S.L. Armstrong's Blog, page 11

“The Devil’s Midway” Teaser

K. and I have a short story coming out next Friday in the anthology . The story, called The Devil’s Midway, takes place in the same world as the short story Blood and Absinthe, found in the anthology. This one doesn’t center on Roderick as the first one did, but Thaddeus, the manager of Le Carnaval du Diable.

***

“Now, you sent word that we needed to speak?” Belial smiled down at him. “Does this mean you’re finally ready to go to your hands and knees for me?”

Thaddeus laughed, though it came out more like a croak. “I’ve told you, I bargained away my soul, not my body.”

“Yes, yes.” Belial sat on the only chair in the sparse room. “And I keep telling you, it’s only a matter of time.”

Thaddeus looked up and instantly wished he hadn’t just yet. On the floor, his view of Belial was more than a bit suggestive, and he tore his eyes away from the way Belial sat with his knees casually parted. Damn Belial, he probably sat that way on purpose, just to get a rise out of him. Well, he wasn’t going to get it. Thaddeus looked back down to the ground as if he needed to in order to catch his footing and straighten again. Being on his feet put him taller than a seated Belial, and he much preferred the illusion of dominance. “Time is not without end. Not when it comes to me and you.”

Belial raised an eyebrow at him in one of those amused expressions Thaddeus had grown to despise over the long years. “You’ve barely served a fraction of your time. I assure you, I have all the time I need.”

There was no winning this argument. He’d had it more times with Belial than he cared to count. He waved off the statement, affecting an air of nonchalance despite being nude. “I sent word because of the incident I brought to your attention the last time we spoke.”

The wicked grin that curved Belial’s lips made Thaddeus want to groan and rephrase his sentence as he made his way to the tin tub, grateful that it was already full of cool water. “We spoke of a good many things. Do you refer to your complaint about the new sword-eater getting fresh with you?” Thaddeus opened his mouth to protest, but didn’t get a word out before Belial continued, “Because I thought you would rather appreciate a skill such as hers. Take a lesson, perhaps.”

Thaddeus glared at Belial as he hunched down into the tub. The cool water did nothing to soothe his anger, even if it felt amazing on his overworked feet. The truth was, he hadn’t complained. He hadn’t breathed a damn word about Maram to Belial, not directly at least. Belial’s power had simply drawn out the memories in his moment of weakness. Only a moment during their last little talk; that’s all Belial had needed in order to pry into his dealings with the more recent additions to the carnaval. He inwardly reminded himself to keep up his guard, to maintain that inward barrier as he answered flatly, “No. Leander is following us. The man is obsessed with Roderick.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You do.” So calm, so collected. Belial’s tone made Thaddeus suspicious. His eyes narrowed, never leaving Belial’s form as he used a sponge to wet his body. “And you plan to do what about it, exactly?”

“Roderick and Lee are of little concern. You will not interrupt their involvement with one another.” Something sparked in Belial’s eyes, something dark and twisted, and it sent a wave of heat down Thaddeus’ spine before he could control the response.

At Least It’s Being Talked About!

There’s thing phrase I really dislike. ‘At least it’s being talked about.’ I’ve seen this used in reference to mainstream news when gay rights, women’s rights, gay fiction, gay television, poly television, etc. are discussed in articles or on a segment. People might not be happy with what’s being said, but they qualify it with, well, at least someone is talking about it.

That’s not good enough for me.

There was a news article not too long ago about M/M romance. The main people interviewed for it were gay men. And the tone of the article, in my opinion, wasn’t a very good one. As much as gay men lament the fact, M/M fiction is written–primarily–by women, and women should have the primary authors interviewed. This… pervasive feeling in the genre that if a gay man writes for it, he’s a god really rubs at me. And people can try and deny it, but I’ve seen so-so male authors in this genre receive incredible praise mainly because he’s a gay or bisexual man writing in a genre about men written by women. I’m not saying men shouldn’t write whatever they want to write, but it shouldn’t be their gender that makes their stories more, and the media should focus on the overwhelming number of female authors who write in the genre instead of the few men. It’s, to me, another way to erase women from a genre they pioneered, and that’s simply unacceptable. I don’t care that someone, somewhere is talking about it: it does not good if they’re talking about it in their terms instead of the reality.

This goes for other topics, too. I want to scream every time someone brings up 50 Shades of Grey, as if that has brought BDSM into existence. No! BDSM has been around a lot longer. And, you know what? I’d be happy for it to have never reached a mainstream audience if E.L. James’ twisted, poorly written tripe was what representing a lush, varied, and intense lifestyle.

Polyamory. There is now a reality program on Showtime called Polyamory: Married & Dating. A lot of our poly friends are thrilled polyamory is being discussed, shown. I highly disagree that this is necessarily a good thing. I want polyamory discussed, yes. I want the mainstream audience to recognize that, just because I date other people, my husband dates other people, our marriage is just as committed and seeped in love as a monogamous marriage, but I don’t want that recognition to come due to a dramatic, half-scripted reality program. People don’t watch reality television to be educated: they watch it to see fighting, drama, and sex. I don’t want polyamory to be shown that way, and so I don’t think it’s a positive thing that it’s at least being talked about.

In the end, the media is going to latch onto whatever message they want to express. I understand that. But I won’t get on the bandwagon of joy that the topics are being discussed because the topics aren’t being discussed. Not really. Not in any real terms or with any reality in them. I’d much rather the topics remain obscured if the other option is misrepresentation or belittling of the topics themselves.

Recipe Monday: Cream of Mushroom Soup

So, about three weeks ago, I came down with what I thought was simply the flu. About a week into it, whatever it was settled into my chest. Still, I thought I’d get over it. At the two week mark, when I couldn’t breathe and was coughing up blood, K & the husband-thing carted me off to the doctor. I had acute bronchitis with little air movement in the lower portion of my lungs, and the coughing had scraped my throat raw (hence the blood). I was slapped onto antibiotics and an anti-tussive, but… come on. It’s bronchitis. The coughing was going to go on until I was better.

But, my throat was raw, I had no appetite, and I couldn’t speak. When the husband-thing was going to be gone for several hours one night, I asked him to make me this soup. I am a huge fan of mushroom soups, and this one was hot and simple and everything I wanted. I devoured two bowls before he left. If he can make it—and he isn’t a good cook by far—anyone can. I’ve also included some variations for people who don’t like mushrooms.

2 pound regular white mushrooms, cleaned

1 Tbsp lemon juice

4 Tbsp unsalted butter

2 minced shallots

1/2 bay leaf

1 teaspoon salt

1/2 teaspoon fresh ground pepper

2 cups heavy cream

1 1/2 cups chicken stock

1 TBSP cornstarch dissolved in 1/4 cup water

Minced parsley for garnish

Coarsely chop 1lb of mushrooms. Melt butter in large sauce pan (I use my 5qt pot). Sauté shallots on medium heat. Add mushrooms, lemon juice, and bay leaf. Sauté over medium-high heat for 10-15 minutes until all liquid has evaporated. Add salt, pepper, cream, and chicken stock and bring to boil. Reduce heat, add in remaining mushrooms (sliced medium thickness), and simmer for 20 minutes. Add cornstarch slurry and simmer for an additional 10 minutes, stirring constantly. Taste the soup and adjust salt, pepper, and lemon juice. Serve sprinkled with parsley.

This recipe can easily be adjusted to be just about Cream of Anything, and the taste will be far superior to tinned soups. Instead of mushrooms, coarsely chop in a food processor broccoli, asparagus, or celery. Cook those down in the pot, and add the rest of the ingredients. You can use cheeses with the broccoli one, or you can just make a cheese soup, though I’d start with a roux first. You could take three or four potatoes, peel them, dice them finely, and boil them in the cream-stock mixture with some minced celery for a Cream of Potato Soup.

You can also do a Cream of Chicken or Cream of Turkey soup. Those would require a little more work. Instead of shallots, use a Spanish onion. Finely dice some carrots and celery. Add 2TBSP flour to the butter and vegetables. Make an herb bunch out of thyme, parsley, and bay leaf. Let everything simmer 15-20 minutes, and then remove the herb bunch and add in a pound of finely chopped chicken. Cook an additional 10-15 minutes. Serve with chopped parsley.

If you’re feeling particularly indulgent, you could do Cream of Shrimp. Make the soup to the 20 minute simmer stage (minus the mushrooms). I’d even add a tablespoon of tomato paste at that point, plus a pound of fresh, fresh shrimp. Cook about five minutes, and then blitz in a blender. Return to heat, adjust seasoning (might need more lemon juice), and serve with chopped chives.

As you can see, endless possibility.

TPEs and My Issues With BDSM in Fiction Part 2

I’ve been cooking a while on a topic. I’ve debated how best to present it. In the end, I think I just need to be frank and honest. What is that topic? TPEs (total power exchanges) in erotic fiction. Specifically, in M/M erotic fiction. I find the TPEs commonly found in this genre to be deeply, deeply disturbing. In fact, at one point, I got into quite a row with another author, but it was for a different issue, which goes hand-in-hand with the bigger issue. This author said that TPEs just don’t exist in real life because they would never be legal.

So, this post is two-fold. A bit of a rant. A bit of a soapbox.

I’m a BDSM submissive. I know that may be TMI for some, but it’s my credential. I’m a BDSM submissive. I have an awesome Dom I worship. He knows how to work my body. He knows how to fuck with my mind. He knows how to push my boundaries while still respecting them. And both of us have been active enough in the BDSM community to know, with a good deal of certainty, what goes on in the community. TPEs exist. TPEs are legal. TPEs aren’t simply roleplaying. They are a serious relationship dynamic that is complex and deep and astounding to me because of the level of commitment both parties have for each other.

Now, does a TPE mean the Dom can just beat the sub up whenever and however they want? No! And that’s where this ties into the TPEs being presented in fiction. While I know it is just fiction, wish fulfillment and fantasy, I find myself very uncomfortable with the influx of rape and abuse being labeled as BDSM and TPEs. I shake my head at discussions where these stories are heralded as amazing and shocking and groundbreaking. Quite frankly, nothing is groundbreaking anymore. These sorts of stories can be found dime a dozen in fandom, so they were bound to leak out into the professional field. But, just as I spoke out against these type of stories being labeled as consensual and BDSM in fandom, I’m speaking out about it in the professional arena, too.

Trust is integral to a successful TPE relationship. The Dom trusts that the sub knows and understands the constraints they’ve negotiated and is truly accepting of hir, and the sub trusts that the Dom will never knowingly violate those constraints or harm hir in a way zie hasn’t agreed to. Trust is the key component that is missing in most of these so-called TPEs in fiction. They are entered into too quickly, without proper negotiation or full understanding, are usually enforced by a silly and pointless paper contract, and quickly spiral out beyond the confines of the flimsy agreements initially set up.

A successful TPE is still, like any BDSM relationship, about mutual pleasure and fantasy fulfillment. It’s not about the Dom breaking the sub down, wresting away control, and converting them into a mindless fuck doll. And yet, so many fictional TPEs go that route. The sub doesn’t know what zie’s getting into, zie’s duped or tricked or just naive, and maybe it’s okay for a while, but then the dark and mysterious Dom pulls out all of these tricks that catch the poor sub off guard, but by then, zie’s so hopelessly mired that there’s just no way out, and doesn’t zie find that zie likes it just a little bit after all?

In the real world, that’s called abuse and brainwashing, and it bears absolutely zero resemblance to an actual TPE relationship. Everyone goes in, eyes open, with a clear understanding of what is expected. That doesn’t mean that the boundaries don’t shift over time; it means that when they do, it’s always with that spirit of trust and mutual pleasure in mind. It doesn’t mean that the sub is never caught off guard; it means that when zie is, zie trusts hir Dom not to violate the spirit of their relationship or harm hir in a way zie doesn’t accept and want.

Actual, successful TPE relationships are about love, not slavery. Pleasure, not abuse. They require work, effort, consideration, and respect on both sides. They are nothing like the shameless, loveless, careless fuck storms that litter M/M erotic fiction. And in the real world, Doms that don’t understand that, don’t deserve the respect and admiration of their subs, and quickly find themselves alone.

(I will add that in 52 Weeks, Rhys, our Dom, uses a contract with his newly acquired sub, Aspen, both as a negotiation tactic and as a mindfuck sort of move. He knows it isn’t legally binding, but Aspen doesn’t. Contracts can be a wonderful plot device for such fiction so long as they are properly handled and treated as something that is psychological rather than something legally binding. I just feel a lot of fiction with these types of relationships are being lazily written with no regard to those who are in the lifestyle, and we need to have a little more care than that in the stories we tell.)

Recipe Monday: Sauteed Mushrooms

I have a love of mushrooms. Although, I admit, I have a love of button mushrooms. Those white, ho-hum grocery store mushroom that has been shoved to the side in favor of designer mushrooms. But, for me, the mild flavor of the button mushroom can be gussied up in so many ways, and I can’t help but love them. One of my favorite snacks (or a side dish, if you don’t want to eat mushrooms all on their own) is sauteed mushrooms. Amazing. Delicious. Pretty quick, too.

Ingredients

1lb button mushrooms, stemmed and halved

4TBSP butter

1 garlic clove, minced

1 shallow, minced

1/4C flat leaf parsley, chopped

2 chicken bullion cubes

1/4C cream

salt and pepper to taste

Melt the butter in a large skillet over medium, and then add in the shallot and garlic. Don’t burn the garlic or brown the shallot. Simply sweat them a little to release some of the flavor into the butter. Tumble in your mushrooms and saute the mushrooms until you get some color on them. The color is flavor. Once the mushrooms are browned, add your bullion cubes, salt, and pepper. Be careful with the salt. Bullion cubes are salty, so add your cubes, cook for a minute, and then taste a mushroom to decide if you need more salt.

Add in half your parsley and all the cream. Cook until the cream is a thick coating on the mushrooms, and then add the rest of the parsley. Serve immediately. These are so decadent and velvety. They’re a perfect quick snack during a busy day.

Cover Reveal: “Humans Rights”!

I’ve kept this cover very close during its creation, not sharing it much with anyone. In the end, Nathie did such amazing work. Taking my convoluted ramblings and turning them into this masterpiece, Nathie captured Jiat’s quiet regalness and Ewan’s broken spirit. It’s beautiful. It’s everything I’d hoped for and more. It’s a first for both of us, and anthros just isn’t our usual subject, but I’m so glad we did this. Here is the cover and another small teaser bit for it.

—

I turned my face into his touch, kissed his palm reverently. My master’s heart hurt, and I wished I could heal it just a little. I had so many questions, and I hadn’t be reprimanded for my first one, so I chose another. “I don’t understand the full purpose of the Human Rights Movement. Victoria once told me that it was a movement of Felines and Canines that…” I blushed, not wanting to compliment my own species so brazenly, even if they had been Victoria’s words.

“Tell me what Victoria said,” Sir Jiat urged. “I know there is a question brewing in you, so out with it all, my sweet Ewan.”

The way he said my name, calling me his, calling me sweet, made the blush all the deeper. “She told me that those who were a part of the Movement thought we shouldn’t be bred and kept as pets. That… those of the Movement thought us intelligent, thought we should be equals.” I tilted my head a little. “Is that what it is? Is that… how you see me?”

Sir Jiat leaned back against the rest of the tub. “Yes, in the simplest terms. Humans are enslaved. Beaten. Treated as nothing but prizes for our kind to own. It may have always been so, but just because it’s always been doesn’t mean it must always be.” He cupped the water, let it slip through his fingers. “The Movement seeks to legislate equality. Free those who wish to be free, protect those who wish to remain owned. We want to see choice given to all Humans.” His slitted eyes turned to me, and my heart began to pound. “We want to be able to love Humans as we love each other.”

I shook my head, breathing quickly. “That is a sin. That will bring about any pet’s death!”

Something shifted in Sir Jiat’s gaze, but I didn’t understand what I was looking at. “Sometimes, death must be risked to achieve progress. Outside this city, there is a colony, Ewan. It has Felines and Canines making lives side by side with Humans. No one is owned. There are not pets, no collars, nothing but love and determination to make a better world for ourselves and our children. The law in this city does not reach the colony, and while lawmakers here wish to keep silent the existence of the colony, many of us know of it. Many of us want to live there ourselves, but some must remain here to help change the laws.”

“But, how?” My brow furrowed. How could a whole colony exist and no pet know of it? “How can such a place be?”

Sir Jiat smiled at him, an indulgent, soft smile. “Where there is a will, sweet Ewan, there is a way. As needed, we leave this city and never come back. But, until circumstances dictate, we remain here, making changes where we can.”

Think Before You Speak

I’ve had conversations in the past—and been part of public discussion—about asshole authors. On many occasions, I’ve been asked why it is that, once I see an author behaving badly, I can’t read their books anymore. Shouldn’t I be able to separate the author from the work? And, quite frankly, no. I can’t. An author’s attitude, whether it be a public meltdown or little things that come through either in personal interaction or from public conversations, seriously colors whether or not I can enjoy their work. Once an author has, in no uncertain terms, proved themselves to be jerks, arrogant, or otherwise unpleasant, I stop buying their books. I also tend to lament the money I’ve already spent on them.

I envy people who can divorce themselves from that emotional reaction. I have a list of several authors I simply don’t buy, don’t read, and generally avoid like the plague. Most of those authors were put on that list due to public idiocy, public bad behavior, or private interaction where they showed their true colors because the general reading public wasn’t privy to their behavior. The words from those authors, in those books, become soured to me. I can’t read the work without being constantly reminded that—even if the book is a work of art—the hand that crafted that work of art is an ugly one.

My belief is that I don’t want to reward unpleasant people with my money. I don’t want to add to their sales figures or their positive reviews. I don’t want to encourage them in their work, and so I stop buying, stop reviewing, and stop recommending them. It’s the only thing I, as a reader, can do. I can vote with my wallet. Now, my one sale may mean nothing to these authors, as most of them have swelled heads because they are big fish in a little pond, but—for me—it’s a big deal. It’s my only option to register my dissatisfaction with the author and their behavior.

Authors need to be careful. Readers, especially in this digital age where interaction can be had in the blink of an eye on Twitter, are judging you. They are questioning what you say, how you say it. They look at your politics, your tone, your attitude toward fellow authors and your audience. They hear when you call pirates thieves who deserve to die, and they notice when you snipe about a nasty review as if you are infallible. It is so important to be professional, to be civil, to be polite. But authors who have chips on their shoulders, superiority complexes, and overblown egos (which run rampant in this genre, and I’ve no idea why!) need to know that their behavior does cost them sales, and that readers’ memories are long. At least, this reader’s memory is long, and I know I can’t be the only one. And the bigger the stink, the more embedded that memory is.

Before you speak, think. Think about your goals. Your career. Your audience. Your public persona. Remember that you’re being judged by those who may buy your books. And then—only then—should you continue with that Tweet or forum message or blog post. Once you’ve said it, you’ve said it. In the day and age of microsecond screen shots and finger wagging bloggers, there is no taking back an ill spoken word. Take care and don’t be an author behaving badly who sours readers on their work.

Recipe Monday: Black Bean & Corn Salsa

The husband-thing loves corn and black bean salsa. He buys it almost every opportunity he can. I’m also a fan, in theory, but the prepared versions he’d buy were never anything special. They’re usually under-seasoned and heavy on the Spanish onion. I already make a mean guacamole and an awesome salsa (which I’ve been making for him for the last twelve years), so I thought… what the hell? Might as well make this, too. It’s pretty simple, delicious, and inexpensive. It’s also protein packed (as tomatoes and black beans are high in protein), so it’s a guilt-free dip for me.

Ingredients

15oz tin drained and rinsed black beans

3 medium shallots, minced

3 roma tomatoes, seeded and fine diced

3 garlic cloves, grated (I use my microplane for this)

7oz frozen corn, thawed

1 large bunch cilantro, minced

3 limes, juiced

salt and pepper to taste

Bang everything into a bowl and mix thoroughly. Taste it. I usually start with 1tsp of salt and 1/2tsp pepper, but I always need more. I then begin adjusting for taste. Salt, pepper, lime, and cilantro. Sometimes, you just need more of something, sometimes less. Be aware of the acidity of your limes because, if they aren’t very acidic, it can really throw the whole taste off.

Chill for about two hours. It gives time for the flavors to mingle. You could add jalapeno or serrano peppers for some heat, but traditionally, this is a very mild salsa. I think, if you’re a fan of cumin, a little cumin would be nice. It would give a Mexican, spicy warmth. Not heat, but warmth.

I also use shallot because it’s a much milder onion flavor. If you like Spanish onion or red onion or whatever, use that instead.

My favorite way to eat this salsa is on thick blue corn tortilla chips, covered in Mexican blench cheese, baked a few minutes, and then topped with the salsa and some sour cream. A light, delicious lunch!

Necronomicon 2012!

October 26th-28th, I’ll be attending Necronomicon here in Tampa. Storm Moon Press will have a booth with books, posters, and button/pins for sale in the Dealer’s Room. But, the three of us are also guests this year! Woo! I’ll be sitting on a couple panels and running a workshop. If you’re attending Necro, drop by the table and say hi, or catch one of our panels.

Friday at 8pm, I’ll be in the Demens room talking about QUILTBAG with K. Piet and Roger Armstrong.

Saturday at 9am, I’ll be in the HTC3 room talking about small press etiquette with K. Piet and Roger Armstrong

Saturday at 10am, I’ll be in the HTC3 room running a workshop on Author/Publisher Contract Dos and Don’ts with K. Piet and Roger Armstrong

Sunday at 10am, I’ll be in the Demens room talking about erotica vs. porn with Roger Armstrong

K. Piet will be doing a panel I’m not, so…

Catch her Saturday at 1pm in the HTC3 room talking about why you should sell your book to a small press

And Roger Armstrong will be on a panel I’m not, so…

Catch him Friday at 10pm in the Demens room talking about LGBT characters in genre literature and film

We also have a lovely helper who will be running the dealer table the couple of hours all three of us are occupied with the panels. It’s going to be an awesome event, and it’s a lovely hotel. I can’t wait!

Mental Illness and Creativity

I usually don’t get too personal on this blog. I like my privacy, regardless of how much I put myself out there. But, as I sat in bed over Labor Day weekend, this blog post rolled through my brain. I would like to talk about mental illness and creativity.

I’ve struggled with depression since I was very young. Maybe… eleven or twelve was when the symptoms really hit. There were suicidal thoughts, lots of tears, a lot of self-hatred. I was told to just cheer up, to stop being difficult. Children, after all, don’t get depressed, right? After a brief stint in a psych ward, followed by both individual and group therapy, the psychiatrist told my parents I was depressed and put me on Prozac. Prozac! It was, of course, the miracle drug at the time. It didn’t help. In fact, I believe it made everything I felt a lot worse.

Hand in hand with the bouts of depression came huge bouts of creativity. I’ve painted, drawn, wrote, danced, sung… If there was something to do with art, I was drawn to it. I loved the creative process, and I had an intense and vivid imagination. (I got in trouble quite a lot in grade and junior high for my ‘daydreaming’.) I also had this very strange quirk. The times when I wasn’t hell bent on some creative project, I was a maniac with cleaning. I hated things dirty when I was in those moments. I’d clean my room, my home, my friend’s home. I slept a lot or I didn’t sleep at all.

It only became worse the older I got. After I got married, and I was in charge of my own mental health, I went to my regular doctor. I didn’t think there was anything beyond the down days, and so my doctor prescribed two drugs: Welbutrin and Lexapro. I was on both for about two years, but in those two years, I produced nothing artistic. I had been writing before going on the drugs, but once I went on them… not a word. I couldn’t do it. The words were gone. My imagination felt stifled. I was as miserable on the drugs as I had been on them. Creativity, to me, was like breathing. Not being able to create was a nightmare. I, voluntarily, chose to stop taking the two medications.

Within two months, I was writing again. This time, though, the bouts of depression became so much worse. After speaking with a psychologist my nutritionist had recommended, I went to see a psychiatrist the psychologist recommended. XD Yeah, I have a lot of doctors/medical professionals in my life, and that’s a story for another day. The psychiatrist spoke at length with me, and when the session concluded, he said that I was a classic case of rapid cycling Bipolar I disorder. The insomnia I’d struggled with for most of my life was a symptom of the mania. My increased creativity once a month, my bouts of intensive cleaning, the elevated sexual desires, the intense depression following those few days… they were all part of the disorder.

He prescribed only one drug when I left: Lamictal. I expressed my concern about losing my ability to continue writing, and he looked at me and simply said, ‘Do you want to write, or do you want to be normal?’ It was a biting comment to me, as if I wasn’t a good person if I wasn’t medicated. I went home and began the course of Lamictal to build up to my final dose. Within two weeks, I couldn’t write. I was miserable all over again.

So, I had to come to a decision. I sat down with my husband and we talked. Now that we knew what I had, would we be able to better manage it without the medication? How important was my creativity? How important was normalcy? In the end, the choice for me was to cease medication. Instead, speaking with my regular doctor, we chose to treat symptoms. I take a medication to combat the insomnia, which was the most damaging symptom of the Bipolar.

Within weeks, I was writing again. We were able to chart the ups and downs. We knew stress made the symptoms worse. We researched and thought and talked through everything. When I start to feel down, I let my husband know, and we work through it. We’ve learned to manage it all without medication. Now, I know I’m lucky as hell because there are those who suffer with this and cannot live without the medication. When it came down to choosing the path, though, my creativity won over perceived normalcy (because I wasn’t ‘normal’, and medication wasn’t going to make me ‘normal’, as on medications, I wound up walking about in a haze, not really feeling anything).

There is a trade off, though. When a depressive episode hits me, my creativity dwindles. It’s hard to go from amazing output to struggling to get two words down on the screen. During a depressive episode, I don’t want to do anything. Fatigue, irritability, anger, and crying becomes a constant issue for me. The last couple of weeks, I’ve been in that sort of low, and it’s frustrating. I have stories in my head, but no inspiration to write them. The frustration is deep, and though I try to tell myself to just push through it, I know that won’t happen. This will fade when it’s ready to fade, and I have to work with it instead of against it.

The overriding complication of my life is a mental illness. It’s an illness no one can see. It’s an illness many don’t understand. It’s also an illness very much linked with the creativity that has governed my life since I was a child. I’ve learned to live with it. Those who love me have learned to live with it. But it’s still difficult. When I can’t write, it feels like the depressive slump only gets worse. I know it isn’t true, but it feels like it. I’d rather have these slumps, though, instead of no creativity at all. The worlds in my head are too vivid not to share with readers. The Bipolar is a part of me that I’ve come to accept. I get the good of the mania, the creativity, the euphoria, but I take the bad of the depression, the irritation, and the writer’s block.

In the end, for me, mental illness is linked directly with my creativity. I can’t have one without the other. It’s difficult, and it’s not fun sometimes. It’s an illness people can’t see. An illness people know either little about or know only half-truths. It’s an illness I don’t tend to put out there for people to see, to judge. But, over Labor Day weekend, as I was poking at a serial project I hope to get going in January, I thought about mental illness and creativity, how—for many—they are two sides of the same coin. I also thought I’ve no reason to be ashamed. I may not be what that psychiatrist deemed ‘normal’, but I am—more or less—happy with my life and my choices.

Now… if only I could get back to writing!