WE'RE ALL MAD HERE

I cannot remember a time when I wasn't interested in mental illness, whether that meant birth defects, emotional instability, or outrageous prodigies. Of course, I do not mean to demean these people by saying that they fascinate me - that would be hypocritical.

Minds interest me because most people have different ones - and most people are trained to think a certain way, therefore effectively squashing the uniqueness of their own brain while parroting the words of a culture that celebrates the very meaning of "unique", simultaneously twisting the true definition of the word.

I write about what I like to call, "the Different." I include myself among them. Many people, secretly, would include themselves as well. These are the thinkers, the dreamers, the lonely, the artists, the depressed, the intellectual, the autistic, the introverted, the free spirits, the social butterflies who don't care what others think about them - and I group all of these together not because I mean to make fun of who they are but because they have the "Different" capability of seeing beyond our culture. The autistic boy who, the minute he steps into a pool, becomes a mermaid. The emo guitarist who sits on a park bench and waits for an epiphany, clean for all of a week but forever, someday. The aging woman who expresses herself through dance because she believes in something that society would not approve of - something she can't even talk about in her workplace. She knows she will be bullied. She has been before. They all have.

Society.

And Society would say that we are all the same. Society, in it's effort to celebrate the "uniqueness" of humanity, has turned the young men and women of this generation into robots with very strong beliefs and very weak morals, very high tolerance and very low compassion. Teens will picket about anything but when one Christian stands up for what he believes on Facebook, a volley of Society's arrows condemn his "intolerance". Millennials march in parades but these same ones will be ignoring the drunks who stumble out of McHearney's Irish Pub at midnight - or maybe they will be counted among them, bleary eyed - and Society says that twenty-somethings are just acting like twenty-somethings.

"The Different" are the ones who can see past this veil - or who see straight through it.

A year ago I wrote a short story about one of "the Different" and it was published in an Oxford journal called the Paper Punt. I entitled it WE'RE ALL MAD HERE, a reference to Lewis Carroll's ALICE IN WONDERLAND (which was largely commercialized in Oxford due to the fact that Carroll lived there when he wrote it, but that had nothing to do with my inspiration.) The work follows a young man who suffers from a schizoid personality disorder with obsessive tendencies, and actually took a fair amount of research for only 2014 words. The piece actually won an award because it was so different from the others that were published - and this is because it is a first person account from the point of view of someone special. Someone "Different". (FOR YOUR BENEFIT, I HAVE INCLUDED THIS SHORT STORY IN THE EXTRAS TAB).

“Martin.” She said. It was his name. He couldn’t remember hers, even though he knew she had told him the last time she had seen him. “I’m Alice.” She said, as if in answer to his question, as if she’d said the same thing a hundred times.

I believe that the "Different" view the world through lenses that are clean from the filth of Society. Whether they were born that way or become that way, they can see clearly. But I'll go even further than that. I think that everyone can be "Different": if they choose. One must only take a step back and look at our culture, our Society, and attempt to see it objectively. And that is why I write on the mentally "Different" - not only to share their viewpoint, but to share their clarity.

SINCERELY,

TEMPORARY SETBACK

Hello, all!

I am afraid I must confess something unfortunate: due to a temporary setback, the much-anticipated release date of my newest novel To Mask A Soul has been pushed back to a date that I am not able to give out as of yet. We have been having some technical difficulties and the work is still in the last stages of editing. I had hoped that this would be finished much earlier, but, alas, sometimes these things happen, and at this point we just have to wait and see what is going to happen.

In light of the current situation, I have been taking the time to get down and dirty with my writing flaws. By this I mean that I have been taking classes on not only fiction writing, but non-fiction as well. I believe that there is always something new to learn.Without realizing that I am not already F. Scott Fitzgerald or J. K. Rowling or whichever famous author is preferred, I cannot change my flaws to become better. And that is an important truth in life as well, I believe. A huge part of writing is admitting that you aren't as great a writer as you thought you were. A huge part of life is admitting that maybe you weren't right in everything. This is still something I struggle with on a daily basis, but at least I can admit that it's a problem. As my father always says, "It's a strength to know your weaknesses." In fact, this is one of the themes of To Mask A Soul - that if you know what your problems are, you can better understand yourself and how to correct them.

These next few months are going to be very busy for me, as the beginning of summer always seems like life is starting over again - to paraphrase The Great Gatsby. This summer includes not only To Mask A Soul's release and the hype and advertising that comes with it, but I am also physically, mentally, and emotionally preparing for my move to New York this September. Uprooting is very difficult for me and will probably involve a halt in my writing for a while, as my mind will be more focused on getting settled and finding a new routine. The next few months will be, for me, a chance to get To Mask A Soul settled, and to wrap my mind around the adventure of free-falling into a new life. I would appreciate it if you would keep me in your thoughts and prayers for the next few months.

And, last but not least, since you are all waiting so very patiently for To Mask A Soul, I have decided that I could include the very first few paragraphs of the unreleased, unedited version on my website. I've already posted some other "sneak peaks" of this version, but hopefully this will get everyone as excited as I am for the official release of this novel. Check out the "EXTRAS" page of my website for this very special disclosure!

As always, God bless!

Sincerely,

TO MASK A SOUL'S BOOK TRAILER!

SO EXCITED! Here is To Mask a Soul's book trailer! Get excited!

SNEAK PEEK OF MY NEWEST NOVEL!

 

 

 

Hi, all! I hope you enjoy this sneak peek of my newest novel, To Mask A Soul, and start getting as excited as I am about it's upcoming release! Dedicated to "the ones who search", this novel is a fictional recreation of an emotional journey towards ultimate redemption and self-appreciation, and I put so much of my own emotions in it that the main character, Diggory, feels like something of a beloved child to me! Now, without further ado, let's get into the good stuff!

 

Title: To Mask A soul

 

Genre: Historical

Synopsis

An emotionally unstable man grapples with demons of the past as he fights to find his place in the judgmental structure of Victorian high society, but an adversary bent on revenge threatens any semblance of peace he may find. Will Diggory Cotterill find himself as he struggles to be who he needs to be, or will he give in to the guilt that threatens to overwhelm him?

Excerpt

                  Diggory opened the door and found himself in what appeared to be the lobby of the inn. A single dusty chandelier swung from the ceiling – too close to his head, but then, he was on the taller side. The room looked like it was trying to imitate the posh hotels of grand cities such as London, but it was failing miserably, at least in Diggory’s mind. He walked up to the desk on the far side of the room, where a little man was sitting reading the newspaper.

                “Point me in the direction of the pub, please.” Diggory pushed his chest out and looked over his nose at the small man.

                The man’s eyes widened behind his spectacles. “Lord Carlton! Is it true? Blimey, by my own eyes I see it!”

“Please, sir, if you would just point me in the direction…”

The little man pointed. “Through that door.”

                Diggory thanked him and walked into the pub, his coattails flapping behind him, an absurd display of wealth in the tiny hotel.

                The pub was not well lit. A woman with a smoky voice was playing the piano and singing. The bartender was talking with a man with dark, curly hair. Some men played poker in the corner, and a pretty girl stood next to them, offering them some drinks.

                Diggory walked up to the bar counter. “Your strongest, sir.”

                “’Sir’!” He exclaimed, winking at his younger companion. “That's summit I ain't been called in a while!”

                The curly-haired man scoffed and threw back the last of his beer.

                “'re ya Bobby ya can 'andle our strongest, Masta Carlton? Ya butcher's pretty young ter be aahhht drinkin' this Liz Hurley.” The bartender smiled at Diggory.

                Diggory stared blankly at him. “What?”

                The curly-haired man chuckled. “You’re obviously from London, old chap! Don’t you know rhyming slang when you hear it?”

                Diggory straightened his shoulders. “Never been to the East end, and I pray to God I’ll never have to.”

                “Well, you are hoity-toity one, are you not.” The man had a sparkle of fun in his dark eyes and a quick smile. “Seeing as you don’t seem to be feeling the need to blend in, I suppose I’ll translate for you.” He leaned over and whispered something in Diggory’s ear.

                Diggory pulled back sharply. “That’s not what he said!”

                The man laughed aloud. “No. I guess that’s just what I think of you.”

                Diggory frowned, slightly confused.

                “What’s your name, old chap?” The curly haired man put out his hand, and the smiling bartender set another flask into it.

                “Diggory de Lae Carlton the Third.” Diggory said splendidly, as if his name would matter to a bunch of country bumpkins.

                “Lord Carlton, ah, I see.” The man’s blue eyes turned thoughtful. “Carlton…as in Carlton Worldwide Vessels?”

                “That’s right.”

                “Well. The Third! That’s an impressive number.” The man grinned that charming grin and stuck out his hand. “James Gangfield. I go by Gangfield.”

                Diggory shook his hand. “It’s good to meet you, Mr. Gangfield.”

                Gangfield laughed at him and took a pipe out of his pocket, and lit it. “Good to meet you, Carlton. Seeing as you’re the richest man in Sherfield, how about buying a poor bloke a drink?”

               Diggory bought Gangfield a drink. And another. And another. And by eight that night, the two had wits as sharp as a couple of pillows.

                “So what’re ya doin’ in this ‘ere vill’ge, anywho?” Gangfield slurred, accidentally knocking over what was left of his beverage all over the counter. “Celebratin’ the ‘scension of the new queen? She can’t be much older’n you, for all yer airs an’ graces…”

                “Long live ‘er majesty, Victoria,” the bartender muttered, cleaning a flask with an old rag.

                Diggory, red-faced and bleary, tried to make a joke. “They put the craziest rooster farthest away from the henhouse…” And he laughed heartily over it.

                “The rooster…!” Gangfield cackled. “So you’re a bit balmy on the crumpet, then, are you?”

                “Senseless as a bat!” Diggory agreed, still laughing about his henhouse crack. “My parents are…are…wait.” He looked like he was about to pass out.

                “Oh, no.” Gangfield put his hands on Diggory’s shoulders and shook him. “Not now. What about your parents? Come on!”

                Diggory, as drunk as he was, tried to figure out what was wrong with Gangfield. He wasn’t as sleepy as Diggory was? “Wait a minute…”

“I need to know, Carlton!” Gangfield shook him a bit more.