Calgary, Coffee, and Smoke

Writing horror.

A week ago, my wife and I arrived in Calgary. It’s thirty-three here today. I’ve been editing my ‘haunted house’ novel - and have finally gotten back into writing that same novel—my idea for this novel is a haunted house in a residential school. Yeah. I’ve probably mentioned this before, but this is tough to write. It is sitting in my trauma all day, fighting little fits of anxiety, taking a break to gather my thoughts again, and diving back in.

So far, I’ve managed to write portions of the script in the wrong tense and have renamed one character three times. I wonder why I’ve taken on this task. The theme has been on my mind - the idea of generational trauma and how we cope with it. I’ve lived with this idea my entire life but never had a way to frame it until recently.

The Thing is, part of me doesn’t want to write about this. It’s hard to air out laundry you’ve packed around for over forty years. It smells of moth larvae and mold.

There is also this idea that I don’t want to seem performative with these ideas. What does that mean? I don’t necessarily want my trauma to be entertainment. I’ve perceived that as happening with our Indigenous authors. We tell our stories, and they’re steeped in pain, and those authors are celebrated for their works - for being brave - by Indigenous and non-Indigenous audiences. I’ll be honest; sometimes this bothers me.

Do you see where my head is while writing this novel?

I seem very self-aware about all this. I am. That probably stems from my ability to take my ideas apart and look at them. I do that when I’m writing. I dissect things. And I’m doing that lately - asking myself why I’m writing something difficult emotionally.

Is it a good question? Is it self-examination? Do I want to push discussions about Indigenous issues? Do I want to entertain people? Am I writing for an Indigenous audience? Or for a non-Indigenous audience? Or for everyone? I’m sure I could argue any of those questions. I could come up with more.

Am I being careless with my story? Should I be as honest as I am?

Are these good questions to ask, or am I stalling on writing the book?

As I said, I’m in Calgary and will be here for another week.

I get outside, take a walk and think. My mind flitters around, working out the story that I’m telling. My heart flutters because the ideas that I’m thinking are triggering. These are dangerous ideas for me.

And yet, I continue.

I’ve talked to my brother, an artist, about this. We chat. He’s done work that touches deeply disturbing places. It is nice to have someone to talk with about these ideas.

I think what keeps me going is that I don’t owe anyone this novel except for myself. I get to walk in places I’ve avoided for so long. But, in those places that hurt, there is the discovery. I’m peeling back layers of myself.

I listened to a podcast recently where two authors talked about taking politics out of their work - and creating entertainment. It didn’t resonate with me. Sure, I like a nice piece of fluff - something about a barbarian finding a magical sword beneath the wing of a Black dragon, but I also like the difficult stuff. I like the 1984’s. The Bell Jar’s. The Animal Farm’s The books that explore the nature of humanity and ask us to investigate our morals and understanding of the world.

I’m not a George Orwell or Sylvia Plath. I’m Martin John, and I’m exploring my truth. I’m discovering that writing hard truth through a fictional lens is challenging.

I’m not writing this for pity or empathy, but I’m happy to have written it. And I’m happy to share it. Sometimes you need to look at the process to ease the process.

I’m of good mind and sound health. I’m just exploring the shadows in ways I haven’t up until now.

I hope you’re well,

Martin J.