Can molar-grinding, marrow-gnashing, bile-tasting frustration be used for good?
We’re about to find out.
I start writing my next novel today and I am literally (ha-ha) choking on the stuff.
Mental illness is not a choice. It is not a life-decision. It is an affliction that cannot be merely shrugged off with effort. The fact that people in my life, even after all these years, still can’t seem to believe this is brutally exasperating.. and painfully disheartening.
So, as I turn to pen and paper today, I hope my words and characters can feed off this raw and admittedly ugly emotion and give birth to something, well, good.