Tag Archives: Reading

Thought of the Week: My Own Gothic Symphony

Disclosure time: as a teenager, I walked through the halls of a deep, dark abysmal depression. Truth be told, I still do, although it’s changed and mutated to a point where I no longer do silly things like try to kill myself.

Of course, you already knew that.

You also know that I’m resuming work on my secondary novel (primary, in a sense – I began it over ten years ago), A Gothic Symphony. You can read the first few chapters already at agothicsymphony.wordpress.com. It’s a story of tragedy, depression and despair, and it’s a story that is deeply personal to me. You see, in many ways it’s my story.

All right, it’s about a girl and things happen to her that never happened to me…but they did happen to people I knew. Pretty terrible things, too. We can laugh at them now – did you really think you’d die from a bottle of baby tylenol? – but when you’re a teenager and the world has closed around you in darkness, it’s all terribly, terribly serious. This story is a way for me to keep in touch with the “me” that was, because that time of my life was, despite the torture and agony of living in blackness the whole time, extremely meaningful. It was when I found myself and my identity.

In fact, I was talking with the Lovely J only the other day about this, and how my depression became my identity. How it felt like being depressed was the only thing I was good at. This was silly, of course, because I was good at lots of stuff, but I was especially good at beating myself up about it, both figuratively and literally. This is something I still do to this day, in fact, though the physical beating myself up doesn’t happen much anymore.

You see, depression for me wasn’t a disease to be cured; it was a home to be found, a thing to aspire to. People who weren’t depressed were cattle. Or sheep. Some ungulate or another. Depression was my savior, and I walked the fine line between the comfort of misery and the lure of death. Many times my agony felt too much to bear, but more often it was the gut-wrenching pain of existence that, ironically, kept me going.

That really doesn’t make much sense, does it? Probably why I’m still going to therapy all these years later.

Music, also, was a huge part of my life. Depressing, miserable music. Music with delightful lyrics like:

“I’ll kill myself: I’ll blow my brains onto the wall!

See you in Hell, I will not take this anymore!

Now, this is where it ends, this is where I will draw the line

So scuze me while I end my life.”

Excuse Me While I Kill Myself – Sentenced, The Cold White Light (2002)

Ah, those were fun times. I still listen to Sentenced, by the way. Another one of those comforts of old times. Bands like Sentenced, My Dying Bride, Anathema, Marilyn Manson, HIM and Abyssic Hate (I’ve written about many of these previously) filled my dark world. They, too, kept me going.

Take that, everyone who says suicidal lyrics promote suicide.

All of this – the darkness, the nighttime living, the candles, the music, the hopelessness and despair – this was my gothic symphony. I wore black all day, I’d go out with black eyeliner and lipstick (bet you want to see those photos, eh?), I obsessed over spiders and vampires and anything that felt like it came from the bleakness of 1890s victorian England.

I self-harmed. A lot.

And all of these things are Amy’s gothic symphony, as well. I feel sorry for her, I really do; all of my misery, and anguish and pain are being channeled into her, and her only outlet is being read about by all of you. I had other avenues; other things that happened to me that, sadly, will not happen to Amy.

The thing is, what I lived through, and continue to live through; what Amy is going through as the pages of A Gothic Symphony unfold; none of this is unique. People live and die every day with the same torturous agony that I lived with, and at times still do. So while A Gothic Symphony is cathartic for me, it’s also a letter to everyone who’s ever felt the black claws of despair: there are people out there who know how you feel.

I know how you feel.

Featured image from http://dailywicca.com/2011/10/08/ceromancy-the-fine-art-of-candle-reading/.

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A Gothic Symphony: Diving Once More Into the Darkness

It’s been almost a year since I last worked on A Gothic Symphony, and I regret that very much. The problem is that with The Redemption of Erâth growing ever closer to publication and Book Two well underway, it’s hard for me to set aside the time to work on A Gothic Symphony.

It’s also hard because it requires a very different state of mind. Although The Redemption of Erâth is indeed a dismal fantasy, rife with darkness and despair, there is also a sense of escapism therein. It’s fantasy.

A Gothic Symphony is anything but fantasy. It’s a trawl through the mud, a raking over the coals of depression and self-loathing, and it puts me in a frightening place. A place I haven’t been in for over ten years. But it’s a place I have to go to, to get this book out. And there’s nothing more important to me than to see this story – my story – bear fruition.

So I will be working on it for the coming weeks, attempting to plow through and get as much of it done as possible. I can’t commit to a chapter each week, because some will be harder for me to write than others, but I will post chapters as they come (weekly if possible) so that you can enjoy them in unedited form.

Thanks for your patience, and I hope you can enjoy A Gothic Symphony.

The Redemption of Erâth: Book 2, Chapter 14

Chapter 14: The Hunting of Beasts

Brandyé could not think for a moment what manner of creature or person could possibly attack and wound a people so skilled in combat, and he broke into a run, following the Illuèn themselves toward Athalya’s home. He saw that Elven was trying to keep pace beside him, but his limp prevented him from running fast. He realized he did not care, for he was desperate to know if Athalya was alive – and if Elỳn was safe.

Before long he drew upon her dwelling, and there was a great crowd of Illuèn there, and much light and commotion. Yet for all of it he heard not the sounds the grief, the crying or screaming he associated with death, and hoped that she was not too gravely wounded. For some time he was unable to penetrate the crowd of Illuèn, and by the time he had forced his way through and into the dwelling, Elven was once more by his side, panting. He slipped between two Illuèn carrying long blades, unheeding, and stared: a shocking scene greeted his eyes.

Athalya was lying on the ground, her head cradled in Elỳn’s lap. There were great splashes of silver across the earth and walls, and with a sick horror Brandyé realized it was her blood. Her robes were rent in many places, and a great wound on her neck spilled ever more of her life onto the ground.

At the sight, Elven pushed forward and knelt on the ground beside Elỳn. “We must close the wound!” he cried, and with no cloth to hand he placed both of his hands over the injury and pressed as hard as he could. Silver blood seeped between his fingers, and though he maintained his pressure Brandyé knew Athalya had not long to live.

Elỳn looked to Elven and then to Brandyé, and he saw great tears in her eyes. Brandyé had no experience with such grave injuries apart from Elven’s in the forest, and felt utterly helpless as he moved forward to Athalya’s side. Beside him knelt several other Illuèn, and though he saw Rỳlan among them, he could not understand why they did nothing. “Will you not help her?” he said desperately.

To his astonishment, it was Athalya herself who answered him, though her voice was weak and suffering. “There is no saving me, Brandyé,” she murmured. “There is no stopping the poison that is now in me.”

“What do you mean?” he cried.

“She has been attacked by more than nature,” Elỳn replied tearfully. “A fierund gave her these wounds.”

Shocked, Brandyé looked once more to Athalya. “How is this possible?”

“We know not,” said Elỳn. “But when we are wounded by Darkness, there is no preventing our death. Were we to heal her wounds in an instant, she would still die.”

Brandyé found tears coming to his eyes. “No – it cannot be! There must be a way!”

And with the last of her strength Athalya turned her attention to Brandyé, and raised a hand to him. He took it, noticing the blood on it and not caring that it spilled onto his own hand. “I have lived long, Brandyé,” she said, “and I have done what I must for this world. I am glad to have met you; I ask only that you also do what you must.”

And those were the last words she spoke, and within minutes her breath had stopped, and Brandyé knew she was gone. He was crying great tears, and when he looked to Elven he saw his friend’s face was wet also, and they wept together. Gently they were taken from Athalya’s side, and Brandyé was sure as he looked his last upon her that the glow that emanated from all Illuèn was gone from her body.

“I do not understand,” Elven said when they were outside, and away from the scene. “Why did no one try to save her? Not even Rỳlan – not even their healers! Her wounds were terrible, but they did not even try!” His voice choked as he spoke, and tears still ran down his face.

“The fierundé are not natural creatures,” Brandyé tried to explain, though he too found it difficult to speak. “It is as though Light and Dark collided – neither can survive.”

It took a moment for the import of this realization to hit either of them, and when it did, Elven shuddered and looked about them. “You say neither can survive – do you mean to say there is a fierund lying dead not far from here?” […]

Read the complete chapter here.