lovely creature above. It is about something we, as writers’s often forget, or I tend to forget.
I always find that when I am in the midst of bad circumstances, unpleasant experiences or general bad luck I tend to think that nothing useful can possibly come of it or any kind of suffering. The experience is just a hindrance that adds no value to my life and won’t ever contribute anything of substance or meaningful to me. I’m not going to tell you that there is always a bright side when things are going horribly wrong, that you can find peace and happiness even in the miserable of times nor do I deny you can. I just don’t want to make an assertion going either way because I’m not that much of an optimist or a pessimist. However, I am here to share something I know for sure, from experience.
When I’m writing I am often surprised of how much I draw from some bad experiences and dark chapters in my life. I even reach a point where I am flabbergasted by how useful those experiences are now that I have gone through them. I find they have furnished me with a wealth of insight, knowledge and resources. In the end, I find myself grateful that I went through it all. The experiences that were senseless and purposeless now have earned some meaning. That is extraordinary. However, this does not make going through bad things any easier, nor do I go through them hoping they will be of some use to me; I find time and time again, in the midst of it all, my face is up against the cold hard wall that is hopelessness and senseless suffering with nothing of any significance to offer.
Writing Before the Cult was hard… mostly because of the places I pulled from and the state I was in. I shed a tear now and then when I discuss some of the stuff in there or think about them. I love it and I hate it at the same time. Now I understand why, it is because it takes me back and brings the vivid and horrific memories of being a delusional self-harming depressive (it was hard publicly sharing this information, but I think it matters).
In hindsight, I am thankful for my woes. We should remember those bad things and celebrate them in the purest form we can, through our talent and passion that is writing. The good and bad experiences matter; the bad ones just make for great conflict. Wink.
Thanks for reading.
p.s Concerning my health, I am doing way better now.