This is a short post to say that my flash fiction piece, My brother was a kangaroo, is today’s featured story on http://t.co/cCJ3XsOlVl
This is just a quick post to say that Take Me to the Castle is on sale for two weeks. Pick up an eBook summer read for 92p.
Yesterday the world lost an incredibly talented comedian and actor. He was a man who saw me through my childhood, teens, twenties and beyond with an equal measure of thought-provoking moments and good humour. But it was no surprise to hear that the star of Dead Poets Society and Goodwill Hunting had also been battling severe depression.
I felt stunned by the news of the death of Robin Williams because he was part of the fabric of my childhood and teenage years, through what I watched and through what those films taught me about life. It was his remarkable ability to bring characters to life that has entertained millions of us through the years. And I believe that comedy and acting quite possibly provided the escape that he needed, an escape from the darkness of his own mind. Depression is a very hidden issue and it is often misunderstood. Scientists have been fascinated by the possibility of a link between depression and creativity for years. In this interesting article on the link between the two, we learn that Norwegian artist, Edvard Munch, wrote the following diary entry: “My fear of life is necessary to me, as is my illness. They are indistinguishable from me, and their destruction would destroy my art.”
Early studies found that creatives often suffered from depression: Charles Dickens, Tennessee Williams, Ernest Hemingway, Graham Greene, Hans Christian Andersen, Leo Tolstoy and Virginia Woolf. Sylvia Plath also sadly took her own life.
Why am I discussing this here? Because I believe that writers have an innate ability to tap into the pain of grief and loss; to take the experiences which they encounter, and to illustrate the difficulties of anxiety and pain. They are able to translate these emotions into the lives of their characters, allowing the reader to tap into their own difficulties and to rise above them.
I often hear people talking about finding solace in books. Some readers say that they find particular books healing. The talent of a creative who is able to paint, act, write or create music lies in their ability to mold their own suffering and angst into a form that is universally understood. Where it might be difficult and overwhelming to face certain situations head on art, books, film and music allow a release of emotions and allow people to reach into the painful aspects of life and engage with issues that can be difficult to discuss.
Writers and artists are often accused of being oversensitive or overly analytical, as though these traits might be weaknesses, but I would argue that this is exactly where their strength lies, and where their empathy and ability to connect with difficult emotions helps them to write a character with flaws, a character who experiences setbacks and difficulties. Interestingly, the body releases natural opiates as a result of the creative process. Harvard Professor, Shelley Carson, says that “creative endeavors are intrinsically rewarding, and you get shots of dopamine in the rewards center of the brain.”
What are your thoughts? Are you a writer with any experience of depression? Do you find find solace in reading or writing?
One of my short fiction pieces, Sirens, has just been published in Flash Fiction Magazine. Here is an extract…
Flashing their upper lashes with the allure of Sirens, they compete for his attention; mythological creatures, femmes fatales. The attention of a man in his thirties with eyes drooping at the edges hardly seems worth the effort.
‘Katie, can you give me the answer?’ he asks, pointing to the blackboard. Chalk dust scatters to the ground with the excitement of a single indoor firework.
I look up, half listening, ‘four thousand two hundred and eighty six, Sir.’
‘And I thought you might be somewhere else. Good.’
Three of the creatures turn and glare, determination fixed on their perfectly manicured faces. I glance at the magazine. He hasn’t noticed it resting on my school girl knees; he is filling their heads with knowledge. Knowledge is power, Dad had said, unoriginally, at the dinner table. No, I wanted to say, knowledge is freedom, but it was not worth the effort. He was already on to the next topic and facing my brother. You become invisible at the ends of his sentences, left to linger like an old piece of scenery pushed to the back of the stage, or tucked away behind the scenes.
You can read the rest of the story in Flash Fiction Magazine. Feel free to leave comments on their site and to share the story.